"This had better be good," the ambulance driver said, entering the abandoned barn. They could barely see her, so Scott turned up the lantern.
"I'm not sure it's good, but it's important," Cosima answered, taking in the woman before her. She was compact, but somehow walked as if she was bigger. Her dark hair must have taken a licking by the wind while she was speeding around, because she had no hat and it had blown into some semblance of a lion's mane. She had sharp eyes, a suspicious expression, and was pointing an Enfield service revolver at the small group before her.
"Yeah?" The woman asked, distrust melding into skepticism on her face. "Must be some real high-level espionage shite, for you to bring me this far behind enemy lines, eh? I thought I was brown bread and buggered halfway here."
"Technically, I don't have to answer that," Cosima responded, arms half-raised in caution, "since you don't know any classified passwords or codes. And, in all fairness, you were already heading this way, and lost."
The driver's eyes bugged a little in disbelief.
"Oi! What part of me having a gun don't you understand?" She looked over at Scott, who was at this point sweating, his face flushed red. "What's his problem?"
"Well, other than having your gun aimed at him, I think he might just be unused to your… colourful language, for a lady." She eyed the service weapon. "Uh, not that I have any problem with that."
The driver stared at her for a moment, tensed.
"Okay, look," Cosima explained, "we don't have any real identification because Scott, here, and I are undercover. What we have is fake. The gentleman behind me is a local farmer, so he might be able to show you some papers from the Germans, but the young man on the hay bale is a Basque resistance fighter, and he's been in and out of consciousness for the last few hours. So, all I can tell you is we came in with the Pathfinders on the morning of the sixth, and I hope we can try to trust each other, here."
The driver squinted at her, wavering.
"Come on," Cosima urged, "we got you here. We just need to get this man some medical assistance and get a little closer to Paris. After that, I promise you, we can guide you back. We have maps." She took a small step forward, holding out her hand. "I'm Cosima."
The driver sighed and lowered the gun.
"Sarah Manning," she replied, then briefly shook the Special Agent's hand. "But I'm not gonna be much help with the medical stuff. I'm a bloody driver, not a nurse. I just know basic bandages, and what-all."
"Okay, that's fine, Sarah," Cosima nodded, "there's a doctor a few villages down."
Sarah scratched her head.
"Shite, this is nuts. I'm supposed to back near the beach field hospital by now."
"Yeah, it's nuts for all of us," Cosima acknowledged, taking a map that Scott handed her. "Although, aren't you supposed to have maps and a compass, yourself?"
"Oh yeah," Sarah agreed, while sounding anything but agreeable, "but you know, they got kind of hard to read when my truck-mates became fuckin' smears all over them, if you get that." She reached into her chest pocket and pulled out a set of red and green fiber dog tags on a string, clearly browned with dried blood. "I couldn't even find the ones for my medic."
Cosima bowed her head slightly. Scott looked down and swallowed.
"I'm sorry," Cosima said.
"Can you tell me if everything is alright, here?" Alain interjected in French. "I need to get back before sunrise." Sarah looked at him.
"Froggy there looks as clueless as the rest of us. Whatever he's saying, let's get this done with. The best thing I can do for my mates now is to get word of what happened to them back to our unit, and then get back to pickin' up casualties."
"Okay," Cosima agreed, and everyone's shoulders seemed to drop a little, feeling the easing of tension in the air. "Now here's what we've gotta do…"