I went to see a man about a horse, and when I returned I heard Kaz speaking in a familiar lilt.
“Nem blong mi Piotr,” he said.
“No,” David said in amazement. “You actually spoke pidgin with real Solomon Islanders? You should write a paper, Piotr.”
“Hey,” I said. “We’re not supposed to talk about that, Kaz.”
“Billy, it is only because David and I studied languages together. It is quite fascinating, and he’s promised not to repeat this to anyone.”
“Listen, just don’t do it while I’m around. I never heard a thing, okay?”
“Tenkyu, Billy,” Kaz said, and they both erupted in laughter. I went to get another round, and by the time I returned to the table they were whispering like two Solomon Islanders. I didn’t want to spoil their fun, but I didn’t want to chance a stretch in Leavenworth either. We’d kept that little jaunt a secret, as we’d been instructed, and it was best that it stayed that way, college buddy or not. I set down the glasses with a hard thump, getting their attention.
“Sorry, Billy,” Kaz said, sticking to English this time.
“Cheers,” David said. “Don’t worry, Billy, I am discretion incarnate. I’m happy to simply enjoy this evening out. Ashcroft can be a little narrow, if you know what I mean.”
“Narrow-minded?” Kaz asked, drawing David out.
“No, not at all,” he said. “I mean as though the walls are closing in. I hadn’t really got to know Helen’s family very well, and now I have nothing but time to spend with them. I’m afraid we don’t have much in common.”
Did he mean Helen or her family? Or both? It was a revealing admission, either way.
“How long will you stay?” Kaz asked.
“That’s just it, Piotr, I don’t know. The RAF doctor refused to release me for duty. I’ve got a checkup in two weeks’ time, but I doubt that will make any difference. There is no improvement to be had.”
“Any further surgeries?” Kaz asked, his voice hesitant.
“No,” David said. “They’ve done what they can. Saved my eye, but it’s not worth much, except to balance things out.” He worked up a smile, but like all his others, it was crooked, the shiny skin on the right side of his face barely moving.
“Will you stay at Ashcroft if the RAF won’t have you back?” Kaz said.
“Good God, no,” David said. “I couldn’t imagine it, living off Sir Rupert’s kindness. Helen wouldn’t mind though, she loves the place. I’ve got no family left myself, nowhere to go home to.”
“Perhaps you could find work,” Kaz said, without much hope in his voice.
“And do what? Teach languages at some boarding school? With this face I’d frighten the children, or be the butt of their jokes,” David said, waving his hand along his cheek. “I really don’t know what I could do to hold down a decent job.”
“What happened?” I asked, surprising myself. “I mean, were you shot down or did you crash-land?” Kaz glanced at me, and I knew it was bad form to be so direct.
“A bit of both. We were on our way back to base,” David said, his voice steady but quiet. “Four of us. It had been an uneventful patrol, for a change. We were jumped by a dozen or so Fw 190s as we began our descent. They must have been circling high above our airfield, waiting for aircraft to come in. I wish I could say I got any of the bastards, but it happened too fast. Much too fast.” He took a drink and wiped his mouth, fingers lingering over the sharp line that had once been his lower lip. “My engine was hit, and I was nearly blinded by black smoke. Flames burst through the instrument panel. I put the nose down and headed for the runway, hoping they were done with me and I could get out before the cockpit was engulfed by fire. It was too low to bail out, otherwise I would have. Do you know that in a Spitfire the fuel tanks are directly in front of the pilot? All that high-octane fuel sitting there, inches away.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I said, just to say something. The thought was horrifying.
“At least I was low on fuel, which saved my life, such as it is,” David continued. “I thought I’d made it, but one of the Jerries gave me a final burst. Came at me from the left, a bit too high. He put a single twenty-millimeter shell through my canopy. The wind sucked the flames past my face like a blowtorch. They said the goggles saved my eyes, but I don’t remember anything after that long tongue of flame. I landed the Spitfire, although I have no memory of it. The ground crew pulled me out seconds before the aircraft exploded.”
He drank again.
“You’re certain there’s nothing more a specialist could do?” Kaz asked.
“Piotr, I have been in the hands of a great physician. Have you heard of Doctor McIndoe and the Guinea Pig Club?” Neither of us had. “Archibald McIndoe, a truly great man. He heads up the burns and reconstructive-surgery section at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Sussex. It’s exclusively for RAF pilots and crewmen who have been badly burned.”
“Why ‘guinea pig’?” I asked.
“McIndoe had to create new techniques and equipment. No one had ever seen so many burn cases before. The medical staff are all members of the club, and I was inducted a couple of months ago.”
“But you were injured a year ago,” Kaz said.
“Yes,” David answered. “But you have to have had at least ten surgical procedures to be admitted. We can’t just let anyone in.” There was pride in his voice, and I wondered if David felt more at home with the members of the Guinea Pig Club than at Ashcroft. “You’d be laughed out of the ward with that pathetic little scar of yours, for instance.”
“It sounds like Doctor McIndoe has the right approach to the job,” I said.
“He does. Some men have lost their hands and faces; they come to the hospital thinking they’re beyond redemption. And the injuries are nothing compared to the surgeries,” David said, clenching a fist as he thought of the pain. “But he does his best to create a bond between the staff and patients, even with the locals. He got some of them to organize visits for home-cooked meals, to help the lads prepare for going out into the world. They were wary at first, both the locals and the men, but now when they walk through town, they’re greeted instead of gawked at.”
“Did it help you, David?” Kaz said. “To come home?”
“Listen, Piotr-and Billy. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” David said, ignoring the question and answering it at the same time. “I’d like to go back on active service. As soon as possible. I thought with you being at SHAEF and all, you might be able to pull some strings.”
“Can you still fly?” I asked.
“Not in combat, no,” David said. “With only one decent eye, my depth perception is off. I wouldn’t last a minute in a dogfight. I can still fly a fighter, although I doubt they’ll let me. I need to do something useful.”
“You mentioned a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks. Won’t Doctor McIndoe help you out?”
“It’s not up to him, unfortunately. The RAF medical section rules on return to duty, and so far it hasn’t been promising. It’s not the burns-I know of badly burned men who’ve been given desk jobs. But one bum eye combined with the burns seems to have them in a quandary.”
“Perhaps you should wait and see what this doctor decides,” Kaz said.
“If he invalids me out of the RAF, my chances are dashed,” David said. “I thought if you could put in a word for me now, there might be a place for a bright Oxford chap on someone’s staff. They took you, Piotr.” David stopped and glanced at me, then back at Kaz. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I think I’ll go mad if I have to sit around Ashcroft on Sir Rupert’s charity any longer.”
“Don’t worry, David. Billy knows about my heart condition. We have no secrets.”