Mayday! Mayday!
In retrospect, he should have realized that there was probably a reason that the other pilots complained about night missions.
The air over the channel was clear, the moon high and bright in the sky, and they made good time. After they hit land, Johnson started singing drinking songs at the top of his lungs from the waist turret to pass the time while the quiet farmland passed beneath them. They cracked dirty jokes, Mac made allusions to Johnson's mother, Johnson made allusions to Mac's wife, and Charlie couldn't stop laughing at the both of them.
And then the flak started.
Shortly after sunrise, the farmer had taken a few steps past the pile of hay Charlie was buried in and backed up, eying the bottom of the pile. He considered the boot toe sticking out carefully, then rummaged in his pocket, and tossed a chunk of bread with a hunk of cheese stuck in it on top of the pile. He whistled what Charlie swore was the first few bars of Yankee Doodle Dandy as he walked out, swinging the full milk pail. He was barely six feet out of the door when Charlie reached out of the hay and grabbed the bread.
Charlie spent the day debating what to do. He needed to get to Paris and contact the Resistance, but he had no papers to get past the checkpoints. He could recite I am an American non-combatant and I am a British pilot in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and Polish (depending on which statement and which language would help him best), but without papers and a change of clothes, it didn't matter.
He blinked as the hay was swiped from his eyes, and a kindly old face was looking down at him.
"Venez, garçon. Obtenons-te le dîner. Il n'y a aucun soldat ici."
The flak was thicker than he'd ever seen it. He could feel it ripping through his port wing, and he prayed it didn't hit the engine. The wheel bucked underneath his hands as the flak punched straight through the waist turret, and Johnson was gone before he knew it. The steel screeched as the airframe ripped in two, and as Charlie fought to keep the wheel in his hands, he tried to yell at Mac to get out of the nose, there was no way they weren't going down face-first, but the wind took his voice out of his throat before he could even form the words. The dials on his board were spinning out of control and all Charlie could do was close his eyes as the ground filled the window.
And then he hit the ground.
The farmer's wife bustled around the kitchen, shoving more food onto his plate practically every time he blinked. The farmer sat across from him, sizing him up. After about ten minutes, he stood up, and walked down the hall. Charlie tried vainly to keep the wife from putting even more food on his plate. The farmer came back in, putting a small pile of clothes on the table and flipping through it. He motioned for Charlie to stand, unfolding a shirt to hold up to him to judge the size. He handed it and a pair of pants to Charlie, and opened the door to the bathroom off the hallway. He stepped in, and changed. The pants were a little on the loose side, so he slipped his belt from the khakis he'd been wearing under his flight suit and buckled it up. The shirt fit perfectly, and had a high enough collar that it hid the chain to his dogtags. He stepped out into the hallway, and nodded thanks to the farmer. The wife took his flight suit out of his hands and began folding it up. She placed it at the bottom of a knapsack, and put a couple changes of clothes on top.
The farmer gestured at Charlie, and he followed the man up the stairs into the attic, where a bed was made, blankets pulled back and waiting.
"Vous pouvez partir demain soir. Maintenant, vous dormez."
Charlie wasn't fluent in French by any means, but he knew the word sleep well enough, and sank thankfully into the warm blankets.
He woke up in a field, straps holding him into his seat by a thread. There were voices in the distance, behind the plane somewhere. He wriggled out and dropped to the ground, reaching back into the cockpit to feel around for the field pack. He could see the lights by the time he slipped into the brush at the edge of the field.
He ran, just picking a direction and trying to get further ahead of the voices and lights than he was. There, a barn. He sprinted, sliding the door open, and then shut behind him. The voices were closer, he could hear the dirt crunching underneath their boots. He looked around, panicking, where could he hide? His eyes fell on a pile of unbaled hay, and he burrowed into it.
The barn door slid open, and a light was cast around the barn.
"Nichts aber einige dumme Kühe."
The door was closed, and Charlie let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The farmer saw him off the next night with a letter, and a map to another farm on the way to Paris. When he showed the letter to the woman who answered the door, he was ushered in and given a cot in the cellar. He traveled this way, farmhouse to farmhouse, carrying letters, to a small inn a few miles outside the Paris checkpoints. The innkeeper agreed to smuggle him in, handing him a letter, and a map to a bar with a Resistance-friendly bartender who could hide him.
It was just after dawn when they rolled through the checkpoint with little more than a wave and a veiled insult from the officer manning it. After a couple hours rolling over cobblestone streets, he was pulled off and a large blanket was thrown around him. He was led up to a door, and the innkeeper knocked.
