VII • A Chat With The Enemy

142 8 49

How I wish Doctor Wright were there. Cecilia stared at the bloody gash in German's shoulder. Or Isaac. Anyone with even basic medical knowledge. But alas, she knew that was impossible. No one could come, she would have to make do on her own.

"Can you move it at all?" She asked the German, inching a little closer. "Perhaps it's just dislocated, not broken. Or maybe it's just a bleeding cut and not broken at all."

He did as she asked and tried to wiggle his arm and then proceeded to lift it. His face turned red and he clenched his teeth. "Feels broken to me."

"Oh, drat." Cecilia slumped, "Drat, drat, drat." Then she toward him. "I don't suppose you know anything about the medical sciences?"

He shrugged. "Never my forte."

She shook his head. "Same." They both thought for a moment, considering the best possible path to take. Finally, it was Cecilia who said, "Well, the least we can do is clean that up."

The Captain smiled weakly. "Agreed."

Then Cecilia smiled too. A small, little, simple smile, but a smile none the less and she didn't notice she had done it before it was too late. Her face immediately soured at the realization.

"Well, it really doesn't matter if you agree or not because I'm in charge here." She snapped hotly at him, becoming unpleasant all over again, "We made a deal, recall? And I'm only helping you for--"

"The sake of English honor, yes, I recall." He finished for her, his tone almost bored. Cecilia huffed indignantly. She couldn't believe in a few minutes she had gotten so comfortable with this man, this Hun, this Nazi.  With a glare in his general direction, Cecilia--still frowning--opened her basket again and procured another water bottle along with a cloth. Then, after a moment of deliberation, she turned him. "Um... right. Let's see your shoulder."

He gave her a sheepish look, eyeing the water and cloth. "Oh, do come on." She insisted impatiently. He mumbled something she didn't fully heard nor understand but did as she asked and after tearing off the top of his sleeve, his bare red arm was now completely visible. Cecilia wrinkled her nose at the ghastly sight. Ew. . . What oh what did I get myself into? 

She was just about to come up next to when she turned and looked at him directly, wiping away the curls that had fallen into her face. His blue eyes held a nervous quality in them, an almost awkward embarrassment. Cecilia contrasted that with her brown eyes of fierce determination and present disgust. Locked in a gaze, she said, "I need you to swear on the soul of your mother you will not touch me."

He stiffened. "Soul swearing is a dangerous habit, English."

"Swear it." She hissed, again irritated at being called by name.

He hesitated, then nodded. "On the soul of my mother, Anna von Bachenheim, I swear I will not touch you intentionally."

"Good." Cecilia said, "Jolly good." For she truly believed him. And without a second thought she inched closer to the German crunched in the corner of the loft of her Barn, and putting the bottom end of her electric torch into her mouth, she poured the water on his shoulder and arm and started to clean it. He twitched at sudden contact of chilled liquid burning onto his open wound.

"Oh, hush." Cecilia shushed - though it came out more mumbled since the torch was in her mouth - her manner was altogether more gentle. "You were right, it could've been worse."

"Yes." Thoughtfully, he glanced at her, now very much consumed with her work. "It could have been much worse indeed."

Cecilia worked hard. She washed and cleaned the wound as gently but thoroughly as she could and wrapped the bandages as tightly and as securely as she could. Neither talked during the process. Cecilia absentmindedly began to hum random lyrics to old nursery rhymes. The pilot tried to suppress his amused smile. It seemed in no time she finished.

The English GirlWhere stories live. Discover now