The Pantry




Loosened from its fastenings by the night's storm, the loft window oscillated
idly on its rusted hinges; sending a winking shaft of pale morning light
through the barn's gloomy interior. Illuminated by the beam, a fine haze of
dust and pollen from the hay luminesced delicately making each small mote seem
like rising tracer fire.

He felt again the numbing thunder of the explosion that had torn through the
Lancaster's fuselage at 1000ft dulling his senses leaving a shooting pain in
his ears and the smell of blood in his sinuses. He remembered how for what had
seemed like hours of a waking nightmare he had hovered at the brink of
consciousness, shifting between numbness and a gruesome collage of dark forms
flailing against the burning fires; the sickening symphony of men's voices
screaming in fear against the groans of the failing metallic structure around
them, howling like a beast in unbearable pain.

Then he had sensed a strong hand clutch at his harness pulling him clear of
the smoke and heat into the cold rushing void that yawned around them. There
had been a moment of serene peace, a sense of escape; transcendance beyond the
physical pain and anxieties of this wretched war until the air around him grew
in strength from a whisper to a roar. A seering, turbulent, viscous fluid that
tumbled him like a ragdoll, over and over until a sudden tension had seized
his groin and shoulders pulling him upright - returning his senses to him as
the reassuring crackle of silk snapped overhead like a flock of scattering
doves.

He sat bolt upright, the world rushing back to him. The fluttering sound of a
distressed bird which had strayed in through the small window was his only
purchase on the real world startling him from the ghosts of his dream. Ghosts
were all they were.

His body felt weak, tired, his limbs heavy. The light made him squint. His
mouth felt painfully dry. The sounds of a rookery across the fields reminded
him gently where he had guessed he was: farmland, somewhere in Normandy. The
barn had afforded him good shelter through the night. He had been lucky to
find it in the dark.

The daylight gave him his first chance to make an inventory of all he had with
him. George's rank of flight lieutenant entitled him to a standard issue
Browning revolver, but besides this and the clothes on his back he had nothing
else.

He needed to quench his thirst and find food. Maybe there was a farmhouse
nearby. He had thought he had seen some lights last night. He would have a
difficult time ahead, moving by night hiding by day; relying on the sanctuary
others could give him and perhaps in time making it to the coast or maybe the
Pyrenees. He did not know yet. He resolved to find food and water and think it
through.

A tentative push on the brittle barn door drew a bright slice of light across
the flagstoned floor. His pupils reflexed. An open landscape of pastureland
stretched as far as he could see, punctuated by thin stands of mature oak and
the misty spire of a village church some two or so miles away.

Fifty yards down a track from the door was a neglected property that seemed to
be inhabited judging from the faint ribbon of grey woodsmoke that wove in a
fraying thread from its dilapidated chimney.

Could he take the chance of showing himself and appealing to the occupiers'
charity? Were there any Nazi sympathisers in these parts? Were people prepared
to shelter shot down allied aircrew when faced with the merciless retributions
that would surely follow? How could he be sure that he was not already being
hunted? Someone must have seen them come down. Although the plane had
continued to fly out of sight, it had probably crashed only half a mile away.
Hours would be crucial....he couldn't hide. He'd just have to steal what
provisions he could and run using the hedgerows as cover until he'd reached a
safe distance away. German troops would be here soon. That would mean they'd
question the locals to make sure they weren't harbouring any of them. It would
be best if he didn't implicate anyone in his escape. With a quick glance to
the left and right he sucked in his breath and trotted at a stoop along a
stone wall to the old farmhouse, his muscles sluggish and tight.

He spat a curse as he inadvertantly kicked up a startled hen from the backyard
and pressed his back up against the wall by a rear window. He swore again as
he heard a dog's bark from inside the house. His breath quickened, smoking in
the dewy air. The guttering overhead, choked by leaves was still overflowing
since last night's rain spewing a column of spattering rainwater onto the
saturated soil. He cupped his hands and captured a few slaking sips before he
heard a latch throw on the far side of the back door. Instantly he slid down
the wall to a crouch and rolled around the corner for cover. All was quiet. He
ventured a peek back towards the door. A young woman was stood at the doorway
looking across the yard. She was dressed plainly in a smock, her straight dark
brown hair drawn back from her pale face and held by a silver clasp. She was
beautiful. Her vapourous breath curled languidly from her full lips. "Qui est
là? " she called sternly with frightening force that was concealed by her
petite stature. It was then he noticed the barrel of a shotgun, cocked,
pointing out across the yard.

