The Life That I Have

Chapter 15

Wing Commander Alexander Cooper cursed the man who had ever invented anti-aircraft guns. They made flying above enemy territory so damned hard! It would never have occurred to Alex that was exactly what they were for.

  Looking around, he could see his young navigator, Lt. Derek Parker, was beginning to get a bit edgy.

  "No need to worry," he said comfortingly. "It's just their way of welcoming us."

  It did not help Derek much, for at that moment, the Mosquito (the type of 'plane they were in) gave a violent lurch.

  "We'll be over the Dordogne area soon, sir," Derek said, gritting his teeth as the plane gave another lurch. To Alex's horror, the smell of burning started to creep into the atmosphere, and little yellow flames started to lick up he side of the cockpit.

  "We'll have to make a forced landing," Alex said, trying to make it sound like it was all in a day's work. But Derek knew it wasn't.

  Down on the ground, the Maquis had been watching the airplane, spellbound, for some time. It was on fire– that was obvious by the cloud of black smoke that was surrounding it. Unless the pilot was a total dope, he would attempt to make a forced landing.

  "British Mosquito, I think," Jean-Marc said. The plane stated to glide down. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "It should come down close to here. Too close for comfort! It'll bring hundreds of soldiers into the area!"

  "Is that all you care about?" Anya said angrily. "Those men could be wounded!"

  "I'm sorry, Anya, but we have to put our survival first. We'll do what we can."

  The plane landed with a sickening crash and for one terrible moment, Alex feared it would flip over. But miraculously, the plane corrected itself and smashed to the ground, still upright.

  Chocking on the smoke, Alexander climbed weakly out of the cockpit, and inhaled the fresh air deeply.

  He could see vaguely men running towards him; not soldiers, they were wearing civilian clothes. All he could rasp when they arrived was:

  "My navigator. He's in there."

  A woman ran up to him.

 "Are you hurt? Did you breathe in much smoke?" she demanded.

 "No, I'm alright," he muttered in French. "Just a bit dazed. Help my navigator."

  Denise went round to the other side of the plane where they were they were carefully extracting Derek from the burning wreckage.

  "Take him over there," she ordered.

  They gently laid the limp navigator onto the grass.

  Derek was semi-conscious. He could see vague outlines of people standing around him and echoes of their voices.

  "Can you hear me?" he heard someone say. He nodded weakly.

  "Can you move your legs?" the woman spoke again, in accented English. He tried. It hurt, but he managed to move both legs.

  "And your arms?"

  Denise watched, concerned, as Derek tried, and failed to move his left arm.

  Anya came over to them.

  "Is he alright?" she whispered to Denise.

  Denise shook her head.   

  "He's got a broken arm at least, almost certainly concussion and he's inhaled a lot of smoke. How many fingers am I holding up?" Denise held up three fingers.

  Derek couldn't see. Was it six, eight or twelve? Every time he blinked it seemed to change.

  Alexander limped over to them.

  "Is he alright?" he asked.

  "He's fine. Anya, you take this man back to the cave and give him some water and blankets."

  "But–" Anya wanted to stay with the other, more injured man.

  "Just do it!" Denise snapped.

  Anya obeyed, and began to lead Alexander towards the cave.

  "It's just across the fields," she told him.

  "What is? I don't understand any of this," he pleaded her.

  "Let's just say, you were lucky. You crashed your airplane right next to a Maquis camp."

  Alexander was stunned. The Maquis, of course! But who was this girl?  

  "But you can't be French, not with that accent of yours!"

  "No, I'm English," Anya said, speaking in English for the first time in days.

  "But–"

  They had arrived at the cave.

  "Here. You follow me and I'll show you a place where you can sleep."

  She led him through the long, twisty, dimly lit catacombs until she reached where Phillipe had used to sleep.       

  "Rest here. Please don't argue."

  "But my navigator–"

  "I'm going to go and help." She left him without another word.

  Outside, the Maquis had unattached a wooden gate and were using it as a stretcher for Derek.

  "Will he be alright?" Anya asked Denise quietly.

  She shrugged.

  "I don't know. He needs oxygen badly, which we don't have. Someone should be with him all the time. I'll go and check on the other one. Where did you put him?"

  "Uhhh...  where Phillipe used to sleep. I'll watch this one."

  "Thanks, Anya. Clean him up as much as you can, but try not to move him."

  Anya took a lantern and went into the cave in search of Derek. The men had put him in in a small alcove, which had been brightly lit by a least six candles.  The navigator was lying, still on his stretcher, a blanket laid over him. He was muttering faintly and incoherently to himself.

  "Couldn't understand... they were talking but I couldn't understand what... they were saying..."

  "Shhh..." Anya soothed him as she soaked a piece of cloth in a bowl of water someone had provided.

  "You're sage now. You're with friends," she reassured him gently in English. Anya didn't know whether he heard or not, but he seemed to calm down a bit.