by Laura Leone
"Well, we can't—"
"Hang on," he advised her. Making sure he had a good grip on her, he rose from the chair.
Gabrielle gasped as she slipped a little, then wrapped her legs around him and clung to his neck with her arms. With his penis still hard and eager inside of her, he staggered to the kitchen table and propped her bottom on its edge.
Breathing hard, she sighed and lay back along the length of the table, her lush breasts swelling plumply as he leaned down to kiss each one in turn. He brushed lightly at the red skirt and torn blouse which were bunched around her waist, then he sank against her as he sank into her, their gazes holding as their bodies sought and found a new rhythm. Slower, this time. More languid. He couldn't forget that this would be the last time for a while, and he wanted to make it last as long as he could.
Gabrielle bent her knees and brought her feet up to the table's edge, tilting so that he could push more deeply inside her. She raised her hips in eager response to each plunging invasion, rocking endlessly with him in their intimate dance, trying to extend these moments for ever. Trying to ensure that midnight would never come.
He gave up when she did, and they succumbed together to the hot ecstasy that was violent and tender at the same time, to the rush of joy they never tired of giving each other.
Afterwards, they rested briefly together, flushed and drowsy. He felt drained and energized, exhausted and renewed all at once. Although he'd scarcely noticed how uncomfortable their position was a few minutes ago, now the table was starting to feel distinctly hard, not to mention too small for them both. He was reluctant to move, though; once he moved, he knew he'd have to think about putting on his jacket and leaving.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly.
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. "You," he answered. "Right now, only us. Only this."
They smiled at each other, happy for the moment.
And for the moment, it was enough.
See You In Paris
Normandy, France
June 6, 1944
Gabrielle's stomach churned with dread. Her hands shook with fear. She had been tough and stoic throughout the battle, which had begun well before dawn, but this was too much.
"I won't let you do this," she said to her husband. "You can't!"
"It'll work," Paul insisted. "Trust me."
"No!"
"We don't have time to fight about it."
"Paul!"
Their eyes met. His were dark brown, long-lashed, and sharply focused with determination; their expression softened now as he gazed at her.
"Ma mie," he said, using the French endearment with tenderness. Though American, he almost always spoke French with her, even in the privacy of their bed. Ever since the Office of Strategic Services had sent him to occupied France in 1942 as an undercover agent to gather intelligence for the imminent Allied invasion, he had successfully posed as a Frenchman living humbly in Normandy. "The Germans won't shoot an unarmed, surrendering, British prisoner of war."
"You can't expect me to count on that! Who knows what they'll do now? They're under attack!"
"And that's exactly why this will work," he insisted. "Help me. We've got to be quick."
Though appalled, she nonetheless did as instructed and helped him start removing the uniform from the corpse of the dead British paratrooper they had stumbled across.
It was her duty to help him, like it or not. As his wife, she'd continue to try to talk him out of this crazy plan; but as a Resistance operative, she followed his orders and assisted him even while her mind was filled with panic at the thought of the insane risk he intended to take.
"Get his boots," Paul said as he started unbuckling the dead man's parachute harness.
Gabrielle nodded and moved one lifeless leg—shuddering as she did so—so that she could reach the bootlaces.
Paul saw the shudder and perhaps remembered that, despite all her experience in the Resistance, she'd never before touched a dead body. "Can you do this?" he asked quietly.
"Yes. But," she said, returning to the subject which mattered most, "I won't let you—"
They both went still and silent, scarcely breathing, the moment they heard shouting. Then there were shots fired and more shouting—in German. After that, only eerie quiet.
"Let's get him under cover," Paul instructed in a whisper.
Gabrielle nodded and, glad that she was tall and strong, took the feet while he took the shoulders. They carried the dead man into a hollow between a cluster of bushes and a moss-covered hedgerow. She felt nauseated by her own casual handling of a stranger's corpse—a clean-cut looking young fellow who had been alive this time yesterday.
His life hadn't ended in a hail of bullets, the death which had greeted so many other landing paratroopers in the night; Gabrielle had seen a few of the bodies today. Instead, this young man's neck had gotten tangled in his parachute lines. Paul said he had probably died upon opening it. Somewhere up there, falling alone through the night sky over Normandy, hours ago. Gabrielle shivered as she thought of it.
Tens of thousands of Allied paratroopers had dropped all over Normandy in the dark to support the invasion—the beach-landings at dawn—from behind enemy lines. Their job was to seize or destroy bridges, roads, and other strategic points. And so many of them were lost and wandering now. So many others were already dead.
The freedom of France—of all Europe—hung in the balance, and the immense, spread-out battle could still go either way now.
"Come on," Paul urged, again starting to strip the corpse.
The invasion of Europe.
It was the biggest military action in history. An extravagant and costly undertaking, at least two years in the planning. It was all or nothing now. The fate of the world depended on everyone here today.
Gabrielle understood that; but she still didn't want to lose her husband. There must be some better way than this terrible plan of his!
"Got the boots?" Paul asked.
"Almost. One's... stuck." She fell backwards as she finally got it off.