Continued here.
The air over the channel was clear, the moon high and bright in the sky, and they made good time. After they hit land, Johnson started singing drinking songs at the top of his lungs from the waist turret to pass the time while the quiet farmland passed beneath them. They cracked dirty jokes, Mac made allusions to Johnson's mother, Johnson made allusions to Mac's wife, and Charlie couldn't stop laughing at the both of them.
And then the flak started.
Shortly after sunrise, the farmer had taken a few steps past the pile of hay Charlie was buried in and backed up, eying the bottom of the pile. He considered the boot toe sticking out carefully, then rummaged in his pocket, and tossed a chunk of bread with a hunk of cheese stuck in it on top of the pile. He whistled what Charlie swore was the first few bars of Yankee Doodle Dandy as he walked out, swinging the full milk pail. He was barely six feet out of the door when Charlie reached out of the hay and grabbed the bread.
Charlie spent the day debating what to do. He needed to get to Paris and contact the Resistance, but he had no papers to get past the checkpoints. He could recite I am an American non-combatant and I am a British pilot in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and Polish (depending on which statement and which language would help him best), but without papers and a change of clothes, it didn't matter.
He blinked as the hay was swiped from his eyes, and a kindly old face was looking down at him.
"Venez, garçon. Obtenons-te le dîner. Il n'y a aucun soldat ici."
The flak was thicker than he'd ever seen it. He could feel it ripping through his port wing, and he prayed it didn't hit the engine. The wheel bucked underneath his hands as the flak punched straight through the waist turret, and Johnson was gone before he knew it. The steel screeched as the airframe ripped in two, and as Charlie fought to keep the wheel in his hands, he tried to yell at Mac to get out of the nose, there was no way they weren't going down face-first, but the wind took his voice out of his throat before he could even form the words. The dials on his board were spinning out of control and all Charlie could do was close his eyes as the ground filled the window.
And then he hit the ground.
The farmer's wife bustled around the kitchen, shoving more food onto his plate practically every time he blinked. The farmer sat across from him, sizing him up. After about ten minutes, he stood up, and walked down the hall. Charlie tried vainly to keep the wife from putting even more food on his plate. The farmer came back in, putting a small pile of clothes on the table and flipping through it. He motioned for Charlie to stand, unfolding a shirt to hold up to him to judge the size. He handed it and a pair of pants to Charlie, and opened the door to the bathroom off the hallway. He stepped in, and changed. The pants were a little on the loose side, so he slipped his belt from the khakis he'd been wearing under his flight suit and buckled it up. The shirt fit perfectly, and had a high enough collar that it hid the chain to his dogtags. He stepped out into the hallway, and nodded thanks to the farmer. The wife took his flight suit out of his hands and began folding it up. She placed it at the bottom of a knapsack, and put a couple changes of clothes on top.
The farmer gestured at Charlie, and he followed the man up the stairs into the attic, where a bed was made, blankets pulled back and waiting.
"Vous pouvez partir demain soir. Maintenant, vous dormez."
Charlie wasn't fluent in French by any means, but he knew the word sleep well enough, and sank thankfully into the warm blankets.
He woke up in a field, straps holding him into his seat by a thread. There were voices in the distance, behind the plane somewhere. He wriggled out and dropped to the ground, reaching back into the cockpit to feel around for the field pack. He could see the lights by the time he slipped into the brush at the edge of the field.
He ran, just picking a direction and trying to get further ahead of the voices and lights than he was. There, a barn. He sprinted, sliding the door open, and then shut behind him. The voices were closer, he could hear the dirt crunching underneath their boots. He looked around, panicking, where could he hide? His eyes fell on a pile of unbaled hay, and he burrowed into it.
The barn door slid open, and a light was cast around the barn.
"Nichts aber einige dumme Kühe."
The door was closed, and Charlie let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The farmer saw him off the next night with a letter, and a map to another farm on the way to Paris. When he showed the letter to the woman who answered the door, he was ushered in and given a cot in the cellar. He traveled this way, farmhouse to farmhouse, carrying letters, to a small inn a few miles outside the Paris checkpoints. The innkeeper agreed to smuggle him in, handing him a letter, and a map to a bar with a Resistance-friendly bartender who could hide him.
It was just after dawn when they rolled through the checkpoint with little more than a wave and a veiled insult from the officer manning it. After a couple hours rolling over cobblestone streets, he was pulled off and a large blanket was thrown around him. He was led up to a door, and the innkeeper knocked.
Continued here.