Warbride
I'm back again with a short story. I'm taking a break while I brainstorm on my second chapter for my New World Story. As with before, historical accuracy has been sacrificed in this selection for narrative license. The events described below are based upon Operation Market-Garden during World War II. Do comment as I appreciate feedback. Cheers
Warbride 'Isabelle Ducas. Spring, the fourth year of the conflict. Today was slightly cloudy and the lingering chill still haunts the air, stifling my efforts to tend my garden. Madame Timble was arrested by the police. She had raised the volume of her radio too high and they found it after ransacking her home. I could only watch as the dragged the elderly woman off, unable to aid my godmother in her plight. I could only close the blinds, unable to bear the thought that she will not return to us. This is the fifth neighbor to be arrested since last year and the house searches are more frequent. How strange that we who have not been arrested are just as much imprisoned as Madame Timble, Georges Clemont, and the others. The patter of rain upon my window sill brings me little comfort. I fear I shall go mad, consigned to the asylum in my agony as my soul batters upon the ever shifting, ever closing walls. The blackouts are the worst when the thunder crashes through the night, as I listen to the steady drumming of engines above as the earth shakes. The torment of waiting in silence, unable to hear the scream of the bomb until it falls upon me, is unbearable...' the shaky hand, stained with ink stopped writing. The delicate fingertips clutching the quill as the buzzing grew louder outside, disturbing her concentration. Upon the floor by her feet were the tattered remains of previous journal entries for that day, cast away in disgust at her inability to express herself. The young woman placed the pen back onto the weathered desk, the ink drying upon the circular, concentric rings of the aged wood. The crash of the ack-ack guns rattled the fixture, tipping over the ink well until the page ran with the oozing fluid. The spilled ink a testament to the blood spilled in this dreadful conflict as the creeping tar-like substance hovered at the lip of the desk, the dew spilling onto her dress as a second explosion shook the skies above. Paying no notice to her ruined dress the young Persian feline stood up and moved to the blinds. Her green emeralds peeking through the slits of her prison as she stared up at the racket of the heavens. Dim shapes twisted and dove through the clouds as if birds dancing with glee, performing intricate spirals and loops as if seeking to woo a mate. However the beauty of the timeless dance was ruined by the dots splattering the milky grey canvass, marring the complexities of the specks of azure blue peeking through the cloud cover. The shapes could not climb higher as dandelion fluffs floated down in their wake, the billowing umbrellas floating on the wind currents. Outside a mother whisked her children inside and gazed up with streaming tears, as each native voice cried out nearly as one, "Liberation! They have come!" * * *
A jolt slammed the sardine-packed men together. Kits, rifles, and static lines clattered across the steel floor as each hunched over figure sought to reclaim their property before the next explosion repeated the process. In the midst of this chaos came various curses along with a nauseated heave as one chap apparently found the turmoil too much for his stomach to handle. "Couldn't keep a last meal down, Evons? His Majesty's Commissariat doesn't pay for you to be heaving up such fine fare." "Sod off Lance Corporal. I fed the fish off Casablanca. Now I'm gonna feed the birds." "Steady lads, we're almost through the flack. Stand by. Attach lines. Check equipment," came a stern rebuttal from deep within the tossing aircraft. The carrion call of command piercing even over the deep rumble of the twin engines as each helmeted figure, laden with many kilos of gear rose as one. The clink of lines came next as each trooper hooked to the static line above, shuffling towards the rear of the craft as the side door flew open. The blast of sunlight blinded those in front as the rush of wind drowned out every other conversation. A quick rap at the back of his helmet brought James from his thoughts as he found himself stepping forward, leaping into oblivion and silence. The bright sun lancing through the clouds above, trying to pierce the gloom as the canopies opened. Mile upon mile dotted by the swaying figures clutching at their precarious risers; many lips moving silently as prayers spilled out like wine at communion, each trusting in the Almighty to safely deposit them upon land below. The unmerciful whims of fate carried each figure downwards as the land began to rise up suddenly, the fickle winds guiding many to their doom. James winced as he watched a shrouded figure plummet past, the canopy becoming a coffin shroud as the man had become tangled in the sheets and risers. His fingers pulled on each side, twisting the strands to guide his descent, the precarious spider silk gyrating in the stiff, rushing wind. The spinner of those strands had been as sure as any arachnid as the risers moved but did not snap and the fields below opened out before his booted feet. He released his kit, sending the line downwards as the half-plowed earth swelled up, threatening to