Since the uniform was free of blood and bullet-holes, and since the dead man was roughly Paul's size, he insisted he could wear it in a convincing masquerade.
To make the Germans believe he's a British paratrooper. So they'll take him prisoner.
Gabrielle couldn't stand it!
She was about to speak to him again, to beg him not to do it, when the sound of someone creeping through the brush on the other side of the hedgerow silenced her. In the dreary light of this cloudy afternoon, her eyes sought those of her husband.
Was that a lost Ally? Or a German looking for lost Allies? Was it someone they should help, or someone who'd kill them if he found them?
Gabrielle watched in mute horror as Paul unslung the machine gun he'd picked up from another corpse and started creeping out from under cover in search of the unknown stalker on the other side of the hedgerow.
No!
She reached for Paul, but he had moved too fast and was beyond her grasp now. Gabrielle's heart pounded as if trying to escape from her chest, and her blood thudded so loudly in her ears she couldn't hear anything else for a moment. Paul's body was electric with tension as he positioned his weapon and looked over the hedgerow.
Gabrielle relaxed a moment later, able to tell from his changing posture that it wasn't an enemy.
"Don't shoot," Paul whispered in English. "We're French Resistance."
Gabrielle gasped when she heard a faint rattling which suggested the other man was about to shoot, anyhow.
"Who was that?" the man demanded in English, having heard her gasp.
"Keep your voice down," Paul whispered. "That was my wife. She'll show herself, but you've got to promise not to shoot in a moment of panic."
"You... sound American," the man said.
"Yes. I'm OSS. Working with the Resistance."
"Prove it."
"Gabrielle," Paul said without taking his eyes off the ma
n on the other side of the hedgerow. "Stand up and show yourself. Slowly."
She stood up and looked across the ruined hedgerow. A skinny, pale man of about thirty was pointing a machine gun right at Paul. "If you shoot my husband," she said in her accented English, "I will eat your heart. Raw."
The man's jaw dropped.
"She's beautiful, but mean," Paul said.
"I'll say." Then a moment later the man grinned and put up his weapon. "Major James Townsend of the British Sixth Airborne."
"There are Germans everywhere," Paul warned.
"So I noticed."
"Come on."
The man obeyed Paul's gesture and leapt silently over the crumbling hedgerow to join them in their hiding place. He tensed when he saw the body and looked at them again, a flash of panic visible now.
"We found him like this," Paul said.
"We're just stealing his uniform," Gabrielle added.
Townsend frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"I need it," Paul explained.
"That eager to get into the fighting, are you?" Townsend said doubtfully. "I'm afraid I can't let you—"
"No. It's for a... disinformation plan," Paul interrupted.
"Disinfor..." Townsend frowned suspiciously. "That's one of those intelligence things, isn't it?"
"Giving the enemy the wrong information so he'll do what you want him to do," Gabrielle supplied helpfully, noticing that Townsend didn't seem to like "those intelligence things."
"What in the world," Townsend demanded in a whisper, "does this poor chap's uniform—"
"The Germans captured about thirty British paratroopers right here," Paul explained. "Less than two hours ago. We saw the whole thing."
"Oh, God, they're probably my men," Townsend said. "I can't find them anywhere."
"Not necessarily your men," Gabrielle said. "Nobody we've met so far knows where they are, and when we tell them, it's nowhere near where they're supposed to be. Your men could be anywhere now, and I doubt they're together."
"I'm supposed to be west of Merville, near the Orne River."
"I'm afraid you're a long way from there, Major," Paul said. "We're near the Dives River, and maybe five miles southeast of Merville."
"Damn. My orders don't cover this!"
"You'll have to improvise, like everyone else," Paul advised him.
Paratroopers were scattered all over the countryside, far from their target zones. Far from each other, their commanding officers, or any of the landmarks they'd expected to use to orient themselves. Bad weather, poor visibility, and heavy anti-aircraft fire had all caused so many misdrops that Paul and Gabrielle had already encountered numerous dead, wounded, lost, or confused paratroopers, isolated and now fighting the war strictly on guts and instinct.
Whether or not the paratroopers were supposed to engage the enemy before the beach-landings began at dawn, all the ones Gabrielle and Paul had encountered had to abandon their orders and simply come up with new plans on their own, deep in enemy territory, alone or in mixed units forming out of the scattered invaders who found each other wandering the war-torn landscape.
Paul and Gabrielle had left their home in Caen late last night, under cover of darkness, to sabotage two roads which the Germans, once the Allied assault began, would need for reinforcements and supplies. Their next objective was a railway line, which they blew up together soon after the fighting began. Then, on their way to rendez-vous with their Resistance group, they had discovered thirty paratroopers being taken prisoner; the need to liberate those men so they could return to combat now took precedence over their own plans.
"Where are they being held?" Townsend asked.
"A fortified German position on a hill about half a kilometer from here," Paul replied.
"And your plan?"
"I'll put on this poor guy's uniform and let myself be taken prisoner—"
"What?"
"You see?" Gabrielle pounced. "It is an insane plan!"
"—and then, with the help of the British prisoners, I'll convince the Germans that the hill had been targeted for a major bombardment at say..." Paul glanced at his watch "Ten o'clock tonight."
