Lovers in Enemy Territory

by Rebecca Winters

  The Basque muttered under his breath as he tugged to get the long limbs up into the hay. He sighed heavily when that had been accomplished, and quickly gathered up the chute and stashed it in the hay. Then he went round to the front of the wagon and started the mule on its way. The storm had no intention of letting up.

  He would put the airman to bed and get him into dry clothes. Miguel hadn’t been up for a visit in over two months. It would be good to see him, to hear news from the village. Now they would have much to discuss. Plans would have to be made with some of the others of the underground to get the flyer out of the country, and the Boche were everywhere, but it could be done. The rugged old man had helped before, and would again.

  By the time the cart pulled up to the front of the stone hut, Jeffrey opened his eyes, but the pain from his lower extremities was so intense, he couldn’t think of anything else, and the freezing rain caused him to shiver uncontrollably. He tried to sit up, but lost consciousness once more.

  His head settled back into the soft hay and all went black. The old man lifted him from the hay and dragged him by the armpits into the hut. It was an ordeal and the man cursed under his breath that the Englishman was so tall. He wiped the perspiration from his face, wondering how he would get the body up to the loft. He eyed the ladder, then looked at the man lying prostrate on the floor.

  It was far too damp and cold to let him stay there. The Basque took a deep breath and hoisted the airman over his shoulder, almost buckling from the weight, but he had sinews of iron and a strong heart. He'd carried logs which were heavier. He grunted and groaned and rested on each rung of the ladder, but soon he had him flat on the bed, taking as much care with the affected leg as possible.

  He hurried down to the fireplace and stoked the dying embers, adding more kindling to build it up again. The old man felt snow in his bones. It often happened on June nights. This kind of weather went right through to one's insides.

  Luis rummaged in an old trunk for some work clothes and found a black sweater and brown leather pants. He doubted they were big enough, but any dry clothes were better than nothing. He reached for another blanket and some long wool socks, then went back upstairs.

  The airman was still unconscious as the old man carefully stripped him to the skin, cutting away the pant leg of his uniform with his knife. He would burn the uniform in the fire. The Germans might come sniffing around. All traces of the flyer would have to be gone, even his underwear.

  He lighted a candle at the bedside table and began looking for other signs of injury. There was a large bruise on the right cheek and temple, and several cuts on his arm, but they’d stopped bleeding. He seemed to be in fairly good shape. His eyes rested briefly on the golden, curly hair. The good Lord made men in all sizes and colors, he mused.

  Then his gaze went to the bad leg. It seemed swollen around the knee. Probably buckled under when he touched ground. The old man crossed himself when he thought of the brave flyer tumbling out of a plane into the night. He was

  lucky. He might have landed in the river, or in a crevasse.

  The old man set to work, dressing the body in the clothes. The pants were too short and the sweater too small. It stretched tightly across the broad chest. He pulled the socks over the big feet. He had no shoes to fit feet that size. Pedro might have some. He would find out in the morning.

  With the man dressed, and covered with blankets, there wasn't much else the old man could see to do. The flyer was still in shock. He might be that way for hours. Luis would warm up some paella so that when he awakened, there would be hot food. But now he must get rid of the chute and clothes. Anything that wouldn’t burn he would take out to the root cellar and hide in the floor under the potato sacks. Even the German swine would not think to look there.

  His chores attended to, the old man climbed the ladder carrying the bowl of stew and took it over to the table. Jeffrey was moaning and thrashing about on the bed. He clutched at his bad leg. The old man pulled up a chair and watched until the eyes opened.

  The airman was still in a daze but Luis began feeding him the broth, spoonful by spoonful. The man swallowed what was given him, then sank back on the mattress once more. The Basque blew out the candle and hurried out the front door to find his friend Pedro. Rodrigo would have to go immediately for Miguel. Then the old man would come back and sleep on a mat in front of the fire.

