All Things Nice » Band of Brothers

35: Cards

Posey hummed her affirmative, then gasped. "No, American."

She heard movement behind her but kept her eyes firmly forwards, keeping as still as possible lest the blade pierce her skin. It was already pressed close enough she was certain it would leave a mark - only the slightest bit of further pressure, she was sure, and she'd be dead.

"American, ay?" spoke up a different voice, louder and gentler. Unmistakably British. "I'm talking to you, soldier. Are you American?"

"Yes," Posey squeaked, still not daring to move an inch.

The Brit laughed. "We met a few of your lot a few hours ago. You're a long way from 'em, though."

"I know," she breathed.

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"How do I know I can trust you?"

The Brit laughed warmly. "I'm British. What business have I got working for the Boche?"

"What business have you got wandering around in occupied France?" she shot back, breathing in a sharp breath when the knife was pressed closer to her skin. Hyperaware of everything all of a sudden, with all of her senses dialled up now that she'd been found, Posey thought she could feel drops of blood beading across her neck. She deduced the man had done it purely because of her tone; there would've been no need to get a Brit if he could speak English.

"I'm a downed airman," the Brit explained, not seeming to notice the knife pressed to her throat or, otherwise, not seeming to care. "High reward on my head for handing me in to the bastards and I've got no way out of France. Trust me, mate, I want this liberation just as much as you do, probably even more. So where are you supposed to be?"

"Sainte Marie du Mont," she said through a hissed exhalation.

The Brit explained the situation to the Frenchman, and the Frenchman laughed.

"That's ages away from here," the Brit confessed regretfully. Then there was more French and the knife was removed from her throat.

Posey gasped and pressed a hand to the area immediately, feeling for herself the drops of blood that had broken the surface. She bent forwards over her knees and breathed heavily.

"Sorry about that," said the Brit. "Precaution. You understand."

"Of course."

A hand was offered to her and she stood, turning around warily. When she was face to face with the downed airman she saw his face drop. "Bloody hell," he said, "how old are you?"

"Does it matter?" Posey sniped, still rubbing at her neck.

The airman shook his head. "No, I suppose not." Then he sighed. "We've other matters to tend to, anyway. Like how we're going to get you back with the rest of your division."

"Can you take me there?" Posey asked, gazing up at him hopefully. She found the airman's face didn't much match his voice at all, for his voice was warm and gentle and his face was cold and hard. He was older than she'd initially expected, likely around his early thirties, but the smile he offered her softened him.

"We're going to try," he replied. "Take you as far as we can and then point you in the right direction. We have our own jobs to be doing to help with this whole affair, after all."

"You do?"

"We're Resistance," he explained, gesturing to the Frenchman beside him, who was watching Posey closely with a firm hold on his dagger, and then behind him. A little ways away, Posey noticed two people also watching the undertakings, both of them women. She wasn't sure why that made her feel safer all of a sudden.