Woman in a Field, Somewhere in France, 1942

 By Emma Venables

The ground rises to meet me like my mother’s hand when vexed. I bite my lip with the force, would claim to see stars if it wasn’t dark and they weren’t already there watching me flail at my first hurdle. I stand up. The weight of the parachute begs me to lie low but I untether myself, wince with every rustle of the material until I am free, rebirthed, flexing all my limbs. I look left to right, search for the lights, for the people who will only know me as Ottilie, but they’re not there. My pulse thumps in my ears.

I walk two paces, try to figure out where I am, how far I might have drifted away from where I’m supposed to be. I turn. Slowly. Take in my surroundings. Trees. The glisten of a lake or a pond or a river beneath the full moon. Listen for the brush of fabric against undergrowth, the flattening of grass beneath heavy soles, the unexpected noises of digestive and respiratory systems. Nothing. Neither friend nor foe nor animal with the potential to be both. 

I begin to collect my parachute, rolling it up as I’ve been taught, and I feel it unfurling—the loneliness—spreading from gut to chest to throat. I seek out the constellations my father’s fingers used to guide my eyeline towards, seek out the ruffling of my hair, the beckoning back inside to bed and dreams. Papa? I swear I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, clap my hand to it and hear the thwack of skin on skin as if it were the loudest sound I’ve ever made. Papa? I watch him wallow and wisp, fade into the night and I let him go as if I could really conjure him, really make him stay in this field minus its welcoming committee. 

A branch splinters somewhere to my right. A thunderclap against my thoughts. I grip the parachute like it’s a weapon I’m likely to wield, resist the urge to look, to fixate on what may or may not be the end and focus on getting a head start. I walk towards the water where I’ll sink the parachute, my flying suit, the physical remnants of Joan. I listen for footsteps, for demands to stop, turn, to face the person with all the power. My back braces for a bullet but I don’t stop until I’m bent over the water’s surface, plunging past parts of myself into its depths. I’ll follow them in if I need to, hold my breath, hold out, until the threat has passed. Instinct and confidence are all I have now, after all. And Ottilie.

I prepare to slip forwards, soundless and small, into the cold. I know there’s someone behind me, know he has stopped just a few feet away, know he has a gun.

“Rain is expected to fall shortly,” he says.

“In that case, I’m glad I’ve brought an umbrella,” I say.

About the author

Emma Venables's short and flash fiction has been widely published in magazines and journals. She has a PhD in Creative Writing and has taught at Royal Holloway, University of London and Liverpool Hope University. Her first novel, Fragments of a Woman, was published by Aderyn Press in June 2023. She can be found on X and Threads: @EmmaMVenables. 

About the illustration

The illustration is a Soviet-era propaganda postcard depicting a female parachuter. Manufactured in 1956. Provenance unknown.