Anthea s baby 1
- 1 year ago
- 331
- 0
The Crossing - Part 2 free porn video
When we'd escaped from our PoW camp we'd be gone our separate ways to
increase the chances of some of us making it home. Unlike the others I
was heading deeper into Nazi Germany, and soon I'd be doing so dressed as
a woman.
THE CROSSING - part 2
by BobH
(c) 2015
- 3 -
"Adolf Hitler?" I said, in disbelief. "Instead of escaping from Germany,
you want us to try to kill the leader of the Third Reich?"
"Yes," said Mark Benton, "and I'll tell you more later, but for now we
need to put some distance between us and the camp."
I couldn't disagree with that so we set off, moving through the trees as
silently as we could, Stalag Luft XII receding into the distance behind
us. It was a mostly moonless night so the going was slow, but the wisdom
of choosing this night for the escape became clear when we emerged from
the wood. Though they were barely visible, we knew that before us lay
open fields that were grazed by cattle during the daytime. A full moon
would have illuminated the landscape enough to make crossing them too
great a risk. As they were now, provided we didn't stumble in the dark
and twist an ankle, they gave us our best hope.
Benton and I moved as swiftly as safety would permit. In the following
hours we shadowed roads where we could, striking off across fields where
we couldn't. Needing to stay alert to the slightest sound that was out of
place, we did not speak. And so the night passed.
As dawn began peeping over the horizon we sought shelter, finding it in a
derelict barn. The way I was feeling it could not have been more welcome
had it been the Savoy Hotel. I was beat. Benton had made no allowance for
his legs being so much longer than mine and keeping up with him had
really taken it out of me. When we had cautiously circled the barn to
make sure no one else was around, we went inside.
"This will do," said Benton after he had checked out every nook and
cranny of the inside and satisfied himself that no one lay in wait for
us.
I sank down on a pile of old straw and sighed gratefully.
"I estimate we've covered between six and seven miles," said Benton. "Two
more nights should get us where we're going."
"And where is it that we're going?" I asked, kicking off my boots.
"A little village called Rumstahl after the Rumstahl family, the local
lords of the manor."
"What do you expect to find there?"
"If I'm lucky - Hitler. If I'm not then I switch to my secondary mission
objective, which is to find a way of getting close to Count von
Rumstahl."
"Why?"
"Because the Count is curiously well-connected. He's not a member of the
Nazi party yet for reasons we don't understand he enjoys Hitler's
confidence. We have a man in the village we managed to get a radio to,
one of the locals who hates the Nazis, and intelligence from him had
Hitler visiting the Count imminently, so I was sent to kill him.
Unfortunately my plane took fatal damage from ground batteries as we came
in over the coast. It finally came down twenty miles short of my target.
Adding to my misfortunate, I parachuted onto the fence around Stalag Luft
XII. What are the chances of that? It sometimes seems like der Fuhrer
leads a charmed life."
"How much do you know about the Count?"
"Not as much as we'd like to. Count Helmut von Rumstahl and his twin
sister Gerda live in the castle that overlooks the village. They're
thirty years old and she's the local doctor. In his younger days he was
something of a playboy and raced cars that he built himself, so he knows
his way around an engine. Neither are married nor have they ever been in
a serious relationship that we know of. And that's about it."
The first rays of sunlight were now filtering in through the many holes
in the barn, the beams shining a spotlight on random sections of the
floor. Benton circled the structure again peering through every gap and
looking out over the now well-lit landscape.
"No sign of anyone," he said. "A couple of hours from now will be morning
roll call back at the camp. That's when they'll realise there's been an
escape. A major manhunt's going to follow with Jerry scouring the
countryside. If we're lucky, there will be little or no effort expended
in our direction since they have to figure everyone went north, south or
west."
"Right," I replied, "because only someone with a death-wish would have
headed east."
"OK, time to grab as much shut-eye as we can," said Benton. "We've got a
lot more walking to do as soon as it gets dark again."
We bedded down on part of the straw-strewn floor concealed from the
doorway by some fallen timbers, stretched out, and were soon asleep.
Something you quickly learned in the military was to take rest and catch
sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself: never stand when you can
sit, never sit when you can lie down, never lie on a hard surface when
something softer is available.