engulf the diminutive figure as he landed with a hard thump. His body, guided by training, instinct, and self-preservation slumped over as he rolled on the ground until his face had mashed deep into the soil. The coarse grains mixing with his English Setter fur until he smeared the mess across his nose with a quick brush of his hand, his oiled camouflage matting his paw as he stood up and found himself...alone. Rifleman James Tovey began to pull in the lines, scooping up the canopy as he folded up the mess and left it atop the toiled field soil. A few snaps and he was freed from the cumbersome sheets as he picked up his Enfield, scanning the horizon. A single lane stretched over the rise with a sign that pointed back in his direction- Kindhoven 0.4 km -. There was nothing for it but to gather his kit as he shouldered his gear and trudged through the mud. The harsh slurp of his boots clinging to the soggy earth slowed his gait as he flung the mud everywhere. Minutes later a half-drenched, muddy, and irate paratrooper had cleared the hill's rise and discovered the quaint town that was his objective. A few wisps of black smoke rose from chimneys as the inhabitants below went about their lives; the windows boarded up or shut by blinds or curtains. The lane twisted through the narrow streets, slithering into the heart of town as did a single soldier lost in this great war. * * *
Isabelle had waited behind the illusion of safety that her curtains afforded as the harsh clamor of ack-ack guns died off. The parachutes had been whisked away to land outside of town as the police hurried the townspeople indoors. Already she could hear the sound of motors running as the boche lined up their monstrous engines of destruction. The bridge spanning the flooded river carried the cowards from town and hardened the bold ones, the fragile mass of metal and rivets calling to both sides. Isabelle's daydream shattered as her eyes found a figure skirting past her window, flattening himself against the doorway of her neighbor. The strange contrast of deep green, brown, and grey ran down the figure, affording no protection and even drawing attention to the single soldier with his rifle. A patch upon his shoulder was laced with three crosses and Isabelle watched the fugitive race towards the bridge as a hand reached out to yank his arm, dragging him into the easement alley behind the second row. The fleeting figure of a masked canine with streaks of camouflage across his white and auburn fur was all she could remember in the moments afterwards. Deep-set eyes of stark blue had passed over her window and for a moment she had believed that she had caught his attention. Then imagination, a strange blend of synapses and fantasy, contrived to fill her youthful head with fantasies and notions until she heard the crack of a rifle. She could only whimper as she clutched at her sides, supposing her liberator had already fallen to an unyielding and merciless foe. A harsh tug upon his sleeve yanked the astonished James to his senses as he found himself staring at the business ends of a Sten and a pair of Enfields. "Judas Priest! He's from second squad," came a youthful exclamation from a lad of perhaps seventeen years and just as scrawny as that age implied. How he'd snuck into the ranks James would never known as the crack of a rifle pitched the lad's helmet to the cobblestones as the body slumped over, a crimson stain spreading over the path as the quartet had become a trio. "To the bridge, quickly!" A single command sent the squad down the street, months of training and discipline shaking off the stupor of confusion. Instincts could be overridden by these things and James ran as fast as his legs and sixty pounds of gear could carry him. The patter of machine gun fire shattered the morning's stillness and the ground shook beneath them. Up ahead the steel beams of the bridge called the soldiers to war and soon other huffing bodies joined the procession of paratroopers racing ahead. A few fell, never to rise again while others were dragged along, supported by the limbs of their comrades as eventually order returned to the chaos. Windows shattered as rifle butts pushed through the glass and several men hunched over, bracing themselves behind rumble, fences, or whatever provided relief from the growing dance of bullet death. "Charley Bravo Three. Charley Bravo Three do you read, over?" "No response yet from command?" "No sir. We haven't been able to reach any elements outside of Kindhoven." "Sir? Recon reports indicate halftracks and other soft skins forming at the end of the bridge. Third squad was unable to secure the other end." The voices shouted over each other, each soldier believing their conversation warranted attention above the next man. The rumble of motors joined with the whine of bullets as the first armored cars rattled over the bridge. Just outside the second story house James found himself in, a PIAT thumped out to stab at the lead car, sending a wide spray of fiery sparks to the sky as the car spun out of control and crashed into one of the steel girders. James lifted his rifle, aiming down the narrow circular sight as he took a bead on one of the exposed drivers. His finger curled up ever slowly as he waited, then came a flash and a kick that slammed into his shoulder and the battle was joined; a glorious thunder that marked the return of the killing of spring.
