Jerry Budinski is a retired engineer now free to engage in his dream pastime, writing fiction. His short stories have been published in Eclectica, Quantum Muse, Paumanok Review, Writers’ Post Journal, Danse Macabre, and many other publications. Two works were nominated for Story South’s best on-line stories of 2005. Inspirations may come from history, travel, weird science or just things that warp out from the daily news. He lives high on a hill in Western New York with his wife of forty years, in the home of a West Highland Terrier named Hildy.

Liberator (February 20, 2011. Issue 25.)

I passed the old woman we had seen from a distance feeding geese. “Bon jour,” she said as if passing G.I.’s were an everyday occurrence. I didn’t doubt others had come before me. Our battalion was all fucked up, wandering all over the French countryside while the main army charged on toward Germany. Supposedly we were to flush out any fanatics who had remained behind the lines to cause havoc. I hadn’t heard of any being encountered yet.

I had volunteered to check out the hut some distance away while the rest of the squad entered the main farmhouse. Since she was closer to it, I guessed the old lady belonged to the farmhouse.

I approached the hut cautiously but after a short hesitation, I barged right in, myM-1 pointing the way. There was only a good sized kitchen and two doors that led to what probably were bedrooms. It was a while before I noticed her.

She was sitting under a table with her hands and knees hiding the lower half of her face. She had pretty eyes and her hair was pulled back in peasant style. Even crouching down I could see she had an attractive, slim body. She was very young, probably only 15 or 16, but I was only 19 myself. I was immediately excited. We weren’t among the privileged few that had experienced Paris but we had heard stories afterwards. It was all we talked or thought about. They say that if a guy didn’t get laid there, he wasn’t trying. Now here was my own private greeting committee.

“Come, don’t be shy,” I said and then in my patched together French, “Je suis vous liberator.” I extended my hands toward her to help her up but she looked at them like she didn’t know what they were for. I took her hands and forced her up but gently. She fell into my arms more fluttering than shaking, like a captive bird. I kissed her gently on the lips then on her neck while reached inside her shirt and fondled her small, firm breasts. Tears spilled down her cheeks though she made no weeping sound. I unbuttoned her pants and slid them down. Then I recoiled in shock. Her underpants were sodden and stiff with the reddish-brown stain of blood. And I could see by the way she stood, bent with her legs spread that she had been hurt down there.

I helped her up with her pants, then held her in my arms while she sobbed on my shoulder. Her first liberator hadn’t been as gentle as I would have been.

As it turned out I didn't liberate anyone till the war was nearly over. She was German and demanded K-rations for it.