According to my watch we slept for a full nine hours. What woke us was
the sound of an aeroplane engine overhead. Benton was on his feet
immediately, and scanning the sky through a gap in the walls.
"Fieseler Storch," he said, "flying low. Obviously a spotter aircraft.
She will have buzzed the barn because this is the only piece of cover for
a couple of miles. No sign of ground troops. She's turning west now."
"Probably the extent of her eastern sweep," I said. "The ground search
will be concentrated west of here but they sent her to give the area east
of the camp the once-over, just in case."
"Seems the most likely scenario," said Benton, watching the plane until
it had receded away to a dot in the distance. "Let's hope our lads all
give Jerry the slip."
Breakfast was a couple of pieces of Red Cross chocolate each. Water would
have been nice but water bottles had not been in great supply in Stalag
Luft XII so we had none. It had been assumed we'd be able to find streams
to drink from. Hopefully we would tonight. A man can go a couple of weeks
without food but only a couple of days without water. Still, at least
slowly chewing on the chocolate got the saliva glands going and so
moistened the mouth a bit.
It was another six hours before it got dark once more, hours which passed
mostly in silence. This was partly because we didn't want anyone who
might pass by to hear us, but mainly because Benton didn't have much
small talk. When he judged it dark enough he got to his feet.
"Time to go," he announced.
- 4 -
Our second night of freedom went much as our first had - a long, tiring
slog across darkened fields, with both of us very tense and ready to jump
at the slightest suspicious sound - but there were two important
differences. The first was the stream we were able slake our thirsts at,
and the second was the train.
We'd been following a river and keeping it on our left as we headed east.
It was fast flowing, noisy and wide, which meant it was also deep. Dawn
had broken two hours earlier but we had yet to bed down having found
nowhere that would serve. We were risking it in the hope of something
presenting itself. When we came across the railway bridge it looked the
ideal place to shelter under, but as we approached it so did a train
heading north. We froze, knowing that movement makes you easier to spot,
hoping the train would swiftly pass over the bridge.
It did not.
We heard the thunk of a signal coming down, then watched the train slow
and come to a halt, the locomotive and both carriages on the bridge, the
goods van over land. There was a loud hiss as the engineer let off some
of the steam that had built up in the locomotive's boiler. Someone in a
signal box somewhere had stopped the train, but why?
"Huh, that's odd," I said.
"What is?"
"Those carriages appear to be the type with side corridors and
compartments."
"So?"
"I didn't think they had any in Germany. Thanks to reparations after the
last war they had a severe lack of rolling stock so they had to mass
produce fairly utilitarian metal carriages with rows of seats. Those two
might be the only carriages of their type in the entire country. Wonder
where they came from?"
"How do you know that?" asked Benton, giving me a curious look.
"I've always been an enthusiast when it comes to cars, planes, and
trains. They were the only things I was interested in reading about as a
schoolboy. Any idea why is the train is so short?"
"I can answer that one. This is just a branch line. It starts in a town
further up the valley, stops at Rumstahl, crosses this river, stops at
two further villages, then terminates at a station on the main line to
Berlin. Total length of the line is less than forty miles, and it's
single track with a single train that runs back and forth on it. It only
has two carriages because that's all that local traffic warrants. Shame
it's heading in the wrong direction; we could have hitched a ride into
Rumstahl. Anyway, we need to circle around it without being seen, find
somewhere to bed down, and then tonight we can follow the track the five
or so miles back to Rumstahl."
Keeping low, we circled around to the rear of the train. This kept those
onboard from seeing us but left us exposed should anyone else happen by
before we could find cover. Which of course they did. In the distance a
car was racing down the nearby road, its angle of approach being such
that its occupants could not fail to spot us when they got closer.
"Ah, damn it all!" said Benton. "We've got no choice. We have to get on
the train before that car sees us. I might get away with being a local
out for a stroll but your RAF uniform leaves no room for mistaking who we
really are. Follow me."
He took off at a trot, heading for the goods van. I raced after him, and
was breathless by the time we reached it. I had been concerned the side
door would be locked, but we got lucky. Benton got the door open, picked
me up, and swung me onto the lip of the van. He then heaved himself in
after me and shut the door behind us.
"You have to get out of that uniform and into your female clothes," he
said. "If we're discovered with you still wearing it the game is up. And
you only have two, maybe three minutes so don't hang around."
