angels?”
“We don’t have time to be your angels right now,” Denise says. “Later on maybe.”
Denise grabs one arm, I grab the other, and we pull him up. We let go and he wobbles, unsteady on greasy joints, but doesn’t fall over. That’s one good thing. We need to get him somewhere safe, and quickly.
“Keep his parachute,” I say. I run to gather it up. “It might come in handy.”
The pilot lets out a moan that reminds me of a bawling moose. “They killed my Bessie Lou! Bessie Lou’s dead!”
I turn around to check the road, convinced the trucks are about to materialize out of thin air. We don’t have time for talking, much less crazed babbling.
I push the bundled parachute into the pilot’s arms. “Listen, you need to come with us.”
“I hurt my hip something fierce when I landed.” He takes three halting steps. “I can walk, but not real well.”
Denise grips a handful of his leather and marches him away. “In minutes, German soldiers will be here. Would you like to wait around to give them a proper welcome?” She turns to me as I run to catch up. “There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s get the bicycles.”
At the bushes, the pilot sets the parachute down. “Allow me.”
He mightily pushes his way through the branches. The rustling bushes give birth to my bike first. I wheel it up to the road to stand guard.
“The road is clear,” I say. “Hurry up, you two.”
With a splintering crack, the bushes spit out leaves, twigs, and Denise’s bike. She and the pilot topple into each other in an effort to keep the bike from crashing over.
“Come on now, then,” she says, simultaneously righting her bike and her hair.
She trudges toward me, clenching the handlebars of her bike. Behind her, the pilot bends, red-faced, to collect his parachute.
“Ditch your uniform,” I call out to him. “It’ll give you away.”
He stares at me, sapping precious time, before hesitantly removing his goggles.
While checking the road, I call, “Off with everything but your pants and undershirt.”
“I can’t part with my flight jacket,” he whines, and I half expect him to start bawling.
“Leave the jacket or we’ll leave you here,” Denise says. “Have a .45 in your boot, by any chance?”
“A revolver? In my boot?”
“Yes, do you have a sidearm?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
She gets him moving again with a flick of her hand. “Well, at least you still have your boots and didn’t lose them when you bailed.”
Bit by bit, the outer authoritative pilot falls away, leaving behind a bashful young man. He stashes his gear in the bushes and runs with the parachute and a slight limp to the road.
“I’ll take him with me,” I tell Denise.
She winks, and my face grows even hotter. I hold the bike steady while the pilot climbs on behind me. In one hand he clutches his parachute. His other hand gingerly rests on my shoulder.
“You can hold on. I won’t break.” I forcefully push off to get momentum going before lifting my feet to the pedals.
The bike lurches, swaying from his weight. I will myself to stay balanced and not dump him off. His bare arm snakes around my waist, leaving so much space between us that he’s not really holding on at all. As I ride upright the only part of me that comes in contact with his arm from time to time is my chest, and I wish that he’d just grab hold of me already. German soldiers are in hot pursuit. This is no time for either of us to be embarrassed. Next thing I know, a bump in and out of a pothole jolts him into gripping so tightly I’m struggling for air.
The parachute presses into me when his arm clamps down.A flurry of hot breaths batters my neck. I keep my focus only so long before reflexively swatting at my hair, as if his breaths are pesky flies that won’t shoo.
The road dips into a steadily sloping arc. We zip further into the valley. Open fields now behind us, sparse forests return, the tree line broken by an intersecting road that
“We don’t have time to be your angels right now,” Denise says. “Later on maybe.”
Denise grabs one arm, I grab the other, and we pull him up. We let go and he wobbles, unsteady on greasy joints, but doesn’t fall over. That’s one good thing. We need to get him somewhere safe, and quickly.
“Keep his parachute,” I say. I run to gather it up. “It might come in handy.”
The pilot lets out a moan that reminds me of a bawling moose. “They killed my Bessie Lou! Bessie Lou’s dead!”
I turn around to check the road, convinced the trucks are about to materialize out of thin air. We don’t have time for talking, much less crazed babbling.
I push the bundled parachute into the pilot’s arms. “Listen, you need to come with us.”
“I hurt my hip something fierce when I landed.” He takes three halting steps. “I can walk, but not real well.”
Denise grips a handful of his leather and marches him away. “In minutes, German soldiers will be here. Would you like to wait around to give them a proper welcome?” She turns to me as I run to catch up. “There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s get the bicycles.”
At the bushes, the pilot sets the parachute down. “Allow me.”
He mightily pushes his way through the branches. The rustling bushes give birth to my bike first. I wheel it up to the road to stand guard.
“The road is clear,” I say. “Hurry up, you two.”
With a splintering crack, the bushes spit out leaves, twigs, and Denise’s bike. She and the pilot topple into each other in an effort to keep the bike from crashing over.
“Come on now, then,” she says, simultaneously righting her bike and her hair.
She trudges toward me, clenching the handlebars of her bike. Behind her, the pilot bends, red-faced, to collect his parachute.
“Ditch your uniform,” I call out to him. “It’ll give you away.”
He stares at me, sapping precious time, before hesitantly removing his goggles.
While checking the road, I call, “Off with everything but your pants and undershirt.”
“I can’t part with my flight jacket,” he whines, and I half expect him to start bawling.
“Leave the jacket or we’ll leave you here,” Denise says. “Have a .45 in your boot, by any chance?”
“A revolver? In my boot?”
“Yes, do you have a sidearm?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
She gets him moving again with a flick of her hand. “Well, at least you still have your boots and didn’t lose them when you bailed.”
Bit by bit, the outer authoritative pilot falls away, leaving behind a bashful young man. He stashes his gear in the bushes and runs with the parachute and a slight limp to the road.
“I’ll take him with me,” I tell Denise.
She winks, and my face grows even hotter. I hold the bike steady while the pilot climbs on behind me. In one hand he clutches his parachute. His other hand gingerly rests on my shoulder.
“You can hold on. I won’t break.” I forcefully push off to get momentum going before lifting my feet to the pedals.
The bike lurches, swaying from his weight. I will myself to stay balanced and not dump him off. His bare arm snakes around my waist, leaving so much space between us that he’s not really holding on at all. As I ride upright the only part of me that comes in contact with his arm from time to time is my chest, and I wish that he’d just grab hold of me already. German soldiers are in hot pursuit. This is no time for either of us to be embarrassed. Next thing I know, a bump in and out of a pothole jolts him into gripping so tightly I’m struggling for air.
The parachute presses into me when his arm clamps down.A flurry of hot breaths batters my neck. I keep my focus only so long before reflexively swatting at my hair, as if his breaths are pesky flies that won’t shoo.
The road dips into a steadily sloping arc. We zip further into the valley. Open fields now behind us, sparse forests return, the tree line broken by an intersecting road that
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