Mustang Found

Friday February 25, 1944

10 miles south of Verdun, near Ranzières

Occupied France

Colette Davout pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders before stepping out of the farmhouse. The cold bit at her cheeks at once. Long shadows crossed the ground — the sun had already dropped behind the trees to the west.

She balanced the wooden bucket against one hip and hurried across the frozen yard toward the barn. The horse needed fresh water before nightfall, and there were still eggs to gather before supper.  The war had made routines important. As long as the chores were done, life felt close to normal under the circumstances.She pushed open the barn door, the iron latch clacking against the wood and echoing in the stillness of the evening, then slipped inside and pulled it closed behind her. The familiar scent of hay, dust, and warm horse wrapped around her like her old shawl, the bucket's handle creaking softly against her fingers.

"Bonsoir mon bel homme,"[1] she said quietly, reaching for the stallion named Fier. The horse stretched out its neck, nudging her shoulder before accepting the stroke of her hand along its velvet muzzle. The small ritual comforted her. Outside there were Germans on the roads, ration cards, whispered conversations that stopped whenever strangers approached. In here there were chores, and animals. Things that still made sense.

She turned toward the back of the barn and froze mid-stride.The blanket. She had left it draped over the stall rail after lunch, to dry.Now the rail was bare. Her stomach dropped. No one had come to the barn since midday — she was certain of it.

The bucket slipped from her hand and struck the packed earth with a dull crack, water splashing across her shoes. She barely noticed. Her eyes darted through the shadows between the stalls, searching every dark corner where someone could hide. A thief? A German?The thought froze the breath in her throat.

She spotted a pitchfork leaning against a stall a few paces away and lunged for it, nearly slipping in the mud the spilled water had made, and seized the worn wooden shaft with both hands. The weight of it was reassuring, though her trembling arms made it feel heavier than it was. She leveled the tines toward the darkness.

"Allô?" she called, forcing strength into a voice that wanted to crack. "Qui est là? Sortez."[2] Only the horse shifted, stamping a hoof once against the straw.

She listened, every heartbeat pounding in her ears.Nothing. Her grip tightened until her knuckles ached.

"Sortez!" she shouted again, louder, refusing to let whoever was hiding hear how frightened she truly was.

Something moved. Not a rat.Not a cat. Not the horse. A man rose slowly from the pile of hay. For one frozen heartbeat Colette could only stare, then took a step back, eyes locked on him, the pitchfork leveled at his chest.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a leather flying jacket over a drab green flightsuit. His face streaked with dirt and grime, his short dark hair flattened from hours under a flight helmet. He looked scarcely older than she was. An aviator.Not German. British? American?

His movements were painfully slow, as though he feared the slightest sudden motion might send her charging with the pitchfork. It might have. One hand drifted briefly toward his hip — there was a pistol in his hand, Colette's grip tightened, her heart lurched — but he slid it back into its holster instead, deliberately, and raised both empty hands to chest level, palms toward her. A signal of surrender.

Marc watched the woman's knuckles whiten around the smooth wooden shaft. Thank God.Not Germans. The relief lasted only an instant. A frightened woman with a sharpened pitchfork could kill him just as effectively as any Wehrmacht soldier, if she believed he meant her harm.After everything that had happened today, being gored to death in a French barn seemed a singularly stupid way to end it.

Who is this person in front of him?She's young. Younger than a woman, older than a girl — somewhere just shy of his own age. Long brown hair, delicate features, a slim build under the provincial dress and shawl. The absurdity of the thought flashed through him before he could stop it, and he chastised himself for it. Not the time to be looking at a pretty girl, Marc.

Back to survival. Don't look at the pistol. Keep his eyes on hers, his hands where she could see them. The survival briefings back in England had made it sound simple — if you encounter civilians, stay calm, smile, no sudden movements. Easy enough in a classroom. Considerably less so with six inches of sharpened steel pointed at his chest. His mouth went bone dry.

The first words escaped before he could think."Tirez pas!"[3] The phrase echoed awkwardly around the quiet barn, and he winced. Idiot.She's not going to shoot you. She has a pitchfork, not a rifle. No one had ever taught him how to say “don't stab me” in French. He drew a slow breath, willing his racing heart to settle.

"I'm American.” He tapped a gloved finger against his chest. "American.” She didn't move. Her eyes stayed fixed on him.

He pointed upward, toward the roof. "My airplane—" He shaped his hand into a wing and dipped it sharply downward. "—crash.” He spread both hands helplessly. "I need help."

Nothing. Only the horse shifting its weight somewhere behind her, a soft snort and the scrape of a hoof against packed dirt. Every French phrase he'd memorized in escape-and-evasion briefings had abandoned him.

Think. One surfaced at last, slowly, painfully. He managed what he hoped looked like a reassuring smile. "Parlays voo ahn-glays?"

For a heartbeat she only stared. Then her eyes widened slightly. "You are... American?"

The words carried a thick French accent, but to Marc they sounded miraculous. Relief washed through him — not complete relief; she was still pointing a pitchfork at him.

