“How the Mighty” Chapter 2 — Arthéme
Spring Climax in Norman’s Land
Two young people, three animals, and only one winner
Véronique was waiting in the half-dark. Keen to begin, eager for the feel of hands and fingers on her skin. And for more. She looked up with shining eyes as Arthéme entered, sighing with happy anticipation as the teenager patted her flank and stroked her head.
“Bonjour, ma belle Véronique! Tu es si chaud!” You are so warm, my beautiful friend, Arthéme said, as she wrapped her arms around the cow’s neck, breathing in the heavy scent. This old grey stone farm shed had centuries of aroma, but this morning it was pungent, warm, alive from the red cow’s steaming breath.
Véronique lifted her head, impatient, and Arthéme poured the feed into the manger, beginning the morning ritual.
She felt a nudge against her leg and reached down with a scrap from last night’s dinner for Henri, who wagged his tail in appreciation. She looked into the stall, where sometimes a rat or two would be laid out as trophies. But not this morning. The rodents had vanished into the fields with the spring and were not so easy to catch for a dog getting on in his years.
Humming to herself, she put the stool in place, reached for the pail, and settled to her task. The first streams of milk rattled against the bare metal, and she steadied the pail with her feet, one on each side. It just needed one clumsy move from an over-eager dog to upset the milk before there was enough in the bottom to hold it firm.
Henri nuzzled forward, and she gave him a couple of squirts — left hand, right hand — into his mouth. He wagged his tail at the warm foaming milk and his eyes pleaded for more.
Arthéme shook her head. “You will have your reward later, cher Henri. Now guard for me.”
The dog turned and settled outside in the yard, head on his paws, one eye on the entrance from the lane, the other on the farmhouse door. All quiet now, but soon enough there would be soldiers stirring with the dawn, and that fat old pig Feldwebel Bock was always keen to see what she was up to. Worse, Maman might come out for a cup of warm milk. There was no coffee any more, but there was a lot to be said for au lait and a cigarette before the day’s work began.
She moved the pail closer, adjusting the rhythmic streams so they jetted further and higher. Véronique, feeling the pull, took a careful step sideways, her bulk shielding Arthéme as she moved her hips forward and tugged her dress up. Henri, she noted with a glance, was quiet and attentive, ears raised for any sounds.
Now she aimed the milk even higher, the stream landing just above the hidden crease of her sex. The milk was warm against her skin there, the vibration a pleasant pulse. Left hand, right hand, moving with practised skill to hit just the right spot.
The milk flowed down through the dark of her curls and spattered silently into the creamy froth in the pail. She moved the pail a little closer to catch every last drip, and spread her knees wider.
She slowly adjusted the jets of milk, teasing her way downwards, and from side to side. Here, and here, but not there. Not yet. Each pulse of milk was a firm pressure, and she took each one carefully, letting her thoughts follow the sensations against her tender skin, the warmth flooding her lips like a lover’s hand pressed against them, stroking and caressing.
“Oh, Paul,” she sighed, remembering his fingers reaching down that last night before he went off to the war. He had been gentle against her skin, exploring her folds, sliding a finger inside, and for two years now she had dreamed of what might have followed.
She let her knees fall even further apart, and made one stream of milk touch upon her entrance, the other falling on the skin over her sweetest and most tender part. It would not be long now. She had to win the race before the milk filled the pail completely, and she focussed hard on the warm streams throbbing against her body.
Henri thumped his tail, and she groaned in frustration. So close!
Now she could hear the steps in the lane, a low whistling. Soldat Rudi, come for the squad’s morning milk.
She stood, pushing Véronique away, lifting the pail. In the light outside, she peered down and whisked away a tight brown curl from the froth.
The young soldier came through the gate into the farmyard, a smile for Arthéme, and a treat for Henri.
The dog whined and wagged his tail, taking the morsel, and accepting a scratch behind the ears. Fickle hound. Arthéme would do no more than nod and be polite. Père Olivier heard her confessions and told her that God knew her mind and there would be her own living Hell here if she did anything more. “The Boche will not be here forever, my little flower, and when they go, they will not take you with them if one of them has plucked your rose. We are men, and women too, who have had four years of insults, and when the Germans are gone, you will still be here.”
Still, if he hadn’t been a filthy German, she would have liked Rudi. It wasn’t his fault that he had been sent here to build concrete bunkers and sit in them with a machine-gun. He treated Arthéme and Maman, and Père Olivier, for that matter, with respect.
“Good morning, Mad’m’selle Osmont! How goes it?” he said in his atrocious French.
“Good, Herr Soldat. And you?” she replied in equally dismal German.
He picked up on the formal Sie, rather than the familiar du, and his face fell a little. He had been doing his best for months, but Arthéme would be damned if she would give him the pleasure. Literally, it seemed, according to the priest.
Henri growled, deep in his throat, and they both looked up to see Feldwebel Bock, leaning out of what had been Arthéme’s bedroom before she was forced to share a bed with Maman. He pointed north, to the sea.
“Raus, schnell!” he shouted. “Sie Kommen!”
“They are coming?” Arthéme wondered. “Who?”
Then the bells in the village church tower began to ring, and she knew.
For the first time, she smiled at the bewildered Rudi.
“Aujourd’hui vous mourrez, Soldat!” she said. He probably would die today, if les Amis were coming to drive the Germans from France.
So might she, for that matter.
Rudi beamed with misplaced delight, gave her one last look over his shoulder, and bolted. “Auf revoir, Arthéme!” he called, and was gone, the sound of his boots fading on the lane’s cobbles.
Fat Feldwebel Bock came clattering out of the door, jacket unbuttoned, helmet and rifle in one hand, the other wresting his belt into his trousers as he hobbled along. Henri growled and bared his teeth. Bock shot him a look of hatred and aimed a kick at the dog, catching his balance before he fell, and stumbled out of the farmyard, heading for the beach.
Henri barked, looking up at the sky, where dozens of huge aircraft were flying towards them, silver in the level rays of the rising sun, the thunder of their engines steadily growing into God’s own voice of doom. Arthéme watched in horror as dark shapes fell from their bellies, and ran inside, hoping to find Maman and hurry her into the cellar.
Henri sank his muzzle into the forgotten pail, lapping up the unexpected bounty with greedy glee.
[June 2020] This is a chapter from a story about D-Day I began writing in June 2019, and then left idle in my mind for months on end while I tried to work out where I could fit it into historical events without running too far off the rails.
I particularly liked this chapter, and decided to run it as a standalone story. And now — several more months later — I think I can see my way to finishing this.
Every time I thought about moving on, I’d look at the mountain of research I had to climb, and the plot holes that were getting deeper and deeper. I live in fear of some smartypants geek pointing out that one of the characters didn’t have a particular piece of equipment because it was issued to a different army in a different war, and besides, the radio frequencies had been changed and where did the guy find a banana in Normandy?
But, well, here we are, and I’m moving forward, and while I can’t say that I have filled in all the plot chasms with solid research, at least I have papered over them enough that I might credibly claim poetic license or some other bullshit.
Britni
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