Suddenly, an alsatian bolted out of the door and slid to an abrupt stop
barking visciously. Wheeling about it a fluid movement it glanced the airman
and sprang at him. As he produced his pistol from its leather holster, the
dogs jaws closed on his wrist. The force of the attack tumbled him backwards
to the ground. Disarmed and shocked, George cried out, defending his face and
throat. He looked up to find himself at the other end of the shotgun. The girl
stood over him with unnerving confidence restraining the dog by its collar. He
noticed his pistol was now slotted into the belt around her waist.

She fixed him searchingly in her dark brown eyes.

"Qui êtes-vous? Que faites-vous ici?" she hissed.

"English, English....I....I got shot down....keep your dog off!" George
blurted in panic.

Allez à l'intérieur, rapidement! she ordered motioning inside the house with
the gun whilst flicking her gaze down the farm track and across the fields.

George scrambled to his feet breathing heavily, clutching his wrist. His hand
was sticky with blood from the puncture wounds he'd just suffered. They would
need dressing. He stood between the girl and the door. She prodded him
violently between the shoulderblades and forced him inside.

"Vite!" she screamed with such authority that George felt like he had no other
option.

Once inside, George found himself inside a capacious kitchen with a wood
burning stove and a large oak table. George sat at the table, regaining his
composure. The dog, still bellowing furiously was dispatched into another room
and locked behind a door. The French girl returned shortly, leash and collar
still in her hand. She studied George across the room. She watched him nurse
his wrist as he hung his head. He'd been through a lot. He looked vulnerable
sat there, oblivious to her, more like a lost child than a war hero. She broke
the barrel of the shotgun, set the gun down on a sideboard and padded gently
over to him in her bare feet.

He started as she took his wrist. After a cursory inspection she poured water
from a kettle on the stove into a large glazed bowl, tore a tea cloth in half
with her teeth, set the bowl down on the table and took a seat opposite him.

He sucked air through his teeth more from the anticipation of pain than from
its sensation as she dabbed gently at the torn and bruised skin. He could
still move his fingers, so the tendons had escaped damage.

The kitchen was peaceful. George watched clouds of his blood diffused slowly
into the water in the bowl.

"They will look for you," the girl said abruptly in a heavy accent.

George was relieved to be spoken to in English. "Yes, ..the bastards won't
waste any time either. I'll have to get moving...I cant..."

"You stay here" she interrupted in an inscrutable tone - a dry smile curling
the corners of her pretty mouth. He almost thought she took some private
delight in having her very own prisoner of war.

He felt her eyes on him as she tore the remaining half of the cloth into
strips and bandaged the wrist firmly.

There was something about her, George sensed, that was quite spellbinding. He
felt both comforted by her and afraid of her. He needed to trust her but was
unsure how vulnerable that made him.

To his suprise, the close attention she was paying to him had started to
arouse him sexually. There was something about this whole situation he felt
accutely stimulating. His narrow escape in the air, the violence that had gone
before; and now this: her exotic looks; the way her naked toes flexed on the
floor causing her pale muscular calves exposed by her shin length dress to
tense and relax as she leaned forward to attend to him. His eyes dilated. He
felt himself sink into a submissive acceptance of his predicament and let his
eyes wander over her lap to her chest.

"Je pense que vous allez bien encore!" she smirked, as she noticed the change
in him and returned his hand to him slowly.

He looked up at her, abashed and flushed furiously pulling his eyes away from
hers the moment they met. She gave a delicate sigh of pleasure, seemingly
pleased at his demeanour.

The hoarse voice of an old man somewhere else in the house shattered their
intimacy. "Sophie?"

Qu'est ce que tu veux, Papa? Sophie called in response.

There was silence.

She tutted. "My father is ill." she said in a grave tone.

