Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2000 16:57:39 -0500
From: Willy B <haztech@email.msn.com>
Subject: Flak Bait pt 4

Flak Bait
Part 4

        Jean wearily looked at the two boys lying side by side as he buried
them further under the hay of the barn they had found. He had a lot to do
that day still, but he needed to make sure they would be secure. The
American would be no problem.
        Paul would be another story. He looked at the angry bruise still
forming on the boy's face and regretted having to hit him so hard, but when
he had broken away for the third time that night to return to certain
death, Jean had knocked the senseless boy out cold and he and Michael had
carried and dragged him to this meager refuge. He desperately needed to
make contact with the local fighters. They would have the American's false
papers and, hopefully, be in contact with their London controllers. He knew
they were too far away for a clandestine pick-up (there were no fields
large enough for a landing anyway), but before they could proceed, he
needed further information.
        He sighed and pulled himself into the straw, away from the faint
light of dawn. It would have to wait until he could wake Michael. He
couldn't trust Paul to stay where he was, so his meeting with the local
cell would have to wait.
        The old woman and young girl, barely into her teens, entering the
dilapidated structure brought him to alarm as he burrowed further to stay
hidden. This place had looked untended and abandoned when they had
approached it. The lack of a dog raising an alarm had almost confirmed his
suspicions. He held his breath as she and the girl raided some hidden
larder and turned to leave.
        Suddenly he found himself staring into the eyes of the girl
directly. Her eyes grew wide as she recognized a face in their straw. He
slowly reached for the hilt of his knife, not knowing who these people were
loyal to.
        "It is all right." Her voice shook as she addressed him
quietly. "You are safe here."
        "Who are you talking to?" The old woman spun around, surprisingly
spry on her feet. "You! Come out of there!"
        Jean smiled as he pulled himself erect, oblivious to the hay that
cascaded off his body, and faced the two. His advantage of surprise was
gone but he saw no weapons between them as he kept his hand near his hidden
knife.
        "Where did you come from?" The old woman fired her questions
rapidly. "Are you alone?"
        "But of course I'm alone." Jean answered calmly, leaving the other
questions unanswered. She seemed satisfied not to know either. "I just
needed a place to rest before I continue my journey. I'm sorry. I will
leave now."
        "No, you may stay." The old woman gave him a fearless appraisal
before continuing, "We will say nothing about you...or the boys behind
you. Just be gone by tonight!"
        "Thank you, madame." Jean bowed slightly and glanced behind to see
Michael awake and crouched behind him, hands hidden but undoubtedly on one
of the two submachine guns he had. The hay had also been disturbed around
Paul's still unconscious form. What did the American think they were
playing at! This wasn't a game! He silently cursed Michael as he continued,
"May we have some food? I can pay a little."
        Michael watched the exchange intensely, wishing for the twentieth
time that night that he was better at learning languages. So instead, he
tried to read their body language. He finally began to relax his grip on
the gun a little when Jean held up a restraining hand his direction and
visibly seemed to relax himself.
        Mike breathed out the breath he'd been holding and laid back into
the straw and placed his arms back around Paul's body, merging their warmth
again. He was comforted by Paul's presence; the hidden Sten under the hay
within easy hand's reach helped a lot as well. He hoped that Paul would be
all right when he awoke. Mike was sure he'd never be able to hit his friend
the way Jean had. That had been a waking nightmare for him as they'd both
tried to control the distraught young man he now held tightly.
        "Stay!" Jean could only hope that was the right word he was
using. He'd had no use for a gutter language like English
before. Thankfully, Paul had helped him a little in the weeks the American
had been with them. At least he figured he and the American had one thing
in common; that was no talent for learning each other's speech. "I come
back....you eat." He turned and followed the old woman when Michael seemed
to understand him.

