“He was recovered near a plane with no identification.” The nurse adjusted the cuffs on her long-sleeved uniform and approached Bertie. “Is he a relative?”

“My grandson,” Bertie said. “He’s come from Maine to help us with our farm. He was making a delivery at North Weald at the time of the attack.”

Susan looked at Bertie, his eyes remaining focused on the nurse.

“Would you be willing to identify a patient?” the nurse asked. “You should know that he’s badly burned, heavily sedated, and can’t speak.”

Susan’s body shuddered. She struggled to breathe.

Bertie swallowed, then nodded.

“Follow me,” the nurse said.

Susan took her grandfather’s hand. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, my dear.”

“Please.”

He shook his head.

Susan took a seat in a waiting area as Bertie followed the nurse. The tapping of their shoes against the tile floor faded, and Susan became aware of moans and whimpers filtering the hallways. Young men, their bodies battered, broken, burned, and severed. Their lives cut short or, at best, changed forever. She closed her eyes, slipped her fingers into her ears, and tried to pray.

After several minutes, Bertie returned, his feet slowly shuffling over the floor. Susan noticed the lines on his face seemed deeper, as if he had aged from the visit to the ward. Her hands trembled. She looked into her grandfather’s weary eyes and spoke, her voice able to produce only a whisper. “Ollie?”

CHAPTER 26 - GERMAN-OCCUPIED FRANCE

CHAPTER 26

GERMAN-OCCUPIED FRANCE

Ollie opened his eyes to a setting sun that painted the clouds a beautiful hue of pink. Am I dead? Any notion that he had passed and was ascending, or descending, to an afterlife, were quickly eliminated by the acrid scent of aviation fuel filling his nostrils. Something dripped, then hissed, like a water droplet hitting a hot skillet. I gotta get out of here.

He twisted his neck, stiff from the impact, and noticed that the fuselage roof had been sheared away. Jagged metal teeth loomed over him. His foot throbbed. A heavy metal box pressed against his side, cutting off the circulation to his arm and turning his hand numb. With his good arm, he pushed over the box, spilling ribbons of ammunition onto the floor.

The returning blood flow burned like a hot poker shoved into his shoulder socket. His wrist protruded from the cuff of his jacket, as if his arm had grown. He touched his sunken shoulder and immediately realized it was dislocated, or worse. He sat up, trying to avoid moving his arm, and examined the rest of his body. A large bump protruded from the back of his head. His nose was bleeding. And his foot, twisted in the machine-gun turret, was badly swollen. But he was alive. A miracle, considering the rate of the descent.