Alain Bordelon's cows were stroppy. They only trusted the farmer, his wife or their son to touch them, and anyone else would receive a more swift and accurate kick than would be expected from a domesticated dairy herd. This was the only reason why he still had them, and he and his wife were still here, with some sustenance, while so many locals had fled — including their son, at their urging. When the Germans had first come, one of the soldiers had made as if to shoot the cows after nearly getting his shoulder broken by a flying hoof, but his superior had stopped him. After all, they were a small detachment that couldn't eat the cows all at once, and milk, cheese and butter could keep his men fed better than rations and whatever they stole. So, they took two for meat, and allowed Alain to keep a small portion of the dairy goods that he produced — enough that he would have the strength to maintain his cows, a few chickens and what was left of his crops, provided that he regularly delivered most of it to the Germans' field mess.
So, there they were, Cosima and Scott, brushing hay out of their hair as they sat down to a repast that would be considered poor in better times: A heavily watered soup of pigeon, dandelion greens and herbs, thickened with old bread, a makeshift "coffee" of roasted barley and chicory with warmed milk, and a mash of Jerusalem artichokes with actual, heavenly butter. The irony of the pigeon was not lost on Cosima, who silently saluted its sacrifice as she chewed. One of their precious chocolate ration squares would also be sacrificed later, to provide a faintly-flavoured hot milk as a special treat for the group. It was the least they could do.
They said little. The farmer cleared his throat, after a while.
"I heard Gaizka talking earlier," he stated, resuming chewing.
"Yes, his fever is down," Idelle, the farmer's wife, added, looking up. "A real miracle."
"Ah yes, the miracle of sulfa drugs," Cosima nodded, after swallowing a mouthful. "Putting these in our troops' medical kits is going to save a lot of lives, I guarantee you. Although I do think penicillin will become even bigger, someday. In the meantime, it saves us having to introduce our Basque buddy to the cleaning power of maggots." She didn't notice the slight heave Scott swallowed at the mention of maggots, but she did notice the slight rise of Alain's bushy, greying eyebrows over his heavy-lidded expression.
"Sorry," she offered, "I'm just fascinated by the science of antibiotic treatments."
There was a moment of silence, save the sounds of cutlery on dishes, chewing and swallowing.
"He, uh, he's still gonna need a hospital, though, or a real doctor," Scott piped up after a bit of hesitation.
"Yeah," Cosima agreed, "we've done all we can to stabilize him, but that one knee is pretty bad. I, um, I'm not sure he'll be able to keep that leg, and he probably needs a surgeon."
Another silence descended, Cosima and Scott glancing at each other. Alain took two large gulps of his "coffee" and set his mug down. He seemed to contemplate his plate.
"I have my delivery in the mornings, and the horse is slow," he said, running his fingers over his beard stubble. "I might get back in the afternoon, but there is the curfew to consider." He eased back in his chair, and took out his pipe, packing it with tobacco now mixed with what had been in the Americans' standard-issue cigarettes. He lit it and puffed for a long moment.
"The nearest doctor still around is three villages away. In that time, I could only make it to the second, if there are no problems with the roads or the Germans." He fingered his tobacco pouch briefly, before stashing it away. "I had a friend there that might be able to help you, but I haven't heard from him in over two weeks, now. As you can imagine, there's no guarantee the village will even be there now, much less him."
Idelle tsked and shook her head, rising to gather the dishes. Cosima didn't move to join in this feminine task as might be expected, but kept her eyes on Alain.
"Can you show me on a map?"
Scott pulled out his map and spread it in front of the farmer. All three of them hovered around it as Alain traced the line.
Cosima took in the miles between the spaces, the wide range of the land all around — land she knew was broken by hills, trees and bocages, the thick, wandering lines of hedges that divided the Normandy farmland into small, oddly-shaped tracts, and made ideal cover for defense of the territory by the Germans, while making offensive movement slow and deadly. There was no way of knowing where the Germans were at this point. Alain had become increasingly isolated as more locals had evacuated the area, and although the Germans had been more concentrated farther north, where the Allies' subterfuge had led them to believe the invasion would actually take place, they may have been sent south to bolster the Normandy beaches.
Alain looked up at them.
"Were you able to get any information on your wireless?"
Scott and Cosima shook their heads simultaneously.
"Just a little chatter, but it was hard to tune in. Honestly, I think we've probably made it much farther into the interior than the troops have." She glanced at Scott. "I think they're bogged down on the beaches, save a few target areas, though I can't be sure. It's like I said, moving on our own is much faster at this point."
Scott knew she was right, as usual. He was coming to terms with the notion that either way would have been equally unsafe.
Cosima adjusted her glasses on her nose, staring at the map in thought. She seemed to come to a decision.
"Monsieur Bordelon, do you have a telephone?"
The farmer gave a shrug.
"Yes, but the lines were cut some time ago. Who knows why? The Germans probably wanted to limit who could communicate."
"Can you show me where your line connects to the main one?"
With another shrug, the farmer rose from his seat. He led them to the side of the house.
Cosima looked up at the connection from the telephone pole to the house. She took a slow turn around, taking in the road, the surrounding land, the barn, and the sightlines. She turned back to the farmer.
"Alain, I'm afraid we're going to have to cut your line again."
Later, under cover of night, Cosima and Scott checked over their project. Cosima hovered by the relatively compact field wireless set, and Scott traced the splices they had made extending the phone line to the barn and attaching it to the radio's aerial connector.
"Should be all set," Scott told her, as he hunkered down beside her. They were against the wall of the barn furthest from the road, a gas lamp turned to dim just illuminating the equipment before them. He sent up a silent prayer that the phone line would expand their radio signal radius far enough to get what they needed. The thought of miles lying between them and the closest Allied troops was unsettling.
"Here goes nothin'," Cosima mumbled, holding the earpiece to her head. They both remained still, concentrating, as she adjusted the dial, her eyebrows moving through a dance of frowns and inquisitive shifts upward.
Suddenly, her hand shot out, delivering a surprising punch to Scott's arm.
"We copy you, we copy you," she said into the microphone. "This is SSI unit Delta agent 324B21. Repeat Ambulance 4, what is your position? Over."
The signal that came over the earpiece was clear, and loud enough that Scott could catch a female British voice raised in a salty combination of aggravation and distress.
"Agent 324B… whatever, my radio man is down, and I've honestly got fuck-all idea. I think I'm several KM south of Caen, but it's not exactly a good time to check a bloody map, if you get my meaning. Uh, over."
There was a rumbling sound behind the voice, and then tinny cracks of what could have been gunfire.
"Hold up, hold up, now — there's a road sign," the woman with the cockney twang piped up again. "Is there honestly a town called Moult? And why the hell do you sound like an American, anyway?"
Cosima looked at Scott, her expression bemused, but determined.
"Copy that, Ambulance 4. You're on the east side of Caen. Proceed on and I can guide you. Oh, and I am American. Do you need a code? Over."
There was a pause, a screeching noise, and then the voice came back.
"I can't say as you saying a code would make any difference to me, seeing as I don't know 'em," it replied. There was a sigh. Cosima arched her eyebrows at Scott, nonplussed.
"Fuckin' east, eh? Alright, agent, or whoever you are. You might as well tell me where I'm goin'."