"Yes.” He nodded, a little too quickly. "Yes, I'm American.” He hesitated."You... speak English?"

"A little.” She answered cautiously. "My father — he say I must learn.” Her eyes drifted over him: the leather jacket, the Mae West, the parachute harness, the grime streaked across his face.

"You are pilot?"

"Yes.” He nodded again. "My airplane was hit this afternoon.” He glanced toward the hay where his bundled parachute lay hidden."I'm sorry I hid in your barn.”His voice softened. "It was the only place I could think of."

She kept studying him — not his words, him. His hands, his eyes. Whether he looked like someone who might lunge for the pistol on his hip.Several long seconds passed before she lowered the pitchfork, leaning it carefully against the stall wall but staying close enough to snatch it up again if she had to.

"It is good you are here," she said quietly."Alive.” She glanced toward the barn doors as though expecting them to burst open, then her voice dropped even further. "The Boche... they look for you, yes?"

"I haven't seen any since I bailed out.” Marc realized he was matching her whisper without meaning to."I don't know if they saw me come down."

She nodded once, absorbing that. "You are hurt?"

He let out a tired breath that was nearly a laugh."I've had better days.” He flexed one aching shoulder."Nothing broken. I don't think.” Then, remembering himself, he glanced toward his still-raised hands."Would you mind—" a sheepish smile, "—if I put these down?"

For the first time, the corner of her mouth hinted at a smile.Barely there. "Oui.” She made a gentle downward motion with one hand. "It is okay."

Marc lowered his arms slowly, his shoulders unknotting. At least I'm probably not getting gored today.The thought almost made him laugh.Almost.

She kept watching him, her caution not entirely gone."You are hungry.” It wasn't really a question. "Thirsty."

Only then did Marc realize she was right. The hunger hit him all at once, like a switch thrown somewhere behind his ribs. The last thing he'd eaten felt like it belonged to another lifetime."Yes.” He smiled, embarrassed. "I am. And thirsty."

"I get my father.” She turned toward the door, then stopped and faced him again, the warmth gone from her expression as quickly as it had come. "You stay here.” Her voice carried quiet authority now. She looked pointedly at his holstered pistol. "Do not make sound. I come back quickly."

Marc nodded. She held his gaze another second, deciding whether she believed him — apparently she did — then slipped through the barn door and closed it carefully behind her.The latch clicked into place. The silence returned all at once, and Marc's knees went weak.

He sank onto a stool, listening to her footsteps fade across the frozen farmyard, and wondered whether placing his life in the hands of complete strangers was the right thing to do, or whether he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Colette ran across the yard, clutching her shawl against the bitter wind, her heart hammering. An American. A real American pilot, not much older than herself. He'd looked exhausted. Cold.Terrified. And he was strangely polite.

She burst through the kitchen door into a rush of warmth and the comforting smell of onion soup simmering over the stove. Soft light filled the room — the last of the sunset, the fire in the stove, two oil lamps. Her father Henri sat at the kitchen table fixing a leather harness; her mother Marie stood busy at the stove.  Aslan, the family dog, lay at Mr. Davout's feet. All three looked up as Colette flung the door open.

Mr. Davout set the awl he was using down and laid the harness on the table, his hands going still. One glance at her face was enough. "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" he said, concern sharpening his voice.

"Papa...,” she struggled to catch her breath."Dans la grange," she swallowed, "un pilote américain."

Mr. Davout nodded. His movements deliberate. His weathered face showed no surprise, only a deep, grim focus, "Il est blessé?"

Colette shook her head. "Non. Je pense pas.Mais, il a faim et soif. Il dit qu'il n'a pas vu les Boches.” She wrung her hands slightly, the adrenaline still making her jittery. "Il faut prévenir les autres?"

Mr. Davout stood, his movements calculated, and nodded once."Oui. Je dois leur dire. Amène-le à la maison, par la porte de derrière. Je vais aller chercher Georges.” He pulled on his coat and moved toward the door, and paused to look back at his wife. "Marie, je serai bientôt de retour.”  Then he turned to his daughter, “Fais attention, Colette."

She knew that look on his face. It confirmed what she already suspected. "Oui, Papa. Je ferai attention."[4]

It had been hours. Marc sat at the kitchen table with Colette and her mother. Colette had been asking Marc about what had been going on outside of France. News was difficult to come by. Mrs. Davout sat there quietly mending a shirt. 

Outside it was pitch black. Not unlike England at night, Marc thought. In England he could relax in the evenings. Tonight the squadron would be at the bar drinking hard. Would they offer a toast to him, or would his memory be shoved down deep inside each pilot the way he'd done with so many friends before him? Probably the latter. The thought made his chest tighten for a moment. He shook his head. Not the time to be thinking of England. He couldn't relax tonight. Not in France.

The first sound was so faint Marc almost missed it. An engine, far away. He stopped mid-sentence. Colette heard it too — her head turned toward the front of the house, and the change in her expression was immediate. Not fear. Expectation.Her mother quietly gathered her sewing and left the kitchen without a word.

