Flying for France by Tim Champlin

Author:Tim Champlin [Champlin, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2019-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Lowe was vaguely aware of voices, and of being moved. But he lapsed back into the dream—if dream it was. He didn’t know how long the darkness lasted but was perfectly willing to sleep as long as he could. He was very tired.

Later, he felt consciousness returning as if he were struggling upward from a deep pool of water. Daylight was up there, if he could just hold his breath long enough to reach it.

He opened his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Everything was gray and dim. Was he partially blind? Memory of an explosion. He blinked twice, and more detail came into focus. He was lying on his back on a hard board. He did not hurt—actually had no feeling at all, as if he were disconnected from his own body. Willing arms and legs to move, they seemed to obey his mental command, but hurt like the joints were rusted in place. Pain was good. At least he wasn’t dead. Passing his hands over his torso, he felt the cold wetness. Possibly a mixture of mud and blood, but he felt no wounds.

Something stirred close by.

“Blimey, Walter, he’s still with us,” a voice said.

“But for how long?” a deeper voice replied.

Lowe wrenched himself over on his side and tried to sit up. His head reeled and he fell back against the dirt wall of the trench.

A strong arm supported him to a sitting position. “There, mate. Now take it easy. You’re in good ’ands.”

Lowe swallowed and tried to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. “Where? What?”

“Among ’is majesty’s finest,” a man replied. Lowe could see them only as two dim figures in dark uniforms.

“Get back on that step and keep a sharp lookout!” a rough voice commanded.

“But Sarge, I ain’t ’ad m’tea yet.”

“Take it with you.”

One of the figures moved away and another took his place. Lowe felt the presence of authority, but still couldn’t focus will enough to distinguish the men. After rubbing his eyes, he realized there was nothing wrong with his vision; daylight was just streaking the overhead sky. Thank God he’d somehow fallen into the hands of British soldiers. He knew very little French, so at least could make himself understood to these men. He swallowed and coughed to clear his throat.

“Can you understand?” the sergeant asked.

Lowe nodded and tried again. “Yeah,” he croaked hoarsely. He ran his tongue around inside his cheek and spat some mud.

“You speak English?”

“I’m American,” Lowe managed to say.

“Good,” the sergeant replied. “I’ll check you over after we get those clothes off you.”

“What happened?”

“A Boche shell nearly blasted you to Kingdom Come. But all it did was fling you into our laps.” He turned away. “Ellis, bring this man a cup of hot tea.”

“Right, Sarge.” The man sloshed away around a turn in the seven-foot-deep trench.

Lowe took a long breath and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the packed dirt.

A minute later the sergeant thrust a hot, porcelain cup into his hand. “Here, this might buck up a bit.

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