It was a normal day - a clear day. It wasn't warm, a slight nip to the air. A lovely autumn's day, in fact. Amelie pondered these things as she rode back from the market on their farm-horse, enjoying the feeling of weak sunshine on her bare arms. One could hardly believe that Europe had recently fallen into a World War - again. She hadn't been born to experience the first one, and she'd been brought up by her father to know how lucky she was to even have him there. But he'd been taken again from her, to fight a new battle. She'd always lived on the farm, so at least she was still at home. It felt empty without him, though, murmuring to the cows as they lowed in the morning. 

She sighed softly, tilting her head upwards. Not a cloud in the sky. Birds sang in the trees that lined her path. Amelie patted Pierre's neck, and he snorted. Pierre ploughed the small field that they used to plant some vegetables and fruit, and was their form of transport. They weren't nearly wealthy enough for a car. They were for affluent people mostly. Besides, she liked Pierre. He was tall and large as a house, a Percheron cross with a broad nose and a friendly eye. She'd always felt safe with him, even when she encountered unsavoury characters along the road.

It was then, fifteen minute's ride away from the house, that a loud crash broke the peace. Pierre snorted, jumping to the side, and she squeezed her knees to stay on. "Woah," she murmured, scratching his neck. What could that have been? Frowning, she glanced up and down the road. There was no-one else there. But off the road... Turning Pierre toward the slopes, she gave him a small squeeze of her heels. He was a little lazy, granted, but broke into a trot after a moment. Amelie rode aimlessly, glancing about for any signs of what could have made that noise. Then, she saw it. A tall pillar of smoke on higher ground. A... plane?

Pierre's ears flicked, and if she concentrated, very faint sounds of crashing and shooting were audible. Merde. So close to home already? Her breath caught in her throat, and that was when she saw the figure stumbling about with canvas in his arms. Was he the pilot? Was he German or French or British? Good or bad? These things ran through her head, and she rode a little closer. As he came into focus, she noticed the strange angle of his leg... Bile rose in her throat at the unnatural sight. 

A hurt person was a hurt person, and he didn't look in any way able to fight. She trotted Pierre untile he was a couple of metres away from the man, then raised a hand at him. "'Allo?" she tried, a universal greeting. 

((I should probably note that I'll be on camp until Friday, and probably won't post until then. :)))