It's surprising how swiftly you can scramble out of one set of clothing
and into another when you have to. As Benton was bundling up my uniform
and boots with string, so I was smoothing down my skirt and unpinning my
hair. I reached for the small pot of lip colour I'd brought with me. A
quick application of this to my lips using my little finger, slipping on
my women's shoes, and then we were heading out of the goods van and into
the corridor of the rear carriage. There was a single young woman sitting
alone in its rear compartment, so we slid the door open and slipped
inside, startling her.
"Apologies, Fr?ulein," said Benton.
To our great surprise she reached into her handbag and pulled out a small
pistol, pointing it at us with a trembling hand.
"Stay away from me!" she said. "I won't let you take me back!"
That's when Benton lashed out. With a speed I'd have thought impossible,
he swatted her arm aside with his left hand and struck her hard with his
right fist. Too hard. I heard her neck snap, but not before her pistol
went off, firing a round into the ceiling. From the road outside came
another sound, that of a car screeching to a halt.
"She left me no alternative," said Benton, searching through the her
pockets, "we didn't have time to talk our way out of this situation,
whatever it was. Damn it, why did she have to pull that gun on us?"
He held the woman's ID next to my face.
"Hmm, that might just work," he said.
"What might?"
"You and she look a bit alike, and ID photos being as awful as they
usually are this could be a picture of either one of you. Right, I need
to go. Switch papers with her and put everything that happened here on me
when you're questioned. Good luck."
With that he grabbed the string-tied bundle containing my uniform and
boots, opened the exterior carriage door opposite the compartment, and
leapt into the river below.
From us entering the compartment to Benton making his jump barely ninety
seconds had elapsed. Now I was all alone with only a dead woman for
company and the sound of feet hurrying down the corridor towards me.
- 5 -
The woman was a similar size to me and I'd have liked to have swapped her
clothes for my camp-manufactured ones, but there was only time to switch
our papers and take her hat before the compartment door was being slid
back. There were two of them; a tall blonde woman, and behind her a
rotund middle-aged man dressed in what to British eyes looked like a
comic-opera version of a police uniform. Amusing it might be, but it was
infinitely preferable to the menacing black of the Gestapo.
"What has happened here?" said the blonde, going to the side of the dead
woman.
"When the train stopped a wild-eyed man got on and burst into our
compartment. He attacked the other woman and would have assaulted me too
if I hadn't managed to take my gun out and fire a warning shot into the
ceiling. Is she...?"
"Dead, yes," said the blonde, glancing up at the bullet hole in the roof
and at the gun, which lay on the seat beside me. "Did you know her?"
"No, we were two strangers who just happened to be sharing a train
compartment."
My heart was pounding. I had been convinced they were going to see
through my subterfuge, but neither gave any sign they saw me as anything
other than the woman I appeared to be. The blonde reached into the dead
woman's pocket and pulled out the papers I'd placed there a minute
earlier.
"Paula Grunwald," she said, reading the ID documents and looking puzzled.
"Does the name mean anything to you, Captain Wendt?"
"No, Fr?ulein Doctor, it does not."
Doctor? Did that mean the blonde was Gerda von Rumstahl?
"And who might you be, Fr?ulein?" asked Wendt.
"Eva Schumacher," I replied, handing him the papers I'd taken from the
dead woman. "You'll see I have a permit for the gun."
The Doctor's eyebrows shot up on hearing the name, but she said nothing.
Captain Wendt examined the papers, handed them back to me, then turned to
the Doctor.
"Is it her?" he asked.
"Oh yes," she replied, reaching into the dead woman's pocket and pulling
out a jewelled necklace, "it's her all right. And this is the family
heirloom she stole from the castle."
When I went through her pockets they had not contained a necklace. Which
could only mean that the Doctor had put it there. What *was* going on?
"I'm afraid you're going to have come back to Rumstahl to make a
statement," she said to me. "Is it OK if I take Fr?ulein Schumacher with
me and leave you to finish up here, Captain Wendt? You can call in and
collect the statement later."
"Yes, of course," said Wendt, showing more deference towards her than you
would expect a policeman to show a doctor who made such a request, thus
all but confirming my suspicion she was Gerda, sister of Count von
Rumstahl.