  *****

  Morning brought more drenching rain and thunder. The clouds seemed to envelop the mountains with their heavy mist. Some of the old sisters, the ones who’d been there many years, muttered that it was unusual to have so much wet weather this time of year.

  Catherine listened to their talk as they worked in the infirmary, giving the hungry children the skimpy breakfast of watered down milk and fish. Not very appetizing, but supplies had run dangerously low. When she finished that chore, there were dressings to change.

  She worked quickly, for Miguel would be back from the village at any moment and they would leave for their afternoon rounds. Even though she would be soaked to the skin by the time they were outside the convent wall, she welomed the change of scene. The atmosphere was dismal inside the priory walls. She longed to be active outside where she wouldn’t think about Jeffrey and Michael.

  Footsteps approached. It was Miguel, but he didn’t smile this morning and she knew something was wrong. “Good morning,” she spoke in English. She’d endeavored to teach him two or three new English expressions every day. He in turn was giving her lessons in the fundamentals of the Basque language, but now he slipped back into French. That told her immediately he was all business.

  “Sister? Can you manage things alone if I should be gone overnight?”

  “I can try. What is it? Madame Creancy’s baby coming too soon?”

  He shook his head. "If I tell you something, Sister, you must swear that you will never reveal anything of our conversation to another soul, not even the Holy Mother. It could put everyone at Saint Theresa's in the gravest danger."

  "I promise, Miguel. What’s the matter?"

  Her face had paled considerably. He took her elbow and ushered her into the supply closet. His eyes darted about the room, but the other sisters were busy with the patients and took no notice of them. He turned so no one could see his lips moving.

  "Sister, I’ve just received word from a trusted friend that a British aircraft crashed high up on the mountain to the east of us last night. One of the flyers bailed out and landed in my friend's pasture. He was tangled up in his chute and was found unconscious. My friend thinks the man has a broken leg and possible head injuries. I must go to him immediately.”

  Catherine's body went rigid. "Don't you want me to come with you to help? I can talk to him, find out if there were others. Does your friend speak English?"

  "No. None of my friends can converse in anything but Euskara. I’ll have a great deal of trouble trying to communicate myself, but it would not be safe for you to accompany me right now. The German pigs will come snooping around, there is no question of that! When a plane goes down in these mountains, the swine conduct a very thorough search. But in this case, we have time on our side. My friend acted quickly.

  “If I can get up to the injured man and take care of him, then he can be hidden till the search is called off, and we can start making arrangements to help him escape. If you were to be at the hut and the Germans came looking, it might not be easy to explain your presence, and it would cast suspicion on all the rest of us.

  “You must stay here in the safety of these walls with the other English sisters. You can be sure the Germans know of your arrival here in Spain and have monitored your activities. As long as you stay out of sight, it will not cause trouble. I would feel better knowing you are here to take charge. Later when the coast is clear, I’ll take you up to the hut and you can translate for us. Please tell no one, Sister."

  "No, of course not, Miguel." Catherine had listened carefully to every word. "Do you think the Germans will c
ome to the convent to look as well?" Her heart began to pound with fear.

  "Possibly, if the flyer does not turn up elsewhere. That’s why no one must know anything. Then there is no reason to worry. If one is truly innocent of knowledge, there can be no betrayal of secrets. You understand?"

  "Yes, and you must go. The poor, poor man. He must be in horrific pain. I can’t imagine having to jump out of a plane in those elements. You say it happened last night?" He nodded. "Then it was during the thunder storm."

  "Yes. He’s lucky to be alive."

  "Miguel, I could write him a note, explain that we wish to help him."

  "No, Sister. If I should be apprehended, and they find a paper like that on me, it could mean the end for him, for all of us. My friends would be found out and our operation would fold."

  "What are you saying? What operation?"

  He smiled strangely. "I belong to an underground group called the `Friends of Liberty.' I thought perhaps I'd never have to tell you. There are hundreds of us scattered throughout these mountains. We’ve pledged our lives to helping others escape from political tyranny. That includes RAF flyers. We helped two to get back to England just three weeks ago."

