If a water course is blocked, the gradient shallows to nothing, or the flow decreases too much, that still water can turn into a swamp, bog, morass. The surface looks lovely. Fertile and hospitable to life. To step into that deceptively verdant place is to experience another aspect of that environment. Go deeper. Anaerobes chew away at bits of organic debris that sink beneath the sunlit surface. Occasional bubbles of hydrogen sulfide, methane, and carbon dioxide, poisonous all, boil up from below. Redolent smells of rot and decay cling to anything that gets pulled from the sludge.
The firm, but not quite solid surface gives way as the weight of an object settles onto it, or the pressure of a foot registers. Squelch and squish. Goo oozes up and over things. The muck clings, grabs, and sucks down. It doesn't want to let go. It's impossible to put a boot down without thinking it well might be pulled right off the foot. Sometimes, even a hard yank isn't good enough to break free and someone gets mired. Predators gather, circle around to watch the struggle as the snare tightens. They wait for the unfortunate one to tire, lose heart, fade. Only with great difficulty, can they get free. Beware when approaching such a place or treading there. It can be deadly.
Mired
A noise warned him just in time to see a blade thrusting towards him. He reacted, but not quickly enough to get completely out of the way. A stiletto pierced through the shoulder of his jacket and hit him high on his arm near the top joint. He grabbed at the hand holding the knife to stop a second attempt. From behind, a different pair of arms wrapped him in a tight vise, and a voice spoke. "Surrender and I won't have him stab you again, or push it in deeper. He's very good, Andre is, with a knife." He started to resist but the pressure on him only increased. He felt the knife start to twist and bite into his flesh harder. Gad! That hurt. "Or perhaps you'd prefer a bullet. I can arrange for that as well." As if on command, he heard a report of a gun and felt a brief burn as something grazed his cheek.
He nodded mutely, and felt the knife withdraw. The vise remained but loosened just a little. "Excellent. I see you can follow instructions."
To some unseen men, "Take him. I'll meet you there soon. You know what to do. Patch him up. You know I hate blood on the upholstery."
The soldier said, "I'm an American. A friend. Where are you taking me?" He heard a mirthless laugh and a less-than-friendly snort of derision.
The man belonging to the voice stepped into view. A civilian. His were not the arms that still held him tight. He leveled a small, lethal-looking pistol at the soldier's heart. "I know that, American. I do not care. This is all my territory. You trespassed. I deal with trespassers in my own way. I do not recognize Allied or Axis, or for that matter, Vichy, the Free French or the maquis."
"Who are you, then?"
"All in good time, soldier. All in good time." The man turned on his heel and walked off, while three of his minions hustled the bleeding soldier off the hill and across a field to the horse cart he'd seen earlier. The cart had been mostly unloaded; its former contents piled on the narrow lane. He was shoved into the cart headfirst, onto a thin layer of hay. Enough to stick into his clothes and prick his skin, but not nearly enough to cushion him from the hard and splintered wood floor of the cart. A couple of mattresses were thrown on top of him. Those in turn were covered with suitcases, cooking pots, chairs, cushions, clothes, tools. Stuff, most of it filthy and heavily used. No searchers at army checkpoints would want to sift through that detritus.
Guns pointed directly at him ensured his cooperation. Once the pyramid of stuff was properly arranged and tied up, one of the gunmen peered through the narrow slit that the soldier had managed to make so he could breathe. The gunman smiled broadly and said, in perfectly good English, "Soldier, you better be quiet. There are guns still aimed at you. Make no noise and do not move. We will shoot. Believe me. Our aim may not be as precise as what you've already experienced. With that warning, the gunman climbed into the cart, adding his weight to the pile of stuff already pressing down on him. The other gunman assumed a seat next to the driver. With a "snick" and a flick of the reins on the horse's back, they set off down a lane.
He could see a bit through the small slit. From what little he could see, he thought they were going deeper into enemy territory. He watched the sky grow rosy, then darken as the sun set. The journey might not have taken more than a couple of hours, but for the soldier it was interminable. His shoulder and arm were sticky with blood, and the injury was throbbing. Even with that narrow slit, he could barely breathe. The air was stale and getting hotter by the minute, it seemed. No cool evening breeze made its way into his little prison. The weight of all that stuff covering him, oppressive. It was not a moment too soon when the cart jolted to a stop inside a large outbuilding.
He heard voices and felt the overburden lighten as the cart was unloaded. Hands reached in under the mattresses and grabbed his feet tightly. They jerked him out of the cart, and onto the dirt without so much as a by-your-leave. The landing, flat on his back, left him breathless and more than a little dizzy. Manhandled to his feet, he found himself between two men and force-walked deeper into the building, down a flight of stairs, and into a huge underground storage room.
It was hard to see; the light mostly came from oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. The room looked like a lot of cellars he'd seen, shelves of canned produce, piles of household goods, sacks of grain, old clothes, the typical, just a lot more of it. A smattering of uniforms, mostly German, but some American and British as well, mixed in with the other clothes raised a caution flag in the soldier's mind. Several doors were inset into the walls.
One of the doors opened. He was shoved into a room where someone took off his jacket and shirt. His hands were bound behind his back. Now someone made a rough and ready repair on his shoulder. It was rough to say the least; the person did not care if he hurt, the goal was to patch only. When he was finished, the shirt was draped over his shoulders, but not the jacket. He was dragged to his feet, taken out of the room and into a long tunnel. At the end was another flight of stairs. The fatigued American was grateful when they climbed out of the tunnel. A door slammed behind him and he found himself in a parlor. Dustcovers shrouded most of the furniture. His guard motioned for him to sit on a covered settee. When he didn't take the hint quickly enough, he was roughly pushed down. Now, he'd wait. Wait for what?
The next move was in the hands of his captors, so he thought he'd just try and sleep while he had the chance. Like drinking water, one never knew when the next opportunity to sleep might arise, so he'd trained himself to take advantage. Even if the repairs were throbbing. He nodded off. The sound of a throat being cleared woke him. He blinked his eyes open to see the man who he first met on that hilltop a few hours ago.