"Mechanical failure, wheel cranks are frozen." Crank said, circling Wendover field to slow down somewhat, focused eyes remembering the training. He sounded scared, fingers trembling on the yoke.
"Alright, bring her down on the field." Came the reply from the control tower, giving instructions to Crank in the left seat.
Heart pounding in his chest, John let Crank bring her in to land as he informed the rest of the crew. Brace for emergency landing- everyone would squeeze into the radio room and prepare to hit the ground hard.
Impact. Stomach jolted into his throat. Sprays of dust and dry grass clods flying past the windshield. Frantic braking from both of them. Propellers bending. A clang of something shredding through the metal of the plane.
Amongst the chaos John vaguely registered something hot sliding down a thigh, something cold in his sheepskin.
Holding down the brakes was of course useless, so as soon as they lost momentum the crew rushed to get out.
"Out, out! Everyone out right now!" Crank yelled through the interphone, yanking his headphones off to open up the emergency door.
"Out or you're dead, c'mon." One of the boys yelled outside, panicked.
John copied him and rushed to jump out, following the other boys to the nearest jeep, one foot sliding inside his shoe.
"Everyone alright?" John asked, dizzy from his heart beating so fast, breathing hard.
"Alright, Major."
"Yes Sir."
"Crank, you're bleeding."
That drew everyone's attention to Cruikshank, the deep scrape along his forearm through the sheepskin, dripping onto the dirt. Part of the plane had flown past him and scratched deep on the way.
John unzipped his sheepskin and brushed at the wet on his shirt, his hands came back red. Well, fuck.
"Oh." Crank muttered, "Didn't see that."
The last thing John remembered was feeling like he desperately needed to sit down, vision whiting out.
When he came to, many hot hands touched his thigh, a bright light blinding him, skin slipping through whatever warm stuff was beneath him. He felt impossibly cold, like all the essence of the sun he once held had been drained, a dead star after burning out. Holding his head up was difficult, although moving his hands seemed to be marginally easier. Someone held his wrists down when he tried to move.
Voices faded in and out, someone tightened something around his thigh, muttering something in a soft voice when he groaned. Someone was digging around in his chest, wet sliding around and cold metal scraping along his skin. It hurt, distantly.
Neck protesting, John moved his head up to see the hands were attached to bodies, people in white at the edge of the light, bustling around to hold him down, stick a needle in him, carefully extract a jagged piece of metal from his chest. So the wet beneath him was blood.
Buck would be so mad at him if he died here.
Someone would have to clear all this up- a mop and rag, disinfect the whole floor, a lot of effort that could have been saved if they had just left him in the airfield grass.
What would they tell his mother, when he bled out on this table? He hadn't even reached the battleground, the treacherous skies over Europe. He doubted she would care, too absorbed in getting his sisters married and enjoying the quiet the lack of him brought.
'Dear Mr and Mrs Egan, your son John was involved in an accident and died of his wounds at Wendover field.'
John's letter writing trailed off as his vision whited out again. He lost consciousness when someone jabbed yet another needle in his arm. Probably for the best.
