Albert gasped as he awakened. Fumes and ozone burned his nose and throat. He coughed. The wrecked Apache hissed and smoked. Its fluids leaked. An arcing electrical panel sparked and zapped in the cockpit. Albert moved achingly, his vision clearing. Donnan was slumped and did not move.
Albert realized Donnan’s helmet was cracked. Blood streamed from the torn opening. Albert tried to raise his own head. Sharp pain forbade it.
“Donnan,” he mumbled. The toxic air made him cough again, his breaths poisoned by the slow-burn of materials that made up the cockpit interior.
Albert released the harness. While the movement was minor, it sent him spinning with vertigo. He threw up on himself. Covered in a cold sweat, Albert fought to move within the cockpit chair. He lifted himself from its confines. On the verge of falling unconscious, he slumped back again. Concussion. Albert worried about Donnan; he still had not moved.
“Donnan,” Albert repeated. The he tried yelling: “Lieutenant Bruce.”
The stabbing pain in his head told Albert not to do that again. He groaned as he tried to keep himself from vomiting again, or, worse, from blacking out. It would be up to him to get out and retrieve Donnan. Albert reached for the Apache’s canopy release.
The mechanism’s red handle required more strength than Albert could summon. He fished a knife from his flight suit pocket and used its shiny blade as a lever, working the canopy release until it clicked free. Then, with dizzying effort, he rotated the release to the ‘Unlock’ position.
The canopy lifted a few inches. Fresh salty air flushed the cockpit. Its warmth blew away the chemical-laden fumes from within. Albert’s head cleared, and his thoughts became less disjointed.
“Donnan. Wake the hell up.”
Only seabird song answered, accompanied by the howl from wind forcing its way into the cockpit. An acrid smoky smell came in, too. Albert turned and saw the column of black smoke rising above the crash site, emanating from one of the engine pods. He did not, however, see nor smell the fuel that had leaked out of the punctured tank.
Albert strained his aching neck to look past his other shoulder. He saw that the Apache had broken in two; just where its tail boom had struck a big, immovable boulder. He looked up and saw that one of the helicopter’s composite rotors had snapped, too, and only the thin titanium strip at the leading edge held the blade’s frayed carbon fibers. His head movements did not bring spinning, confirming his vertigo had passed. With a grunt, he raised his arm to press a hand against the canopy glass.
Pushing hard, Albert coaxed the canopy open a little bit more. This provided enough room for his aching body to squirm in the seat. He pushed himself up and, with his shoulder, pressed against the canopy. The canopy budged and creaked up to a new position. There was now a big enough space to crawl through. The wind entered full-force and delivered salty spray that refreshed Albert’s sweaty face. This provided the inspiration he needed to get free.
Albert attempted to lift his legs out, but managed only to hook his ankles over the metal lip of the cockpit’s threshold. Progress, he thought, and shimmied his calves over the edge. Pushing with his arms, he launched his torso upward until he felt the sharp metal in his gut. Fighting nausea, Albert rolled and let gravity do its thing.
He grunted as he hit the ground. The jagged rock that poked Albert’s side told him to focus. He rolled onto his back. The grass felt soft and cool against his face, and the morning sky: baby blue. Albert spied a fluffy cloud and focused on its abstract shape. He found an elephant there, and remembered how he and his brother Henry would lie on the lush lawns of Balmoral and find such puff-forms. He suddenly missed his big brother — a feeling he had not had in ages — and muttered his name: “Henry.” His big brother could not help him anymore, though, so Albert did his best to lift his body and stand.
He managed to get to a crouched position and paused to fight the urge to throw-up again. His concussed brain spun with vertigo. Albert rubbed the big, black, knotted bruise on his forehead, and fell back into the tall, swaying grass. He lay beside the wrecked Apache that cradled the body of his closest friend. Albert heard nothing but his own deep breathing and fell asleep.
The sun began to burn Albert’s face. His lips were dry and cracking. He awakened with a groan and lifted his throbbing head. He looked to his broken helicopter.
Grey smoke rose from the Apache’s engine pod. It feathered on the wind and painted a trail in the sky that led right back to the crash site. Albert felt a sudden urgency to get away from the area. He saw that Donnan was still slumped in his harness. Albert knew his co-pilot/gunner — his friend — had died. Albert rolled onto his side and sat up. The world turned fast. He propped himself on the one arm that was not sore, and stood. He wobbled and leaned against the Apache’s bent fuselage and felt his way to Donnan’s side.
The blood from Donnan’s head wound formed a black pool of coagulated ooze. Albert reached for his friend’s jugular and searched for evidence of life. The skin was cold and rubbery, and there was no telltale pulse. Donnan was free; had no more guilt or worries. Albert unclipped Donnan’s harness. He would lift the body out when he could muster the strength. For now, though, he just reached for the radio that still had power despite evidence of shorting. He tuned the radio’s dial over to an emergency frequency and clicked transmit.
“Any British forces, any British forces, this is an army attack helicopter. We are down, and require rescue, over.” Careful not to give his call sign or location, Albert waited a moment before repeating the transmission. There was nothing. Not even static. Albert turned his attention to Donnan.
“Okay, mate,” he said to his lifeless friend, and with a heave, pulled the body from the cockpit. Donnan’s foggy eyes seemed to look right into Albert’s own eyes. Their dull glaze frightened him. Donnan’s eyes had always displayed the glint of happiness and intelligence in them; had always shown his good soul in the black pits of his pupils. Although the brightness had faded a bit after Jugroom, his gaze always comforted Albert, and was full of life. Now, Albert could see, Donnan was truly gone, someplace far off, or, perhaps, nowhere at all. Albert had a sudden renewed love of being alive, and he felt very selfish for his long courting of dark thoughts. The certainty filled him that a man like Donnan could not be in Hell, that God could not judge a brave and upright person for one mistaken night on the battlefield. Calm settled over Albert.
In that calm, a voice told him there was a purpose for everything. Even the worst days of life were precious, that they made us who we were, taught us lessons when we needed them, and reminded us of what was important. Albert even felt it possible that the nameless little girl who had perished at their hand had forgiven. That she, too, was free of the bounds of earth, of the hard mud floor she had slept on, the scant food and filthy water she had swallowed, and the dirty, torn clothes she had worn. Most of all, she was free of the men who had not cared for her, who had loved killing more than they did their little girl, and who had caressed the cold gun-metal of a Kalashnikov instead of her smooth, warm face.
Sudden anger swamped such thoughts — anger at any father who could put ideology and death above the greatest gift God — any supposed God — could give: a precious child. Albert realized he must forgive himself. Even as a bird in a gilded cage, and handed the life-sentence of being a royal, there were those who were worse off and lived their own private hell. That moment, Albert realized, he needed to grow up.
“Sorry,” Albert whispered into Donnan’s ear. Albert lifted and folded Donnan over his shoulder. He took a few steps before he had to lower the big man to the ground. He dragged Donnan close to the cliff edge from where his friend could look over Falkland Sound. It would be a good place for his friend to rest until British forces could repatriate the body, or, perhaps, should his parents wish it, have him laid to rest within the British military cemeteries on the islands. Albert took a deep breath of cool air. Or, even remain forever in its place, he pondered. The wind whipped at his cheeks. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun. His face collected its warmth. You are alive, Albert thought. Then, he began to collect rocks.