        Paul slowly blinked his eyes and, for a moment, the previous night
was a dream, a nightmare of dim memory. Then the pain from the side of his
face, the arms wrapped protectively around him, and the strange girl
looking at him in the strange surroundings came flooding through his mind
at the same time. And so did the pain of the distant guns in the night that
signaled his parents' last battle against the invaders.
        His tears began anew as he thought of them and cursed himself for
not being there for them, for not sharing their suffering. He had wanted to
make a difference in the world but in the end hadn't even been able to help
even his mother or father. Jean had told him during their run through the
night that they had sacrificed themselves for him. That he felt betrayed by
them shamed him even more. His parents should have known that his place was
by their side, sharing their fate. Why had they turned him out?
        He didn't even get a chance to properly say goodbye to them! If
they had known what would happen, why didn't they tell him? It's because he
would have stayed where he belonged, he silently answered his own question,
where he should be right now.
        Paul buried his face into his arms as another wave of guilt-laden
grief wracked his body again. He felt the arms around him tighten their
grip on his chest as he finally turned away from the barely seen distressed
girl to face Michael.
        "I'm sorry, Paul." Mike watched Paul's eyes as he quietly willed
away his pain within the grip he held. He didn't know what else to do. He
knew he probably shouldn't have spoken in English around this strange girl
he didn't know, but had to do something for his friend. "Please eat
something. We have some bread and a little cheese." He directed Paul's
attention to the small plate by his side. "I don't know when we will get
another chance."
        Paul wiped this eyes to clear them and looked at the offered food,
letting Michael's words sink into his brain. His first instinct was to
reject it, but his years on a farm in an occupied country won out in the
end. Michael was right. You never could know when you would eat again. As
he slowly chewed the tasteless offerings, a few of his teeth acted like
they painfully wanted to fall out of his jaw; he felt them lie within him
like lead weights. But at least the pangs were banished from him for a
time.
        "What happened to you?" the girl asked after she watched him eat
for a time. "What is your friend? English?"
        "It's better I don't tell you." Paul grimaced as he glanced from
Mike to the stranger. That Mike wasn't French had been made painfully
obvious to everybody in the place they were in. But he wasn't about to
confirm anything to her. "You shouldn't know."
        "Ah, then he is English," she smiled at his discomfort, guessing
correctly, "or an American. I've never seen one before. Are they all so
young to fight?"
        "I said you shouldn't ask such questions," Paul repeated
quietly. He was making a mistake of this as well. "He's an Ottoman
Turk...Neutral." He winced inside. Not even she could be so stupid as to
believe him. Michael was too pale to be from there, but he was desperate,
drawing at straws.
        "Oh?" she laughed then. "He sounds like a cowboy from the American
movies. He is a Turkish cowboy then?" She stood and turned to leave
them. "You are safe. Don't worry. Your other friend will be back for you
soon."
        Paul bent back to the last few morsels on the plate as Mike smiled
in confused silence. They'd have to come up with a story that would keep
Mike from ever speaking. He had learned in their early conversations that
Michael was from some small town called Waco; his family had been part of
the first Jewish temple established in Texas. Mike would never be able to
speak the few words of French he knew without that awful accent he
possessed, and tried to hide, giving them all away.
        "Are you going to be OK now?" Mike asked as he watched Paul finish.
        "Yes," Paul sighed, pushing away the thoughts that threatened to
come rushing back. "I can not run any more. I have no place to go." He
rubbed the red side of his face, feeling the heat it generated. "You will
not have to beat me."
        "I could never hurt you," Mike whispered as he placed his chin on
Paul's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him again. "I don't know where
we're going...Hell, I don't even know where we are!...But I'm glad you're
still with me."

        Jean cautiously reentered the old barn as the light was
fading. He'd have been back sooner but had circled the homestead first. The
family living there had been friendly enough but he still had trouble
trusting them. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the avarice
he'd seen flash through the old woman's eyes when he'd mentioned `payment'
for their assistance. It was probably nothing; they were poor, after all,
and eager for anything he might have for them. Still, it paid to be
cautious.
        "Paul?" Jean began quietly so as not to startle the two. They had
the submachine guns, after all. "Michel?"
        "Jean?" Paul stuck his head through the straw they'd covered
themselves with again when it became obvious they weren't leaving right
away. "Where have you been? Are we leaving?"
        "No, not tonight." Jean smiled at the rational questions he
received from Paul. "Tomorrow we go. I must get your new papers as
well. Are you well?"
        "Yes," Paul answered quietly so as not to disturb Michael, who'd
rolled over next to him at the first exchange. "Remind me to never make you
angry at me again. My teeth still hurt. Where will we go?"
        "We will go see the Swiss." Jean paused to let the plan he and the
others had come up with sink in. "Spain is too far south and too dangerous
to risk."
        "Can we go so far and not be seen?" Paul was overwhelmed by the
thought and worried as well. "And what will happen if we get there?"
        "It will be difficult, but we will have help." Jean tried to allay
the boy's fears. "It is the only way to make sure you both are safe. As a
neutral, I imagine the Swiss will intern us all until the enemy is beaten."
        "Will we still be together?" That Jean was so certain of the
outcome struck Paul as odd. He'd seen no sign that was going to happen.
        "I don't know," Jean decided that he had to be honest with the
youth here, "but you and Michel will still be alive if we can cross the
border. That is all I can promise. It is what I promised your father to do
a long time ago." Jean grimaced at the memory as he saw the shadow descend
onto Paul's dim features. "No one can hide you and Michel for very
long. The risk is too great. Switzerland is our only option. I must rest
now. You and Michel will have to watch for me tonight. Can you do that?"
        "Yes," Paul said as he watched Jean pull the loose straw over
himself carefully until he also disappeared from sight. He slipped down
into the hay, leaving just his face exposed. The cold barrel of one of the
guns they had was under his fingers. He hoped that nothing would come their
way until Jean had a chance to teach him how to use it. Then he would face
anything that came their way. He felt a need for revenge slowly start
smoldering within him. He would never let anything else be taken from him
as long as he could fight for it. And if he died? So be it! He should be
dead already!
        He moved his hand off the weapon and fumbled under the hay behind
him, finding Michael's sleeping form. He let his hand absently trail across
the bulky stolen clothes that covered his American friend. He felt another
longing build, like a condemned man's last wish. If he were truly living on
borrowed time, he had to act before it ran out.