- * * 'Today the allies came. Tonight I can still hear the whine of bullets and the thunder of the guns near the bridge. Even more horrifying is the stillness as overhead the bombers soar, raining their eggs that scream down to slaughter regardless of the uniform, flag, or belief. Today I watched from the window until I could stand it no longer. I still hear the screams of the wounded, the shattering of glass, and see...blood. In the street there is a young man who had been killed by a sniper earlier today. He remains where he fell, his friends unable to retrieve his corpse for fear of meeting the same fate. He was young, perhaps two years behind me and should be in school. His eyes bore into my soul, lifeless and vacant as he gazes at me from the street. I can only hear, my imagination spiraling into nightmares, the waiting a slow poison that threatens my sanity. I dread the thump of boots in the street as the boche return. Our liberators are now surrounded and no help has come as their efforts seems to be in vain. The roads leading into town from the south are empty." Her hand stops writing as Isabelle found nothing further to express. A family portrait of happier times lay on the floor, the frame shattered and the photograph blurred with dust. A single candle shone in the prison, the gleam shrinking ever smaller as the wick burned down. Outside was quiet until another shot zoomed through the darkness followed by a gurgle of death's call. Isabelle sat upright, knuckles pale as she clutched to her desk. Her eyes wide as the feline slits caught the candle's flame and glowed. She crept to the window, her eyes peering through the curtains as she noticed a figure kneeling down by a prone form. The helmet was her only clue, the dome round instead of clipped as the allied soldier began to crawl forward in the streets. The man shuffled along on his belly as he used his friend for cover, eventually leaping into the garden lane with a grunt. Isabelle gazed down at the huddled figure, her heart skipping a beat as she wrapped her knuckle against the window sill and waited. James heard a pattered rhythm as he looked up, spying a slender palm against the window of the house above him. The gentle tapping came again as he began to slide forward, the garden's soil dusting his shirt as the trio of colors melded together; brown, green, and crimson. He reached the back door as he twisted the doorknob which opened from inside as a female voice hissed in the stillness, "Inside! Quickly Monsieur." He obeyed and stumbled forward, nearly falling over the petite figure bathed in darkness as he shut the door behind him. The retreating woman began to climb the stairs, motioning with a wave of her palm for him to follow her to sanctuary. "The boche are down the street. If you had kept going you would have run into them." "I'm awfully sorry about this Mademoiselle. I just need a moment to be on my way and report back to the squad." "Monsieur no need to lie to keep my hopes up. You are retreating. All day long we could hear the boche move into town in larger numbers. When I saw you outside with your friend, I...I couldn't let you be killed as well. I'm sorry I could not warn you earlier." She apologized to herself, regretting the fact she had lived for four years and simply ignored the outside world. Isabelle had known members of the Resistance in town but like most others, she felt it was safer to ignore the problem. The enemy had not entered her home, her family was still alive. Like a nightmare she had hoped to close her eyes and hope that when they opened, reality would return. Europe had suffered because of such foolish thoughts. She lit another candle, the smoke rising from the flame as she held out the candle to him. Her eyes scanning his face for the first time as she opened her lips to speak, but no words came out. It was the soldier she had watched stumble into town that morning, the one she had thought had died when that shot ran out. James watched her and took the candle as he opened his mouth to protest her involvement. The enemy would likely shoot her as a sympathizer if they caught him in her home but all these thoughts vanished in a moment as he watched her face tighten up. The milky cheeks, a roman nose, and startling emerald eyes froze in shock as he whipped around, half expecting a jerry to be right behind him. The phantasm retreated to the shadows for there was no enemy here but the young girl reached out, grabbing his shoulder to steady herself. He could only drop his rifle as he took her shoulders and helped steady her uneasy frame, her legs nearly giving out as he helped her stumble back to rest on the chair beside the desk. "I...I thought you were dead. This morning...you dashed between the doorways. Then the alley...the shot." "Oh, that. A group from another squad found me. A sniper got one of them and we dashed off to the bridge. Are you alright now?" James released her shoulders as he repeated the events of the morning. The fear and agony in her face softened his own as he gave her brow a firm brushing over. