The Bluebells of 1918 Ch. 03

She kisses my neck. Radiating ripples of joy pour forth. She moves onto nibbling my earlobe as I speed up fucking her. It's almost more than I can take.

"Oh, fuck," I groan.

"That's it," she moans. "I've had my pleasure. Now enjoy yourself. Let go. Fuck me hard."

I thrust into her. Over and over. Hammering her pussy, fucking her deep.

She kisses my neck and whispers in my ear. "Give it to me hard. Give it to me hard."

I keep at her.

"Do you love me?" she moans.

"I do. I do."

"Then show me. Show me how much you love me. The more you love me, the harder you will fuck me."

Yes! I speed up but hold something back. Let her wait, just a little, but wait all the same. Build up to it.

"That's it," she cries. "Fuck me, fuck me!"

I speed up, fucking her like a madman. Pounding her pussy with unrestrained zeal.

Her legs clench about my waist, squeezing it tight as she screams. "Baise moi, baise moi! Plus fort! Plus rapide!"

Fuck me. Harder, faster.

Oui, madame!

I pound her with all the passion I can muster. Drilling, penetrating, pushing deep. Over and over, in and out.

Ever harder, ever faster. Emeline screaming. Her words lose meaning. She's as close as I am. Good. Let's climax together.

She's babbling a meaningless string of sounds as I feel relief approaching. My cock tingles, pleasure rising.

I fuck her and fuck her and fuck her. There's no turning back now. I'm close. So close. Ready for relief.

Emeline shudders, gasping loudly.

My orgasm arrives a moment later. I push into her deep and hold it. My cock throbs. Over and over again. Each pulse brings pleasure and merciful release. Even as Emeline rides the waves of her own orgasm.

We clutch each other tight, riding waves of sweet relief and joy together.

The tide recedes and we kiss, warm and tender.

I remain inside her a long time, gently thrusting. She holds me tenderly as we kiss.

We press our foreheads against each other and say nothing. There's no need.

***

We remain in bed for a long time. Holding each other in quiet bliss.

Emeline kisses my cheek and slides out of bed. "I will be back, mon bien-aimé."

She returns a few minutes later with a glass of jenever to share. She's put on a robe but I'm sitting up in bed naked.

She hands the glass to me and slides into bed. "Soon you will be drinking wine in London."

I take a sip and hand it back. "But it won't taste any good, if you're not there to share it."

"What if—"

From down below comes the sound of a door slamming. A woman's voice shouts.

"Madame Laurent," Emeline says. "Something must be wrong. Gather your things and get in the hiding spot."

She scurries downstairs. I retrieve my clothes from the bathroom and get dressed. I hear Emeline and Madame Laurent but can't make out what they're saying. I step over to the window, peering out over the lake. Nothing but darkness. If the Germans are coming, it's not yet.

I find Emeline and Madame Laurent in the kitchen.

"The Boche are on their way," Emeline says.

"What? How?" I ask.

"Someone tipped them off. Michel heard the guards talking."

"Then why aren't they here?"

"They are waiting for extra soldiers from the next barracks along the wire. They'll be here in an hour. They intend to place me under arrest and tear this house apart until they find you."

"I have to go tonight," I say. "And I think you need to come with me."

Emeline nods. "I never thought it would come to this. We'd better hurry."

***

I don't need to pack much. I don't have much. Only the clothes on my back plus what I'll need to get past the wire.

I double-check to make sure I've got everything. Gloves, broom handle, binoculars. All good. I throw in the Sherlock Holmes book, too.

Downstairs, Madame Laurent insists on giving me a bottle of wine and a few small cakes.

"For the road," she says slowly in French. "In case you hungry."

I put the food in the pack. "Merci. Pour tout." Thank you. For everything.

She grasps my hands. "Take care of her."

"Je vais." I will.

Emeline appears. She's put on a dark brown traveling suit with a matching hunting cap and tall leather boots. She has a backpack over her shoulders. Even now it's impossible to ignore how incredible she looks.

My eyes fall upon the pistol holstered at her waist. "Where did that come from?"

"I keep it in the safe."

"Do you know how to use it?"

"Why would you ask me such a thing? Of course I know."

"But do you think you'd be able to fire it at a person?"

"If I must," she says.

I nod. "Fine. Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes. Everything from the safe and a few other things. I am ready to go."

Emeline turns to Madame Laurent. They speak in Walloon but it's easy to grasp the gist of their conversation.

Emeline places a purse in Madame Laurent's hand. Madame Laurent shakes her head no. She can't accept it. Emeline insists. Madame Laurent yields. They embrace.

"It is time to go," Emeline says.

"Bonne chance, mes amis" Madame Laurent says. Good luck, my friends.

I resist the urge to make a crack about my legendary bad luck.

"Merci, madame."

***

I know the path well. Along the lake, through fields and across the plank over the stream. Down the trail through the forest towards the border.

In the distance is the sound of trucks. We pause. They're moving along the road towards Emeline's chateau.

"We don't have much time," I say. "When they discover you're gone, they'll blanket the wire. We'll never slip across."

"We'd better hurry, then."

We carry on, reaching my observation post at the fallen tree. We crouch behind it, the wire in sight.

We share a few swigs of wine and split one of the rolls.

"When the time comes, follow my lead," I say.

She nods, placing her hand on mine.

I peer through the binoculars. Fritz appears, marching by. I check my watch and wait. Three minutes and two seconds later he reemerges. Like clockwork.

I lower the binoculars. "Are you ready?"

"I am."

"Stay close behind me when I'm cutting the wire. Have your pistol ready. If we're spotted, be ready to use it."

"I will."

