Collaborators

I was unsure if I could trust our new friend. Her eyes glittered coldly across the campfire. My Lancaster was gone, with half my crew. Just Bob and I were left, shot down in a strange land where we could barely speak the language. I knew a little French, had been meaning to build it up given the ops we were running… but always too tired. Our contact in the French Resistance had failed to turn up. Bob and I were shocked, tired and hungry, our uniforms tattered, little proof against the cold. We had buried our parachutes. We were about to leave the prearranged spot, a barn on the edge of Poitiers, when a woman came out of the dark. She beckoned to us. Bob pulled his gun, but she laughed and beckoned again. We followed her inside. She had a fire burning, cooking a pot over it. There was the smell of something that could have been rabbit. ‘English pilots,’ she said, nodding and smiling.
‘Scottish, actually,’ I said, but she took no notice. We helped ourselves to the stew, with some plates she provided. ‘Is the farm yours?’ I said, pointing at the buildings. She did not seem to understand.
‘Rest here,’ she said. She pointed at the straw. Bob settled down for the night. I wasn’t too sure about the straw, being allergic to grass and its derivatives, but it was better than being outside in November.
I woke to a screech that had me reaching for my gun. A shadow flew across the rafters, but it was only an owl. I should have realised. I had been brought up on a farm, in the Mearns, north of Dundee. I settled back to sleep. I woke again, in the early morning, my gun still close to me. I could hear voices, out in the courtyard. I wriggled through the straw to get a better view. There was the sound of a motorbike, revving into life. I saw several Nazis in uniform, searching the courtyard and fanning out. Some had dogs. I wriggled back inside the barn to try and find Bob. ‘We have to get out!’ I hissed, in case he was still asleep. There seemed little prospect of escape. I found my way to the side of the barn, and drew my revolver.
Part of the wall came down in front of me, on an invisible mechanism. I started to wonder if the farm itself was real. Blinking in the sunlight, I could hear the dogs being restrained. I flung my weapon down, still finding it difficult to see. A woman stepped forward in front of the uniformed men, and picked up my revolver. She smiled, and for a moment I could not
recognise the woman from last night. She seemed so much younger. ‘Jam, jute and journalism,’ she said, in a perfect English accent. ‘Isn’t that right, Dundee boy?’