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she refused to let go, her embrace nearly pulling him down onto the chair as he held her until she composed herself. "I'm...I'm sorry Monsieur. It's just that we have lost so many here since the enemy came. We hoped today the end was in sight. That the boche were truly beaten and we could no longer live in fear for our lives. Isabelle. Je m'appelle...pardon, I'm Isabelle Ducas." "Rifleman James Tovey. Tis a pleasure Mademoiselle Ducas. Well we honestly believed we would clear them out today. Didn't expect them to have tanks is all. Thirty Corps should be up within a day and we'll be able to clear them out and take the bridge back, don't you fret." James reached into his pack, retrieving a wrapping as he cupped her palm in his own to hand over the chocolate. He pulled back and seated himself on the wood floor, the boards creaking under his weight as he began to discard his now useless kit. The rifle sprawled across his lap as he crossed his legs in what the Yanks called 'Indian' style and his left hand rumbled to twist the top free of his canteen. The warm water splashing down his throat to soothe the thirst conjured up by hours tasting acidic smoke and huffing through the carnage. Isabelle held onto the rectangular bar, slowly peeling the silver coat as she munched down on the first sweet she had sampled in years. She looked up and her cheeks flushed soft pink beneath her ivory fur as she apologized for her voracious appetite. "Merci. I have not had chocolate since...since the week before they came. It was at my parents house...Monsieur Tovey, are you certain they will come? There were so few of you today." "We're the best-trained outfit in the service Mademoiselle. Don't let the numbers fool you. Give us tanks and more ammo and we'll clear them out. How is it that a young lass such as yourself lives alone? You have no husband or family nearby?" "Espouse? Non. My family lives up north in Vanterp. I came here to look after my aunt the week the war began. The enemy came and we were trapped here until things were 'sorted out' as you say. I could not obtain a letter of transit to return home and my aunt...The occupation and her ill health..." She left the rest unsaid. The memories were good ones at least and at least her aunt had not been killed by the boche. Others in town had not been so lucky; the violations, the deporting of 'enemies of the state', the curfews, the rationing of food and essentials. Life was fragile, a dandelion seed in the wind that twisted and turned in the buffets of fate. It took little to snuff it out; a stray bomb, having the wrong name, or being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were those that resisted, realizing that liberty's price was worth the cost, many of those who thought as such were denied decency in death. Their bodies piled over in a shallow grave outside town where a firing squad had ended their lives. "Sorry to have brought up unpleasant memories. I have a few things I can leave here when I bug out once they've left. In Staffordshire, my hometown, it's pretty tough also. Not like what you face here but the enemy sends those blitz bombs our way. Without the Yanks I think we would have starved years ago. Can't even get a can of petrol for under five quid." "Do you write home often Monsieur? I'm sure the authorities censor your letters but it would be nice to hear from family. Do you have many siblings? I have a sister, two years my senior. The last letter I received from her she had married a doctor. I couldn't attend the wedding of course nor meet the groom. Perhaps when this is all over I can go home. I have enough food. I think you need that more than I do. I earn enough with piece work and other odd jobs to pay for my food and clothes." "It's the least I can do Mademoiselle for your hospitality. The Yanks' Uncle Sam supplies plenty of grub for we Tommys. Before I signed on I used to tend to the family business, making cabinets and dressers. If I had some of my tools with me, I'd fix up that desk for you. Seems Jerry's bombs haven't been kind to it." "Is that what you are going back to when the war is over Monsieur? Do you have a wife looking after your store while you're away? A girlfriend perhaps? England must be a wonderful place. My family and I had wanted to vacation there one day, to see your cliffs of Dover. Maybe we will if God willing we are all here after this is over." "A lassie of my own? I'm afraid I'm not that lucky. Many gents I know are afraid of that, not wanting the Missus to become a widow living off a pension. We loose a lot of chaps in the airborne or in any service for that matter. Sod it, if I was lucky I'd have a