I picked up the real Eva's handbag while Gerda retrieved her suitcase
from the overhead storage rack. She then led me down off the train and
over to her car, a 1930s Duesenberg Model J, one of the most beautiful
cars ever produced. Its driver side rear door was held open for her by a
uniformed chauffeur. I thought about making a run for it, but where could
I go? No, my best bet was to see this thing through, particularly after
that stunt with the necklace. The good Doctor Gerda von Rumstahl was
playing some game of her own, and I couldn't help feeling I wasn't the
only one making it up as they went along.
When Gerda was in the car the chauffeur nipped around to the passenger
side and opened that rear door for me. I sat on the seat, taking care to
tuck my skirt under me first, then swung my legs in. I had seen many
women get into cars that way. Now I was the one wearing a skirt I
appreciated why. The Duesenberg pulled away, giving as smooth a ride as
I've ever experienced in any car. As it sailed through the countryside I
found myself casting sideways glances at my companion. She was an
attractive woman, and at a shade under six foot she towered over me. What
was she up to, I wondered? What did she intend for me?
The fields around Rumstahl were given over more to crops than to grazing
and I ruefully reflected on the fact that in twelve minutes I had just
done the journey that was to have taking me the entire next night. When
we drove through Rumstahl I was surprised to see how picturesque and
prosperous it looked, how unaffected by the war. And then we were
climbing a hill and driving through the castle gates, coming to a halt in
its courtyard.
Castle Rumstahl was a smallish, fairly standard looking late-medieval
German castle. Climbing out of the Duesenberg I gazed up at its towers,
the telephone wires strung overhead being the only thing to suggest we
were still in the twentieth century.
"This way," said Gerda, hefting the real Eva's suitcase. She headed for
some large, metal-studded oak doors and I followed her.
We passed through the entrance hall with its grand staircase and
chandeliers, and into a large study whose high walls were lined with
books, with oil paintings of imposing looking men I took to be previous
Counts von Rumstahl, and with the mounted heads of several large animals.
In front of the window was an imposing desk. Standing behind it, staring
through that window and out over the village below was a tall, broad-
shouldered man with blond hair. He was dressed in a stylish and expensive
suit and had his hands clasped behind his back. Gerda laid the suitcase
on a side table, opened it, retrieved a large manilla envelope, then
indicated I should stand in front of the desk. Placing the envelope on
the desk, she laid Eva Schumacher and Paula Grunwald's papers down next
to it, then went over to the man and whispered something in his ear,
presumably an account of our encounter on the train. This done, she
retired to one of the two high-backed leather armchairs flanking the door
through which we'd entered the room.
"I am Count Helmut von Rumstahl," said the man, turning and focussing his
startlingly blue eyes on me. "My sister tells me you claim to be Eva
Schumacher."
I nodded, unnerved by the sheer intensity of his gaze. It felt as if his
eyes were trying to bore through me. After studying me for a few seconds
he turned his attention to the IDs, and in particular to Paula
Grunwald's.
"This is a fake," he said, picking it up, "good enough to fool someone
giving it a cursory glance before waving you through a checkpoint or a
ticket barrier, but unable to stand up to more serious scrutiny. Nor is
it the only fake in this room, eh Fr?ulein Schumacher?
Or should that be Herr Schumacher?"
***
To be continued.....
***
Notes:
As mentioned last time, my usual thing is tales of physical
transformation via magic or sci-fi, but this isn't the first time I've
deviated from those parameters. A few years ago I wrote a tale tagged
with 'the Operation' that - based on both reviews and its hit counter -
is easily the most popular story I've ever posted here. Those of you
coming to my stuff for the first time because of this tale might also
enjoy it. It's called 'The Awakening'.
Oh, and a note on setting something in Germany. This is a story written
in English primarily for English speakers. I'm throwing in the occasional
German term like 'Fr?ulein' to remind the reader where the story takes
place, but I will not be consistent in this regard. For instance, I
believe 'Count Helmut von Rumstahl' would actually be 'Helmut, Graf von
Rumstahl' in German. If someone eventually wants to translate the whole
tale for the benefit of German-speaking readers, correcting any cultural
errors in the process, I would be happy for them to do so.
As for the 1930s Duesenberg Model J being "one of the most beautiful cars
ever produced" do a Google image search and see if you don't agree.
Cheryl
- 17.05.2020
- 7
- 0