        Mike came awake with a start! His now familiar nightmare had been
more intense than ever. He could actually feel his enemy's hand on his
genitals as the knife descended toward them. He instinctively grabbed at
himself like he had done every time before, only this time someone was
holding him. Not tightly like his sleep fogged brain told him, but gently
cupping him, rolling his loose testicles in their soft home.
        "Wha...?" Mike softly asked in the still night as he pulled the hay
from his head.
        "Shhh. It is me. Paul." He quickly placed his free hand to Mike's
face to quell the fear he sensed in his friend and continued the slow
manipulation of the other's private region. He smiled then. He had
forgotten the nightmares that plagued Michael.
        "You don't ha...." Mike was confused as Paul's hand left his balls
to grasp his now painfully hard penis confined within the trousers. He
finally just relaxed and reached through the straw till he found the waist
of Paul's own pants and slipped under to grasp him as well. He was still
confused as to why his friend found this activity so important at this
time, but went along with it anyway. His own heart was pounding like it
always did when he was pleasuring himself, only this time it seemed to
unconsciously fall into sync with the pulsating his fingers were feeling
from Paul. For a brief time it felt like they were sharing one heart
between them.
        "Yes," Paul replied. "Now." He quietly rolled toward Michael and
unfastened first his, then the other's trousers, giving them both better
access to each other.
        The hay seemed to both scratch them painfully and tickle them
unmercifully as they stroked each other's now unconfined cocks.
        Paul figured ruefully that Mike seemed to have one advantage as he
used his free hand to pull another piece of now damp straw away from him,
where it had become trapped in his foreskin as it was pulled forward. He
felt Michael become rigid in his hand as a rhythmic hard pumping from deep
within his body forced his eruption out of him and into the hay that
divided them. When he followed, his own rigid explosion was accompanied by
the discomfort of feeling stray bits of straw clamped between his smooth
cheeks. He couldn't help but smile a little at their shared pleasure and
the discomfort that came with it. He was relieved to sense Michael also
smiling in the dark of the structure they were in.
        Neither made any move to cover themselves as they continued to just
hold each other as they softened. The moment was over, but each willed it
to continue as long as possible. Neither knew when one such moment like
this would be their last.
        "Go to sleep, Paul." Mike carefully leaned closer and rested his
head against Paul's. "I'll watch now."

        "Paul?" Jean quickly rose to the dawn and shook himself free of the
straw that clung to him. He hoped everything would be ready when he arrived
at his destination that morning. They had been in the area too long and
needed to move. He looked at his two wards staring back at him, also
awake. "I will be back soon. We will leave tonight. Tell Michel what he
needs to know."
        Paul watched Jean as he left. Today might be more difficult than
they imagined. He was certain that their unwilling hosts would not be happy
they were still there. He stood himself and proceeded cautiously toward the
small hole they had managed to excavate in a corner of the building to
relieve themselves. "I need to tell you the plans," he whispered in
passing.
        Mike listened as Paul laid out the plan that had been agreed
upon. He knew the odds were against them ever reaching safety, but then,
anything was better than staying to be picked up. He'd been there before
and knew he would never be considered a POW. Well, he couldn't take that
chance, anyway. He wondered if the task before them had led to the
morning's performance, but let it go. He had too many other things to worry
about, like staying alive.

        Jean was relieved to leave the small town with the papers he'd come
for. As he nonchalantly wandered the side alleys in the cold dawn, he was
drawn to his thoughts about the handbill he'd been given by one of the
local cell of fighters. Its contents disturbed him, for it described Michel
very well and, after accusing him of Jean's recent murders of the
collaborationist family, offered a substantial reward for his capture. This
would complicate matters, for even those with no love for the invaders
could be lured by money.
        He hurried his pace when he reached the trail that led to the
dilapidated farm where they were hiding. He silently moved behind some
bushes as he spied a figure hustling down the trail toward him. It was the
old woman from the farm and she had a paper clutched tightly in one crooked
hand.
        Jean felt his blood run cold as his anger flared. He cursed himself
for leaving the boys alone at that place. Her husband may have already
killed the two. He quietly reached for his knife and waited to spring.

End of part 4.

My thanks to ED for his assistance.