commissariat post back in England loading the docks. That'd be the life, but the pay was better in the airborne corps. If I nod off lass, just give me a nudge. I don't want Jerry bursting in while I'm here. A mite tired, don't ya know?" "Very well Monsieur." Her voice faded into nothing as the candles sputtered and went out. There were no other candles and the soft breathing kept the stillness from amplifying two racing heartbeats. Isabelle would not sleep, slumber replaced by the joy of finding another person to confide in. Her diary had been her only outlet and as rapid as her words flowed across the page, it was not the same as expressing her thoughts into spoken words. In the darkness she watched him, her mind fending off slumber and bad dreams. For a brief moment she had escaped the horrors of this conflict, drifting away to memories of her home and to his. Strangely she wished the two worlds could morph into one, the war cast aside like a blanket if the nights grew too warm. Only the birds were truly free in the world, able to soar above the battles raging by land, sea, and in the air. They could soar to places untouched by the tramp of boots and the tread of tanks. But Isabelle had no wings, only fragments of a past shattered like the portrait across from her bedroom floor.
James' breathing slowed as his head nodded forward. He was tired and for a few hours he slept. His guardian keeping watch and letting him rest as she kept him safe with her thoughts. It was all she could give and he needed the rest. She got up to take a blanket from the bed, gently draping it over the slumbering soldier. The warm cocoon waking him into consciousness as he coughed, his hand squeezing her wrist until he remembered where he was. "You should have not let me doze off. Than...Thank you for the blanket. I should get up or I'll fall asleep again." "I...I'm sorry Monsieur. I can keep you awake if you like." Her voice trailed off into the darkness as she drew her wrist away from his grasp. The rustle of cloth descending to the floor hung in the air, the sound curious to his mind until he felt a warm, furred body gently kneel before his. His blurry vision stared into her emerald gaze as she whispered softly, taking his fingers into her own. He tried to speak again, warm lips covering his own as he gazed into the girl's eyes. The kiss a pure taste of innocence lost in that trouble world as the war melted into the outline of bared breasts, the nipples gliding over his shirt as she whispered again, "Please." The desperation in her voice, the need for company and love dampened his eyes as he took her hands in his own. He cupped her breasts which elicited a soft moan as she bared her neck, her body grinding against his as he could not deny his desire for her. In a world that made no sense he cast aside his reason and bore her away to the bed, tossing his clothing off between sensual kisses. Her claws scraping down his chest as she hissed softly, eventually pulling the half-way nude canine atop her. The memories of that night were twisted and heated for both of them as two souls came together. James clutched to her writhing body, gulping and lavishing her breasts with wet suckles as he tugged on her hard nipples. Isabelle kissed this soldier who had by chance found her in this madness, scratching his muscular chest as she twisted him back onto the sheets. Her body desiring so much more from him as four years of fear and frustration ended as she pulled his fly down. Desperate she parted her slender thighs, descending down onto his cock until she squealed out with his upwards thrust. His body arched up as he clutched at her tail, squeezing tightly onto her bottom as she bounced on his lap. Her nails curling down his shoulders as she buried herself to his hilt, the shaft throbbing deep within her body as she moaned out, "Tie me." James arched up as his knot swelled up until the constantly pumping began to twist the large, veiny bulge into her sex. The twisting forcing her folds wide as the pain lanced through her body, nerve impulses firing until they were tied together. Her breasts swaying as Isabelle arched her back and the heated coupling twisted the bedsprings. She climaxed first as her voice rattled off into a squeak, her mouth descending to slither her sandpaper tongue into his mouth as her heated folds clamped down upon him. Her sex massaged his girth until he yelped and seeded her with several hot pumps that filled her with delicious warmth. Her body laying over his as their kiss deepened until both mouths had to break apart to gasp for air. His tongue lapping down her neck as he clutched to her spine, leaning her against the pillows as the night of bliss continued until both minds fell into slumber. Their bodies clutched together as they savored this moment, their arms hugging tightly to each other until the chirping of morning larks woke them.
