The rain had slowed to a shower, giving Dale a small reprieve. But what he wasn't expecting were the Germans, who'd seemed to have slunk out of some nearby bar and begun harassing the residents of the house. He didn't need to understand German - or French, for that matter - to know they were demanding to be let in, wanting to search the place. It wasn't a surprise, considering there were soldiers stationed in occupied towns who would often take advantage of the townsfolk, but the drink had somehow imbued these ones with aggressive bravado. The pilot knew he couldn't afford to be seen, and as such held his breath and ducked into the nearest shadowed area, knowing that the enemy soldiers were less-than-observant in their current states. And then...
The crack of a gunshot damned near stopped his heart in his chest. Adrenaline had begun pumping feverishly through his veins since his crash, but it now surged in full force as he waited out the situation. Something in his mind was telling him to run, but he knew it was better he stay put. The soldiers' comrades might still be nearby, and he wasn't going to risk capture based on fear. Besides, the Germans weren't nearly as unsettling as the creature he'd witnessed earlier, seeming a distortion of everything that was human. The fact that he still couldn't place what it was troubled him. It was more than obvious that the shot had originated from the house's interior, but as he saw the officers exiting the house, murmuring lowly amongst themselves, he knew they'd been deceived.
He'd hidden his mae west upon landing just in case, but for all intents and purposes, he still stuck out in these parts. Most of his other gear he'd discarded upon leaving his aircraft, including his dinghy-pack, helmet and oxygen mask, blown away into the far distance. He still retained the holster rig for his 1911 .45, his sole form of defense against the odds should the situation require it - and he hoped it wouldn't. Thank God he was a decent marksman, whether it was in a plane or on the ground.
Now, he pressed himself closer to the wall, inhaling the scent of rain as the Germans passed his position. He felt sick. But as the enemy departed, he regained enough confidence to carefully start towards the door, keeping his breathing as stable as he could make it. It was different, having boots on the ground and no one to watch your back. But what he still possessed was a will to live, and he wasn't about to give up just yet. Arriving at the door, he hesitated for several seconds, knuckles poised inches away from its wooden surface. Then he knocked, three times in quick succession. He knew that if the Germans chose to return at this time, he'd be inevitably caught.
Heart in his throat, he spoke, just loud enough for the house's residents to hear, keeping himself as close to the door as possible. He almost wished the rain would pick up again. "Hello? I need help. Aidez-moi, je suis un Américain." His accent was audibly off, but he was trying best as he could. He'd learned his broken French through a friend whilst he'd been stationed with the 357th at RAF Raydon, but that didn't mean he'd actually tried the language in the field. Until now. "Please, I need help. I won't hurt anyone. Je suis un ami."
He hoped they'd listen, or be able to discern that he wasn't German through his English. But "hope" was all he had. They had every right to be suspicious after what had just occurred.
The crack of a gunshot damned near stopped his heart in his chest. Adrenaline had begun pumping feverishly through his veins since his crash, but it now surged in full force as he waited out the situation. Something in his mind was telling him to run, but he knew it was better he stay put. The soldiers' comrades might still be nearby, and he wasn't going to risk capture based on fear. Besides, the Germans weren't nearly as unsettling as the creature he'd witnessed earlier, seeming a distortion of everything that was human. The fact that he still couldn't place what it was troubled him. It was more than obvious that the shot had originated from the house's interior, but as he saw the officers exiting the house, murmuring lowly amongst themselves, he knew they'd been deceived.
He'd hidden his mae west upon landing just in case, but for all intents and purposes, he still stuck out in these parts. Most of his other gear he'd discarded upon leaving his aircraft, including his dinghy-pack, helmet and oxygen mask, blown away into the far distance. He still retained the holster rig for his 1911 .45, his sole form of defense against the odds should the situation require it - and he hoped it wouldn't. Thank God he was a decent marksman, whether it was in a plane or on the ground.
Now, he pressed himself closer to the wall, inhaling the scent of rain as the Germans passed his position. He felt sick. But as the enemy departed, he regained enough confidence to carefully start towards the door, keeping his breathing as stable as he could make it. It was different, having boots on the ground and no one to watch your back. But what he still possessed was a will to live, and he wasn't about to give up just yet. Arriving at the door, he hesitated for several seconds, knuckles poised inches away from its wooden surface. Then he knocked, three times in quick succession. He knew that if the Germans chose to return at this time, he'd be inevitably caught.
Heart in his throat, he spoke, just loud enough for the house's residents to hear, keeping himself as close to the door as possible. He almost wished the rain would pick up again. "Hello? I need help. Aidez-moi, je suis un Américain." His accent was audibly off, but he was trying best as he could. He'd learned his broken French through a friend whilst he'd been stationed with the 357th at RAF Raydon, but that didn't mean he'd actually tried the language in the field. Until now. "Please, I need help. I won't hurt anyone. Je suis un ami."
He hoped they'd listen, or be able to discern that he wasn't German through his English. But "hope" was all he had. They had every right to be suspicious after what had just occurred.