"How will you convince them of that?" Townsend demanded.
"It's my job. It's what I'm good at. I'll show the other prisoners how to be good at it, too."
"What's the point?"
"The closer we get to ten o'clock, the closer the Germans' nerve will get to breaking. When they're scared enough to attempt their own escape, we'll overcome them." He shrugged. "Or maybe we'll just watch them run away."
"How can you be sure they'll break?"
"It'll certainly help, Major," Paul said, "if you round up enough men to stage a convincing show of assault. You are, after all, operating without orders now, far from your own target. If we get those paratroopers out of there tonight, you'll have enough men to get back into this war."
"Jolly good show!" Townsend said.
Gabrielle laughed. Both men looked at her.
"Pardon," she said. "I just never believed English people really said that."
Townsend looked perplexed. Paul grinned.
"Okay, here's what we'll do," Paul said.
"No," Gabrielle protested, "wait a minute. I have not agreed for you to—"
"Gabby," Paul said, "there are thirty men being held prisoner whom we can bring back into the battle with just a little risk to one."
"And that one is my husband!"
"You know that we—"
"And it's not just a little risk! The Germans could shoot you. They could transport you all. They could take you with them when they flee. Or they might not believe you. Even if they do, they might not be afraid."
"They'll be afraid," Paul guaranteed. "They're already afraid. They thought the invasion would be at Calais. Hell, their high command might even think Normandy is an elaborate feint and so might still be reserving their men and supplies around Calais."
"Paul—"
"The Germans holding those paratroopers are already scared and confused, Gabrielle. It won't take much to push them over the edge into blind panic."
"There has to be another way!"
"Believe me, I'm open to suggestions, but you've got to make them right now. We don't have the luxury of time."
She started wringing her hands... then realized what she was doing and stopped. "Let's organize an attack on their position."
"Sorry, ma'am," Townsend interjected. "I'll be lucky enough to organize just the appearance of an attack on their position, the way things stand right now."
"Then let's... let's..." She closed her eyes and tried to think of a better plan than Paul's... knowing full well he was so arrogant that it would take a perfect plan to get him to give up his own. "Let's get the rest of the local Resistance—"
"We're not even supposed to meet them until tonight," Paul reminded her. "And that's if the others can make the rendez-vous point. We have to act faster than that."
"We need to get those paratroopers out of there as soon as possible," Townsend pointed out. "We need them in the fighting, and we can't count on the Germans keeping them right where they are for long."
She would not cry. She would not. More than her personal happiness was at stake. She knew that. She had known that since well before meeting Paul, some eighteen months ago.
Gabrielle gritted her teeth and warned Paul, "If you get yourself killed with this awful plan, I will never forgive you. Never. Do you understand?"
"I do." She saw the mingled relief, amusement, and sorrow on his face as he slid his arms around her. He lowered his head, then paused, glanced at their companion, and said, "Er, would you excuse us for a moment, Townsend?"
"Oh! Right-ho!" The Englishman turned his back.
Gabrielle giggled, startled out of her despair. "He's just like someone in a film," she confided to Paul. "All those silly things the English say in the—"
He silenced her with a kiss. "Don't be rude," he chided, grinning. "He did come here
to liberate France, after all, silly language or not."
"I say," Townsend muttered.
"Quiet, Townsend," Paul ordered. "I'm comforting my wife."
Paul's face was smooth, his mouth warm and familiar as it sought hers again. Painfully aware of all she might lose, Gabrielle slid her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His palms stroked her shoulders, pressing through the fabric of her blouse, massaging her to soothe her.
She made an angry sound. Nothing could soothe her. She had known they would be in great danger during the invasion. Everyone in Normandy would be, of course; and everyone in the Resistance in even greater danger, because they would be assisting in fighting the Germans. Ordinary civilians would be killed by accident today; but the Germans would murder members of the Resistance on purpose, if seen or discovered.
Yes, she had expected danger; but she had not expected to be separated from Paul.
She let desperation flood her kiss as their tongues tangled and fought. She was furious at him and wanted to punish him, so she bit him. He grunted, but didn't pull away. She knew he was right, knew they had to place their duty above all else, and so she was sad and let her caressing hands tell him so. Above all, she was afraid, because she couldn't bear to think of him dying. Gabrielle didn't even try to hide the tears which he tenderly kissed away, his mouth damp and gentle on her cheeks.
"Take Townsend to the Dives," he told her.
Townsend forget his discretion and whirled to face them. "What? She's not coming with me!"
Gabrielle gave a watery sigh and looked blankly at him.
"Yes, she is," Paul said.
"A woman? Out of the question!"
Now Paul sighed. "Townsend, you have no idea where you are, or where you're going, or how to get back here from there. Gabrielle does. Now, since I'm not thrilled with the idea of sending my wife alone with you across war-torn German-infested territory, I invite you to suggest any reasonable alternative to using her as a guide."
Townsend's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Oh, good God."
"That's what I thought," Paul replied. "You'll need her to help you search for reinforcements and to get back here in time to make a good show to help me push the Germans over the edge."
