The question was always whether to use a road or stay away from it. Roads obviously led somewhere and were easier to travel on at any sort of pace than bushwhacking through the terrain and foliage away from them. They were also more likely to contain other people, and from what Cosima and Scott had seen, those people were most often German soldiers.
They had changed into simple civilian clothing and put the contents of their packs into canvas sacks slung over their shoulders, though they knew they might look suspicious to anyone who gave them more than a casual glance. They both had rough, red patches on their hands and aches in their joints from carrying the extra weight, but it couldn't be helped. Going through this country without weapons, tools or rations would probably be suicide.
Much of the area had been deserted by the local residents, some clearly recently and some it seemed for a while. Cosima supposed the Germans had been busy claiming and reinforcing the area for months, at least, due to its geographical position so close to the shore and England. But if that hadn't been enough, the increased activity of the occupying forces and the not-so-distant sounds of artillery fire would have sent most civilians running for the proverbial hills.
She cursed as Scott re-wrapped her foot, then instantly felt guilty, as he had been so stoic when she treated his. The combination of the moisture, uneven ground and long hours of walking had given them peeled blisters and raw spots. She could feel that Scott was probably wondering why they didn't stop going on their own and double back to find the Allied forces.
Am I completely crazy, she thought, then went over her original points again: that they could as easily die if they stayed with the soldiers, that alone they could use stealth and make better time, quicker decisions. But it didn't negate the fact that they were there, in France, in the middle of a war zone, because she was determined to find and save this one woman she'd never met. She liked to tell herself that she was doing what was right, something a "hero" would do, but a part of her knew that her need to locate and protect this woman had gone past the point of "leave no man behind," or explicable resolve. There were feelings there, attachment, that she couldn't let herself explore too finely. She's my responsibility, and my friend, she bolstered herself, I have to try to help her.
She looked at Scott, who was nibbling around the edges of a tiny square of emergency chocolate rations like a very innocent, very vulnerable mouse, trying not to eat too fast. Her escapade had pulled him into extreme danger, and she had tried to dissuade him, but she knew his reasoning for staying with her was similar: she was his friend, someone he wanted to help and protect, and he wanted to do right. She just wasn't sure how similar his feelings for her were to hers for Delphine, and, for many reasons, she didn't want to explore that train of thought.
She sighed at herself. Hey, Niehaus, you're doing the best you can, she soothed herself, and you know you can't make excuses for your heart.
"You okay?" Scott asked her, pausing in his carefully calculated intake of calories.
"Yeah, this just…" She searched for a word to describe how harrowing their situation was, but couldn't find one. Scott seemed to get it, though, and patted her lightly on the knee.
There was a click from not far behind them. It sounded very much like the cocking of a weapon. They both stilled, frightened.
A voice came at them.
"You are not speaking French," it informed them, in that language, in a low pitch and with an accent that was odd, and definitely even worse than Cosima's. They looked at each other.
"Non," Cosima replied, not sure what to say next.
"It's not German, either," the voice persisted, this time with an accompanying rustle that came from low in the tall grass.
"Uh, nein," Cosima answered, again, her eyes shifting around as if somewhere an explanatory note would emerge out of thin air to inform her what was happening and where this was going.
"American? British?" the voice inquired, and Cosima swallowed.
"Um, why do you ask?" she ventured, still in French.
"Don't fucking fool with me, or I'll…" there was a sharp intake of air, and a babble of completely different vowels and consonants. The gears in Cosima's mind shifted, and the structure clicked.
"¡Es Español!" she exclaimed, in a decidedly amateur pronunciation of that tongue. "You're speaking Spanish!"
There was a pause, and then an answer came, also in Spanish.
"Yes, very good. But you still didn't answer my question."
Cosima translated the words in her mind fumblingly, and thought a moment. She had never expected to find a Spaniard here, and it threw her off. However, if her sources were right, there probably was a decent chance that he was a friendly. Her eyes shifted to Scott, and she saw that he was both sweating profusely and trying to inch his hand toward his canvas sack.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," came the Spanish man's voice again, back in rough French, and Scott froze. Cosima made a decision.
"American," she blurted out, "Allies."
There was a pause, and then a welcome softening in the tone that responded to her.
"American," he seemed to ponder, and then, "perhaps you can help me, friends?"
His name was Gaizka, and he was shot in both legs. He had applied tourniquets, but he was still bloodied and unable to walk, one bullet having left a mess of his left knee. They looked him over and applied what dressings they could from their first aid kits as they shared information.
He was a Basque, forbidden by the Franco regime to speak his own language, and chased from his country by the threat of death and political persecution. He and other like-minded Spaniards had formed guerilla off-shoots of the French Resistance, stealing ammunition, gathering intelligence,and destroying rail and road routes and German-used equipment and holdings .
"They can't get around as easily without locomotives, can they?" he shrugged, pulling on one of their government-issued cigarettes. Unfortunately, his group had gotten caught up in a skirmish at a local village. "I've been dragging myself all morning," he told them, "except when I passed out. My heart just wanted to… get away, maybe just to die in peace, I guess."
Their conversation was halting, switching between French and Spanish, neither at a high level, except perhaps in the case of military terms. He made a bargain with them.
"I need to get to some of my local friends if I'm going to survive," he told them. "If you'll help me get there, I think they will be able to help you get further on your path."
There really wasn't much of a question. Cosima and Scott couldn't come up with a reason why they should suspect him of nefarious motives, and they all might be worse off without teaming up. After all, he had acted in good faith and put away his gun.
The only problem was, moving him was going to make getting around even more difficult.
There was nothing for it, though. After some experimentation, Gaizka ended up piggy-backed on Scott's shoulders, grimacing with pain as Scott tried to adjust his grip around the thigh of the leg with the busted knee, while making sure his M1 Carbine with the jury-rigged-looking folding stock could be easily grabbed from its sling on his other shoulder. Cosima shouldered both the bags, stumbling briefly a little, more from their unwieldiness than their weight.
The sun had nearly set by the time they reached a small farmhouse set way back off the main road. They stopped, both Cosima's and Scott's knees wobbling, and Gaizka made small sound, something like the warning call of a bird. There was a pause, and a curtain in a rear window shifted. Then the door opened, a middle-aged farmer emerging with an elderly shotgun in his hands.
"Alain," Gaizka called to him, his voice tired, "I've been shot. These Americans have helped me."
The farmer evaluated the looks of the three of them, and finally nodded.
"Come on, then," he beckoned, holding open the door. There was a warm glow of soft light from within the house.
Cosima, aching, moved the last few feet at a shamble. There was no deity she particularly believed in, but she found herself sending a silent, relieved thanks up towards the sky.