Harriet was used to the hum of planes by now.  They had flown all across the skies over her town, it was nothing new.  She stood on the small wooden bridge overlooking the river behind her tiny house, watching the brightly-colored leaves swirl by in the current.  Autumn had come early, and the trees were turning colors almost before her eyes.  It had been two long years since the war began, and it showed no signs of stopping any time soon.
Over by Christmas, they said...  She shook her head.  Lies. 

She looked up at the sky, shielding her eyes from the blinding blue for a second or two.  High above her, she watched as a tiny skein of geese traversed through the sky, a small dotted 'V' that barely seemed to move at all.  She didn't notice the hum of an engine getting louder until the damaged biplane cut through her field of vision, trailing thick dark smoke behind it.  She yelped in surprise, staggering back and watching it as it came to rest against the side of a hill, sliding up the slope and digging a deep gouge in the ground. 

Harriet stared for a minute, watching as the flames began creeping up the tail.  Then she noticed the man slumped in the cockpit.  Before she knew what was going on, she found herself running toward the wreckage.

The brambles in the tall grass clung to her skirts as she made her way over to the burning plane.  Luckily, the flames had not made it to the wing as of yet.  With some effort, she managed to get onto the wing, jostling the pilot by the shoulders.
"Wake up!  Hey!"  She yelled.  "The plane's on fire!  You need to move!"  But she got no response. 
Dammit...  I have to do everything myself, don't I?  She reached down into the cockpit, fumbling with the straps that kept the pilot in the plane.  Finally, using the tilt of the body itself to her advantage, she pulled him free.  He fell to the ground, and Harriet cringed at the solid thud he made.  She jumped from the wing, losing her balance and falling upon landing, then dragged the man a ways from the wreckage.
You had better be alive, sir.  She said.  I don't want to find out I used this much energy rescuing a dead man. 

Harriet sat by the pilot's side, watching as the plane began to burn into nothing.
"I suppose I should get you inside, then."  She said.  She draped one of his arms over her shoulders and began the slow walk back to the house.

What Gerard probably wasn't expecting to see was the wide-eyed young woman standing outside in the hallway, aiming the barrel of an ancient-looking rifle directly at his chest.
"Stay back."  She said.  "I'm warning you.  You try anything funny and I'll make you wish I never dragged you out of your stupid plane." 

Despite her strong threats, the barrel of the rifle shook visibly.  It was badly rusted, and probably couldn't fire at all.  Harriet knew that much, but not much else.  She didn't even know if what she was holding was the trigger.  She just hoped the soldier wouldn't notice.

It was only after she had dragged him inside and began tending to his injuries that she had noticed his uniform.  She froze.
What the hell have I done?  She looked in horror at the patches on his sleeve.  He's one of the Allies...  She sat back, staring at him for a few minutes.  She could kill him, she supposed...  Or call the police somehow.  Maybe if she screamed loud enough, the neighbors would hear...  But they were off visiting family in the neighboring town.  No luck there.  She sighed.
You've done it now, Harriet.  You've aided the enemy.  She thought to herself.  Might as well finish the job.  She went back to patching up the wounded pilot.

Harriet stared down at the man in the doorway, trying to make herself look more intimidating.  If he made a move toward her...  Well, she could always use Papa's rifle as a club if she needed to.

Harriet groaned as the soldier fell over.  One of the more clumsy she'd seen.
"Dammit.  If you bust your head open again after all the trouble I went through, don't come looking to me to patch it up again."  She slumped down against the wall, still pointing the gun at him.  After a few tense seconds, she finally lowered it, but still kept it in her hand.

"Just so you know...  You owe me your life."  She said.  "The least you could do is sit quietly while I decide whether or not to call the police and tell them an Allied pilot just crashed behind my house."

Harriet's eyes narrowed at his accent. 
"You're French."  She said.  "You're a little far from home, sir."  She stood as well, but made sure the gun was within reach.  He was easily half a head taller than she was, and probably much stronger.
"If its all the same to you, I'm going to keep this with me."  She said, deciding to pick the gun up anyway.  She kept it at her side, though not pointing it at him.
"You should rest."  She said simply.  "You're hurt.  I'll decide what to do with you in the morning."  She jerked her head back to the room he had come from.
"Don't bother trying to get out."  She said.  "The door locks from the outside, and the window's too small for even me to fit through." 

Harriet stared at the man for a bit.
"Please, just go back into the room, sir."  She said politely.  "It's late."

Harriet locked the door after the soldier, then returned to her own room.  She looked at the two small portraits on her dresser.  Two young men, each with the same unruly brown hair, each with the uniform of the German army, stared placidly back at her.
"What am I going to do?"  She asked them.  "I can't go to the police...  Then they would know I helped him, and I'd get in trouble as well..."  But she couldn't let him go, either.  Men like him were the reason her brothers were never coming home.  Men like him were the reason she was alone.  She sat down on her bed, staring at the wall.  She wouldn't sleep that night.

Harriet unlocked his door the next morning.
"Breakfast, sir."  She said.  She had left the rifle in her room as an afterthought.  She waited, but no one came to the door.
"Wake up."  She knocked on the door.  She was sure his injuries weren't serious enough to kill him... right?

Harriet opened the door.  There were dark circles under her eyes.  She had left the gun in her room as an afterthought.  She considered going back to get it, then paused halfway into the room. 
He can't be that much older than I am.  She thought.  Probably around Wilhelm's age, I'd say...  She made a note of it, then set the plate of food she carried on the dresser.
"It's not much, but it's what I have."  She said.  "I'll return later with some clothes." 
Why are you doing this, Harriet?  She thought to herself.  What has he done to deserve this treatment?  Why did you even pull him from his plane?  She shook the thoughts from her mind, then turned to leave the room.

Harriet went back to her room, rummaging through the drawers until she found a shirt and some trousers to replace the pilot's uniform.
"Sorry, Wilhelm."  She apologized to one of the portraits.  "At least your clothes are going to good use now."  She walked back down the hall, then back into Gerard's room.
"A change of clothes, sir."  She said, placing them at the foot of the bed.  She turned to leave again, then stopped.
"I've decided to give you a chance to leave."  She said.  "There is nothing left of your plane, but I'm sure I wasn't the only one to notice the blaze it caused.  I wouldn't be surprised if there were soldiers on their way here right now to investigate.  The best thing you can do at this time is disappear."
Yes.  Disappear.  Go away and take this foolish war with you.