"You'd better see what he wants..?" suggested George feeling a little
uncomfortable.

Just then, a high pitched squeek of pneumatic brakes sounded in the yard
outside accompanied by the gutteral purr of a motorbike engine.

George's eyes flashed white and he sprang to the window.

"Non!" she screamed grabbing him painfully by the arm. "Vous devez vous
cacher!"

George glimpsed two uniformed figures dismount a motorbike and sidecar

that had pulled up in the yard. It was somehow shocking to see the enemy in
the flesh for the first time.

A sudden rush of electrical fear raced up his spine and gripped at his scalp.
He felt his throat constrict as his head pounded with his own explosive pulse.

In panic he scanned the kitchen for exits and hiding places but felt frozen,
unable to react.

A brisk rap sounded on the front door down the hall. The dog began barking
again.

"Entrez ici!" rasped Sophie in a desperate whisper, pulling him with alarming
strength to a door the far side of the kitchen. She removed the key from their
side as they burst into what revealed itself to be a small cramped pantry
lined with jars and strung with drying produce.

As she closed the door the old man's voice could be heard again before all was
muffled. The only light in this small space came from a crack under the door.
Sophie stabbed at the keyhole in the dark finally twisting the key with
relief. For a moment all George was aware of was the combined sound of their
rapid breathing; the nearness of their bodies; the smell of her perfume.

Blood was singing in his ears, his whole body resonated with his pounding
heart.

He felt her move. Glass jars sounded a dull chime as her fingers seemed to
find something on a shelf.

He was startled by a scratching noise and a burst of light as Sophie struck a
match. The small naked flame, illuminated the soft skin of her breasts and
throat with a warm aura. She was so real, so close.

Reaching above them both, she lifted the glass guard of a paraffin lamp and
touched its wick with the small point of light. Slowly, the confined space
flooded with a comforting glow as the lamp hissed into life.

George was entranced by her. He stood captivated, heedless of the comotion
outside.

She pursed her full seductively shaped lips and killed the dying flame with a
jet of breath. Sophie gave a tiny giggle. She stepped forward towards him so
that he felt himself pinned against the wall. Gently and in a liquid, sensuous
movement she produced the dog collar and leash from her apron pocket and
trailed it from his straining groin over his chest to the underside of his
chin.

"Je peux faire ce que je veux." she gloated deliciously and slid a knee
between his legs. George sensed her breath grow shallower and more rapid as it
caressed his face. Her eyes lowered to his neck and dilated to near total
blackness as she buckled the collar around his throat with slow deliberate
movements of her fingers like a spider binding its ensnared prey.

He felt both helpless and secure. The sensation of the collar was a release
from his anxiety, a protection from all the fears on the other side of the
door. He belonged to her now, that was all he needed to think about.

He felt the leash tighten, pulling him steadily lower to his knees. He offered
no resistance and sank, eager to comply with her control over him.

Hastily with her free hand she drew up her dress and petticoat revealing firm
curvaceous thighs in the lamp light. George hugged her legs, rested his
unshaven cheek on her tender skin and kissed at the soft muscular flesh,
whimpering with rapturous distraction.

He felt a hand cup the back of his head and the leash stiffen again, this time
drawing him upwards to the intoxicating warmth and scent of her groin.

"Ici!" she demanded beginning to wheeze with every deep intake of breath and
groan with every ascending exhalation. George felt himself overwhelmed by her
delicious pungence as it melted around him shutting off the rest of the world.
He nuzzled compliantly at her crotch, sensed the moisture in her knickers and
tasted it.

He ate hungrily, burying his nose and tongue between her molten walls.
Swallowing her succulent wetness, gasping for air and gripping at her buttocks
so that their milky flesh yielded and swelled between his fingers. He was
replete, comforted and safe deaf to all but the sounds of her pleasure in his
ears.

Deaf to the growing volume of German voices the other side of the door.

In a heart-stopping instant, the door handle rattled and powerful thumps shook
the door on its hinges.

"Mach' die Tur auf!" came a harsh command.

George felt his neck burn as the collar was swiftly removed.

"Aidez-moi!" Sophie screamed through the door - obviously a hostage in her own
home.

END