"The key is to keep firing. Don't worry about aiming. Fritz won't charge into gunfire. He'll take cover."

"Fritz?"

"The guard."

"How do you know his name?"

I shake my head. "That's just something I call him. We go the moment he passes by. Straight across the field. Stay right behind me, got it?"

She nods. "Got it."

"You know I love you."

"I do. I love you, too."

We kiss. I hope it's not the last time.

"Let's get into place," I say.

We get everything ready. My gloves are on, pliers and broomstick in hand. Emeline crouches behind me, pistol at the ready. I hope she doesn't need to use it.

We wait, seconds passing with excruciating slowness. Fritz marches by.

"Now!"

We run.

I count the seconds in my head. Fifteen to the wire. Seventy five left.

I cut through the first fence. Snip, snip, snip, done.

That's ten more seconds. One minute remaining.

I step forward, my arm extended and gripping the pliers. I see the post and the ceramic discs.

I move the pliers to the top wire, right next to the disc.

The moment of truth. No time to build up courage, though. Here we go. Here we go.

I lower the broomstick onto the wire and squeeze the pliers.

Snip. The pliers cut through the wire. The insulation holds, but alarm bells ring out.

I feared this. Shit!

Snip. Wire number two.

German voices. Gunshots.

Snip. Wire number three.

Emeline fires back. One, two, three shots.

Snip. Last wire cut.

"Come on. Stay close!"

Emeline fires into the darkness.

I crouch down and cut the bottom two barbed wires.

"Go," I shout. "Underneath."

Emeline dives under into Holland.

I roll under and slide down the embankment. We land in a ditch in a foot of muddy water. I jump to my feet and glance up at the wire.

They won't fire into the Netherlands, will they? Surely not. Or...maybe.

"Come on," I say. "Hurry."

We climb out of the ditch and dash across a small field. We reach a line of trees along a road. No gunshots behind us. Alarm bells, shouting, but no shots.

The checkpoint is to the left. I can see the lights.

"We've made it," I say. "We made it!"

Emeline's knees buckle and I catch her. She clutches her side.

"What's wrong?"

She holds up her hand, staring at it. It's covered in blood. "I'm sorry, mon bien-aimé."

No, no, no. What do I do? What do I do?

I scoop her up in my arms.

"Patrice," Emeline murmurs.

"Hang on. Do you hear me? Hang on."

I stagger down the road carrying her towards the checkpoint. The guards on both sides are out.

"Help us!" I shout. "Help us! She's hurt!"

Dutch soldiers run towards us, pointing rifles.

"I'm an American," I shout. "American."

"I speak English," an officer says. "What's happened?"

I explain as quickly as I can, laying Emeline on the ground and holding the back of her head and shoulders.

The officer turns to the others, issuing orders. He kneels down next to us. "My god, what sort of animal shoots a woman? Don't worry, we're getting her help."

I choke back sobs.

"Talk to her," he says.

"What do I say?"

"Talk to her."

"Stay with me, Emeline," I say. "Help Is coming. Help is coming."

A truck pulls up. Soldiers help get Emeline inside and we start down the road.

I hold her hand as she lays across my knees. An hour ago we were in bed making love. Now all color has drained out of her face.

Tears stream down my cheeks. "Don't go, Emeline. Don't go, don't go. I love you. I love you so much."

"Patrice," she whispers. "Mon bien-aimée."

"Please don't go."

"Mon Patrice."

Please don't go.

***

The Intelligence Office Chief closes my file. "I must say, all in all, excellent work. You're quite resourceful."

"Thank you, sir."

We're sitting in his office overlooking Oxford Street.

How many interviews has it been since my escape? Dozens, at least. Six weeks with the Intelligence Service going over every detail of conditions at Holzminden with officer after officer.

Every aspect of my escape, too. How I got out of Holzminden, how I got past the wire. I left out the intimate parts with Emeline, but gave a full account of everything else.

"You know," the Intelligence Chief says. "The Minister of Munitions has taken an interest in your exploits. He spoke at length about your case last night over dinner."

"He did?"

"He was once an escaped war prisoner himself, you may know."

"I read his book."

He nods. "At any rate, the Intelligence Service has no more business with you. You're on three months leave starting today. Report back"—He glances at his papers—"November 12th."

"Yes, sir."

He stands and we shake hands. "Well done, Lieutenant."

I step out into the street. I love London. The hustle, the bustle, being a free man again.

My first stop is the telegraph office to send a message to Kommandant Niemeyer—with the full approval of my superiors, of course.

"Enjoying London," it says. "See you after the war. McQuay."

Next stop, the Palm Court Restaurant inside Selfridge's Department Store. I'm walking on air. Three months leave. So many possibilities.

Emeline spots me the moment I enter, a wide smile on her face.

I haven't seen her enough these last six weeks, have I? With all the interviews and debriefings, we made due with what time we could get together. Now three months with no one interfering. It feels like an eternity.

We sit, hands clenched. A shiver goes down my spine. I'm still not over the night she was shot. Thank goodness for the doctors of Maastricht.

"They've given me three months leave," I say.

"Three months! Where shall we go?" Emeline asks.

"Too bad the bluebell woods aren't still in bloom," I say. "I'd have loved to see one with you."

"The bluebells will bloom again."

I smile. "They will, won't they?"

"Of course. And, though the bluebells may not be in bloom, the poppies will be soon. At least in Scotland."

"Scotland? I've never been."

Her bluebell eyes light up. "Then we must go! You will love it. I have a house in Edinburgh."

I squeeze her hand tighter. The diamond on her ring catches my eye and I smile.

"Let's leave tonight, Madame McQuay."