  Catherine gazed at him. She remembered how odd his behavior was then, but not knowing him well, she had dismissed it at the time. "I didn't know," she spoke softly and her head fell. There were facets to Miguel she was only beginning to understand. She put a hand on his arm. "You are an exceptional person. God must love you very much."

  He shook his head and covered her hand with his. "It's you who are exceptional, Sister."

  She smiled. "What can I do to help you, Miguel?"

  "Prepare a bag with splints and wrappers. I will gather up medical supplies and food. Then I will be on my way. If all goes well, I’ll return tomorrow."

  "How did you find out about the crash?" She was intrigued at their unique spy system.

  He was rummaging through the shelves. "My friend's son was sent down from the mountain last night to fetch me. I was just returning from town when he trotted into the back courtyard on his mule. He gave me the message and left.

  “It wouldn’t do for the two of us to be seen talking together. There are Germans everywhere. We have to be careful every moment. It can’t appear that anything unusual is going on."

  Catherine bit her lip. Her thoughts were with the injured flyer, but they were also with the brave mountain people who were risking their lives for a total stranger. There were many ways to serve God in the world, she mused, and that thought gave her new comfort.

  *****

  Luis heard noises outside. Ws it possible Miguel had arrived form the convent? Rodrigo must have gone very fast. The old manm reached above the stone fireplace for his gun. He always locked his door these days as a precaution and went up to the loft for a look to see who was about

  The rain was still coming down, but he could see Mighuel’s cart. He scrtched his fuzzy head, wondering how he could have made it up the mountain so quickly in all this rain.

  The flyer was moaning again. The pain in his leg was worse. He’d awakened once in the morning and the old man had tried to explain with gestures that he was a friend, that he knew about the plane crash. The airman stared at him and sipped the broth, even ate some of the bread, but the Basque couldn’t tell if he understood or not. The rest of the morning he’d slept and continued to shiver beneath the lanket. Luis sighed. Now Miguel could take over.

  He hurried below, undid the bolt and opened the door to greet his young friend. Miguel saw Luis in the doorway and rushed to embrace him, kissing him on both cheeks. They slapped each other on the back. Then they engaged in a long conversation. The old man’s eyes shone and the soft Basque language flowed between them as Michael stepped inside to warm up in front of the fire.

  "Where did you put the Englishman?"

  "He's still upstairs in the loft. I know it’s dangerous to leave him up there in case they come, but I was afraid to take him out to the root cellar until you examined him."

  "Tell me about him."

  "I think it’s only his leg that’s broken. I wrapped him in blankets because he shivers and there is a big mark on the side of his face. I found him next to the stone wall."

  "He must have hit hard when he landed. Let's take a look."

  "I think he’s asleep right now. He’s been dozing most of the time. He woke up earlier and ate some soup, but mostly he just lies there and moans." The old man sighed. "I will warm up the stew for you."

  Miguel nodded and started up the ladder. The loft smelled strongly of pine. He could hear the even breathing of the injured man, and made a mental note that was a good sign. He was turned on his side, and his body faced the wall. He was still shivering uncontrollably. It made Miguel shiver, despite the new found

  warmth.

  The blanket was pulled up around his ears, but the blond, curly hair was plainly visible. The boy, Rodrigo, had called the man a golden god, a giant, and he was right!

  Miguel leaned over and put a hand on the man's shoulder. There was no response. "Hello," he whispered in his best English. "Hello."

  The man muttered but didn’t move. The face was totally hidden by his arms. He felt for the forehead. It was hot and clammy.

  "How is he?" Luis whispered, coming up the ladder.

  "I don't know, yet. He's still feverish and trembling. I'll take a look at his leg while he's still asleep." Miguel pulled up the blanket and began examining the long limbs, one at a time.

