On Wings of Death by David J. Oldman

Author:David J. Oldman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / General
ISBN: 9781473828322
Publisher: Pen & Sword Books
Published: 2013-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

13

Stratocumulus

Rolling formations - possible precipitation - sun often hidden - visibility variable.

He could hear the commotion around him but he wasn’t going to watch. He really didn’t want to open his eyes. There was something so comfortable about just sitting there. That constant noise at his back had finally stopped; the rush of air and rain into his face had ceased; the intensity of concentration — something he was never actually aware of at the time — had ebbed away and somehow had only become real in its absence.

But now, sitting there, other things began to obtrude upon his consciousness. He realised just how wet he was. And whereas, in those first few moments on the ground, it had been a cooling, a reassuring consolation, now it was just plain uncomfortable. Everything was wet. It had soaked his flying coat and run through his uniform into the silk underwear he habitually wore. He felt cold and clammy. And that damned hand was pressing on his shoulder, bringing with it, he was beginning to realise, a nagging voice close to his ear. He supposed there was nothing for it but to open his eyes.

‘Are you hit, sir? Does it hurt?’

It was a damn stupid question, really. Better directed at Foden. Any fool could see that Foden had been hit.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring into Sergeant Greene’s face. With effort, he pushed himself slowly up in the seat and found that his head ached. He wondered vaguely if he had overdone it in the mess the previous evening. He looked down into the front of the nacelle but it was empty.

‘Foden?’ he asked.

‘Still alive,’ Greene said, ‘but he’s lost a lot of blood. MO’s with him now.’

For some reason Miller felt it was incumbent upon him to look. Senior officer and all that. He half-stood and, leaning across the controls, peered into the front nacelle. An awful lot of blood, he thought. It was all pooled there, dripping through the wicker of the seat onto the floor. Swimming in it. He looked at Greene again and vomited over the man’s uniform.

‘Sorry, sergeant,’ he mumbled as hands began hauling him out of the cockpit.

‘Think nothing of it, sir,’ Greene said, sounding unperturbed. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’

Do they? He had often heard as much. But he wondered as he stumbled down from the aircraft, if it was true. If it was, then he would have to devise a new game. There would not be just the trenches to compare to his service in the RFC but the navy, as well. Being in the black bottomless water as your ship capsized above you — did being shot down in flames still trump that?

His legs wouldn’t hold him and for a minute or two he had to sit on the wet grass. One of the men was fussing around the back of his head and he passed a hand irritably over his hair to stop him. His helmet had gone and he felt the pain in his head again.

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