- * * "James? Are you awake?" "Yes Isabelle. I've been up for awhile." "Will you come back? Please take me away from here after the war is over. I will wait for you." "If I'm living lass, I'll be here. You can be sure of that. I'd best see if I can find thirtieth corps." The morning afterwards was quiet after both had dressed. A shared kiss was all that could be afforded as the thunder of guns in the distance moved closer. One despaired of waiting just a little longer to begin her life anew. The other had vowed to return. James left her his rations and something more with the weeping feline as he vanished into the morning mists. His camouflaged body darting between the doorways as he left by the same route he had taken to this city. The feline watched him go, shutting the curtains and picking up a pen to write as the war raged on. The official report stated that the operation was, 'Ninety percent successful.' Hundreds of the dead, wounded, and captured soldiers would not have cared for that assessment. A young lad still festered in the alleyway where he'd taken his last steps, his body bloated in the sun and his eyes fixed upon eternity. Upon the bridge burning vehicles send clouds of smoke like a pyre, the dead honored by the flames and explosions of ammunition. Spring that year would see an end to the conflict at the cost of countless more lives ruined by a war that had gone on far too long. And in a small house with drawn curtains and a full diary, a young woman waited. There were no more words to write now as the battles had stopped. Each day the rumble of trucks carrying jubilant G.I.'s raced back from the front. The newspapers proclaimed that the war was over. The Persian feline rubbed her belly which had swelled out as spring's vow had been fulfilled. A new life was on the way and the trees bloomed and rained their blossoms upon the victors...and the survivors. The months had passed and harvest turned to winter as the truck convoys slowed. Letters had poured in from her family to which she sent no answer. Her tears splattered her pillow as she cursed God for robbing her of a fleeting happiness. Many names passed into her mind during her long solitude. Places with steamy jungles or snowy mountains where men fought and died to take back the soil, and renew it with their bodies. Yet the names were not the ones she longed to hear. The boche were gone now, many of them marching on that town road into captivity or back to their homes. They had begun to rebuild while the allies began to cope with the horrors of the bloody conflict. And the months passed. Her diary snapped and crackled in the fire as she heard a gentle tap at the front door. Isabelle carefully wiggled her toes onto the wood floor beneath her as she held onto her belly and clutched the railing of the stairs. The young woman's portrait had been restored to the desk, the wood still cracked and stained with months of ink. The broken glass had been cleared away now and from below came the gentle chime of a wound grandfather clock. The soft carols of yuletide and the scent of fresh dinners, courtesy of Allied commissariat's swirled around her home as jubilant voices celebrated the holiday seasons. Before she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw a figure in the doorway. A white bandage draped around his brow, the canine ears poking out through the wrappings as he smiled and spoke to his future bridge, "Merry Christmas Isabelle."