Marc watched her go. Something was wrong. He glanced toward the back door. If he had to run, where would he run to?

The engine grew louder. Tires crunched outside. A car door slammed, then another. No headlights showed through the windows. Whoever had arrived wanted to stay unseen.

The front door opened. Heavy boots crossed the front hall, and three men entered the kitchen.The first was tall and lean, dark hair already going gray, his face deeply lined and his expression unreadable.The second carried a submachine gun, its muzzle already pointed at Marc.

Everything inside him went cold. He gripped the edge of the table. No. No!They've turned me in. Bastards! He glanced toward the back door — impossible, the gun covered it, and there would be others outside, there had to be.

The tall man spoke sternly, in good if heavily accented English."Stand.” Marc obeyed automatically, military habit."Turn around.” He turned. "Hands on your head.” His hands went up, fingers locking together before he'd consciously decided to move.

The barrel of a pistol pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, a hand braced on top of his head holding him still, while another pair of hands searched him efficiently. His 1911 disappeared from its holster.

"Who lost the nineteen forty-three World Series?"The words were spoken fast.

Marc blinked. What?"Uh . . . the Cardinals.”The answer came automatically."What—"

"Quiet. We ask the questions.” The voice was stern. "Who won the Academy Award for Stagecoach?"

His mind raced. John Wayne?No — supporting actor."Thomas Mitchell."

"Name and rank?"

"Marc Suchet, major."

"In what city is the Kentucky Derby?"

His mind kept racing. Why such random questions? "Louisville."

"Unit?"

"355th Fighter Squadron."

"The song by John Sousa?"

"Stars and Stripes Forever."

"Base?"

"RAF Boxted.” The answer left his mouth before he realized what he'd said. Damn it! He was supposed to resist interrogation better than this. What was going on?

The voice barked again. "The Thunderbolt squadron?"

"No.” The answer came without hesitation. "P-51s.” Damn — it's all happening too fast!

The room went strangely quiet. The pistol left his back. The hand on his head disappeared.

"Turn around.” Marc obeyed. The MP40 lowered slightly, and only then did he notice Colette standing silently in the doorway, hands clasped tightly together, looking about as anxious as he felt.

The third man, the oldest of the three, asked, "A-t-il répondu correctement?"[5] Medium height and build, his hair mostly gray, dressed like a farmer, his face serious and weathered, a pistol still in his hand — still pointed at Marc.

A brief exchange followed in French, too fast for Marc to catch beyond the final word. "Oui."

The tension drained out of the room as quickly as it had filled it.Every weapon lowered. The oldest man tucked his pistol into his waistband.

Colette had watched the questioning silently. She held her hands in front of her. He had answered the questions correctly. He probably wasn’t a German spy. Now her family would be responsible for him. His fate was now tied to hers, to her family’s.The war, the risks, had always happened outside her home. Now the risk was standing in her kitchen. Her father was still fighting for France, as was she. Helping this American was just another way to fight. 

The tall man regarded Marc with a stern, focused expression."You are who you say. We will help you. But it will take time. You will stay here, with the Davouts. They will hide you. You will do exactly as they say.” He glanced at the older man, then back to Marc. "You understand? Your life, and theirs, depends on your silence and your obedience."

The weight of the words landed heavily. He had brought the war to this family. He could get all of them killed. He gave a curt nod. "I understand."

The other two turned and left without another word, the oldest man clapping each of them on the shoulder as they went. Outside, car doors closed, an engine started, tires crunched over frozen ground, and the sound faded into the night.

Marc simply stood there, his heart still hammering, looking from Colette to the older man to the empty doorway. He still wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't about to be arrested.

Finally Colette spoke. "We have to be sure.” Her voice carried a slight apology. "The Boche, they try to infiltrer — euh, spy — on La Résistance.” She met his eyes.

Resistance.  The word caught him off guard. Not just farmers. Resistance, too. He'd walked, actually parachuted first, then walked, right into it.

[1] “Good evening my handsome man.”

[2] “Hello?  Who is there?  Come out.Come out!”

[3] “Don’t shoot!”

[4] One glance at her face was enough. "What's wrong?" he said, concern sharpening his voice.

"Dad..." she struggled to catch her breath. "In the barn," she swallowed, "an American pilot."

Mr. Davout nodded. His movements deliberate. His weathered face showed no surprise, only a deep, grim focus. "Is he hurt?"

Colette shook her head. "No. I don't think so. But he's hungry and thirsty. He says he hasn't seen any Germans." She wrung her hands slightly, the adrenaline still making her jittery. "Should we tell the others?"

Mr. Davout stood, his movements calculated, and nodded once. "Yes. I have to tell them. Bring him to the house, through the back door. I'll go get Georges." He pulled on his coat and moved toward the door, and paused to look back at his wife. "Marie, I'll be back soon." Then he turned to his daughter, "Be careful, Colette."

She knew that look on his face. It confirmed what she already suspected. "Yes, Papa. I'll be careful."

[5] “Did he answer correctly?”