Cole spat out a mouthful of water. “We lost your boat.”
Edland nodded weakly.
Cole turned to Rich. “And the next goddamned time that I give you an order, you’d better damn well carry it out.”
Rich’s teeth chattered uncontrollably as he fought to keep his head above the choppy water. “Okay, Skipper. But could you at least wait until I get into some dry skivvies before you chew me out?”
Chapter 30
Gierek couldn’t wake Jagello. He shouted at the bomb-aimer/navigator above the roar of the wind, and pried his numb hand off the steering wheel long enough to awkwardly punch Jagello’s shoulder, but the man had not moved. He wanted him to wake up, to be alive, to see home.
The sun had finally emerged and burned away most of the gray clouds, and had even managed in some places to reward Gierek with a glimpse of blue sky. It was a miracle, a sign; it was God saying that there is hope, and it is now given to you and that battered wooden craft with no instruments and a wild engine, so that you can come home. Not to your village, or even to bask in the power of the mountains that teetered on the edge of the sky — or Poland. Ahead was the base.
“Wake up!” Gierek shouted. “Jagello? We’re here. Home. I can see it. We’re home.” Suddenly a single green flare wobbled into the sky from the control tower, the wind pushing gently on the trail of smoke that said two things: the green flare meant that you are cleared to land on any strip, and the wind is light out of the northwest.
He had no radio, he couldn’t cut the engines and feather the props; he wasn’t even sure the damned airplane wouldn’t shatter into a thousand pieces the minute it touched down. He knew the fire and medical crews would be out and ready to come to his aid, but he also knew — although his mind did not linger on the thought — that sometimes they fought valiantly but hopelessly until the flames could finally be subdued, and blackened, twisted bodies removed from the wreckage.
The starboard engine began to race again, much faster this time as if excited that salvation was near. Gierek was afraid it would explode; he had known this to happen. The wing would be severed from the aircraft and she would spiral into the ground leaving nothing more than a twisted mass.
He had one chance to land. He could not coax her back into the air after a pass nor could he be certain that she would not explode. One chance.
Everything happened quickly. He chose his landing strip, reducing power and landing speed, but maintaining enough to prevent the aircraft from stalling. He saw that the grass strip was peppered by pools of shimmering water, the remnants of earlier rains, and he tried to guide the Mosquito away from them. The ground was coming up and shapes on either side flew by. The aircraft resisted, shaking with fright as it neared the earth, trying to snatch control away from Gierek.
Thoughts raced through his mind at a fantastic pace — faces, events, scenes — but everything was secondary to his struggle to get the aircraft to the ground. He suddenly remembered the undercarriage and wondered if the wheels and bomb bay doors were down, but he just as quickly dismissed the notion. He could have bailed out over the Channel with a one-in-ten chance of being rescued, but Jagello would have had no chance to bail out, and even if he had, he would have not survived in the water.
Gierek chose the aircraft and his friend.
The aircraft hit. Gierek screamed and thought at first that the Mosquito had exploded, but then realized that they had collided with the ground and were skidding across the soggy grass. The damp earth had helped — cushioning the impact. But the wet grass was slick and the aircraft was in no hurry to stop. Gierek felt the tail twist to the right and then heard a blast as something broke free. Both engines chewed themselves to bits because their propellers had been running when they hit. Now the props could not turn and the shafts raced within the hubs, screeching in distress. Parts of the engine peppered the body of the Mosquito, slamming into the cloth-covered wood frame — angrily punching holes through the flimsy skin.
Gierek tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bitten his tongue. He tried to clamp his mouth shut. It was impossible; the plane was shuddering so much that he couldn’t keep his hands on the wheel — there was no need to do so anyway — or from being slammed about in his harness.
The Mosquito continued to slip to the right, until Gierek discovered that he was looking back at the control tower and base, and racing behind him, like a scene from some sort of American comedy, was a phalanx of vehicles.
He was frozen. His brain refused to comprehend what he saw. He decided that there was nothing he could do but ride this ridiculous ride and watch a random collection of frustrated vehicles chase him. He had become part of the seat, so fixed from fear and weariness that he could not, or would not, move.
The vehicles grew closer and he knew that the aircraft was slowing down, but now he became more frightened than he had ever been because he caught the heady stench of aviation petrol. The tanks were pierced and he saw the thin, iridescent trail of fuel that shimmered in the soft light of the young sun. All this, simply to burn alive in front of your chums.
The Mosquito jerked once, heavily, and then again, but not as much this time. Everything was silent and then the silence was replaced by the woeful moan of a siren and the harsh sounds of engines.
Gierek’s eyes were focused straight ahead, and through smashed Perplex he saw rough shapes. They moved about the aircraft, like demons dancing around a fire, and then he heard the sound of things being smashed and he felt a dozen hands on him and men shouting. The hands roamed over his shoulders, head, ribs, and he felt a hard blow to his chest as a fist was driven into the three-point harness release.
And then he was floating and above him was blue sky filled with gentle white clouds that moved with grace. He realized that he was suspended in air by strong arms and he felt relief. Suddenly he was blinded by the soft sun and thought, ridiculously, that he was being held up in some outlandish ceremony of survival. He found himself lowered until a sheet of canvas caressed his back. A stretcher. They do that for the dead and dying as well as the living, don’t they?
Men were still shouting and he heard the powerful hiss of foam being sprayed over his aircraft. A dozen faces appeared above him and examined him with a curiosity that he found disturbing. He recognized the kind face of the flight surgeon, who began carefully cutting away his flying togs and at the same time asking him where he was injured.
Finally Gierek was able to say. “I am not injured,” although he felt the way he had when he ran his automobile into a ditch — everything hurt. He was too weak to answer any of the surgeon’s questions, but he managed one of his own. “How is Jagello?”
The flight surgeon’s hands expertly probed Gierek’s ribs, head, arms, and legs. “A bit banged up, I’m afraid,” the flight surgeon said. He drew a syringe full of clear liquid, flicked the vial twice with his fingertip, and then added: “He’ll be back at it in a month or two. I shouldn’t worry about him. You’ll be fine as well, I imagine. Set of bruises. Broken ribs.”
Gierek tried to manage a nod, but failed. Instead his eyes drift to his left as he felt the sting of the needle and fixed on the Black Prince. The animal sat placidly, unconcerned with the mayhem around him, his pink tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, watching Gierek. The dog seemed to Gierek astoundingly wise, but the thought vanished as he felt a bandage being roughly bound around his head.