  "He has a fracture right above the knee. I will go downstairs and get my supplies. Sit with him, Luis, and don’t let him move that leg." The old man put a sunburned hand on the flyer's ankle just in case.

  In a few minutes Miguel was back with the bandages and splints. Luis watched with fatherly pride as Miguel treated the leg as expertly as any doctor. His own father would have been proud to see his son work so quickly. It was good to see this skill in Miguel, who was like a son to him.

  When Miguel had finished, he glanced at the old man and they smiled with mutual respect. The flyer moaned several times, but still did not awaken. "Let's get him flat on his back. I want to check his head for injuries. I'll move the bed away from the wall.” He slid the straw mattress held up on slats to the middle of the floor, then went around to the other side.

  "All right. I'll put my hands underneath his shoulders. You support his head. Ready?" The old man did as he was instructed and they started to turn him. It was then the man cried out so loudly that Miguel almost lost his grip. The Englishman began babbling the same words over and over again. Both men stared and Miguel tried to make them out, but they were too garbled.

  He finally became silent after they had him flat on his back. Miguel examined the long, lean body, the blond head. There was a large bruise already turning black running from his temple to the lower part of his face. He was probably suffering from a concussion. If his head hit that wall as hard as he imagined, the flyer was in for a bad headache, possibly worse. But there was no way to test him for skull injuries.

  "Has he vomited?"

  "No."

  "That’s good. We’ll keep him warm and calm. I'll clean the wounds on his arm, then we'll just wait and see."

  "What did he say just now?"

  "I don't know. It sounded like a name. The new sister has been teaching me English, but I don’t know enough yet to understand him."

  "Ah, you have a nurse to replace Sister Nina since I last saw you?"

  "Yes. The most beautiful sister in the world, Luis. I love her."

  The old man crossed himself. "Holy Mother of God, what insanity is this? A nun? You love a nun?"

  "Don't worry, Luis. I love her the way one adores a saint. There will never be anyone but her for me, not ever. "

  "You talk foolish, Miguel. It’s good you are here. We must have a long conversation. Come and eat," he grunted, then added, "and tell me all about this holy love in your life."

  "All right, and after that, I wil
l help you hide the airman. "

  "I've been thinking the root cellar should be a safe place, underneath the wooden bin at the back."

  "Good. Have you destroyed his uniform?"

  "Yes, I burned everything but the harness and the wallet. They’re in the cellar."

  They began eating the stew. "Have you ever seen hair that color, Miguel?"

  "Not up close,” he mumbled around his food.

  "You must bring black dye the next time you come."

  Miguel nodded. Suddenly the airman began muttering again. Luis's eyes darted to the loft. Miguel put down his bowl and climbed up the ladder. Perhaps now the Englishman was waking up. The blanket was on the floor and the man was thrashing about on the bed.

  There was perspiration on his upper lip and forehead. Miguel pulled a chair to the side and watched as the man started to come out of his deep sleep. The Englishman had been many days in hot sun. His skin was tanned the color of

  leather. The same word was repeated over and over.

  Finally, the man sighed and his eyes slowly fluttered open. Miguel leaned forward to get a good look. Their color was like the clear sky on a summer's day. Miguel had never seen a blue so intense.

  Jeffrey tried to focus. The wooden beams of the ceiling came into view. One hand was resting on his chest and his fingers rubbed the sweater. The fibers felt foreign to him, and he was lying in a bed. He vaguely remembered the little hut from the night before. It was impossible to move his leg, which felt heavy and stiff. He changed positions and winced from the pain.

  He carefully moved his aching head to the side, anxious to survey his surroundings, and then he blinked. His eyes met a young man’s, and their blackness came as a great surprise. The last thing Jeffrey remembered was the kindly face of an old man. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes and stared hard at the dark, young Basque.

  "Hello," Miguel spoke first, in the best English he could muster. "My name is Miguel. A friend.” He smiled broadly. Jeffrey appraised the man, surprised beyond belief that he was hearing English.