“Brace yourselves,” he shouted.
Johnny who was already on the floor pushed his feet into the back of the passenger seat. Kleber threw himself into the passenger seat and scrabbled for the seat belts.
“You’ll have to pull up just as we hit to try to soften the impact!” Kleber yelled at Alf.
Instincts had already told Alf this. Just some gut feeling that that was the right thing to do. He wanted to let go of the controls and cross his arms in front of his chest but knew to pull up was their only chance.
The propeller had slowed drastically and Alf tested the controls. They were sluggish and he now knew they were doomed. Looking ahead he could see the ground rising up to meet them. To his surprise it wasn’t coming as quickly as he thought it would.
But come it did!
The ground came rushing up and Alf tried to time his pulling on the stick with the first contact with the desert. The wheels hit the rough terrain and jolted them inside, throwing them about. Alf pulled up on the controls with no response. The plane bounced into the air and crashed down heavily again. Johnny and Kleber were thrown forward. Johnny slumping to the floor, Kleber landing back in his seat, motionless. Alf held on for dear life.
This time the Fieseler Storch bit deep into the desert. The front went down, the tail came up. The propellers snapped off. The Fieseler Storch cart wheeled along the desert, tearing itself to pieces before coming to a stop.
Alf had been thrown forward before landing back in his seat as everything went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The tyres skidded to a stop and tiny stones skittered to either side. The Jeep’s driver and three passengers jumped out of their vehicle and surveyed the scene. The small aeroplane was on its roof. It was German. Its markings still clearly visible under all the dust covering it. The wreckage was scattered over a quarter of a mile.
The Jeeps driver sergeant Harry Doyle whistled through his teeth at the wreckage.
“Sarge,” one of his men spoke.
Doyle looked across the desert at the other vehicles. They were part of the Long Range Desert Group. An elite group of men linked to the S.A.S.
“What do you want us to do Sarge?” Albert Simmonds asked again.
“Look for anything salvageable, anything we can use. Water, food, fuel, anything. This didn’t crash that long ago so there may be something. Oh and by the way….” he said as his men had started to move off. They stopped.
“….The crew may still be in there. So be warned it may not be pretty.”
“Sarge!” they all chorused.
“Just grab anything useful,” Harry repeated. He took his Sten gun off his shoulder and placed it on the bonnet of the jeep. He put his back to the vehicle and began to roll a cigarette.
Bert Simmonds and Alan “Dougie” Thomas surveyed the wreckage. The fourth man, George Potts, followed the trail of wreckage searching for anything of use. He kicked pieces of debris, prodding bigger bits with his toe. He reached the end of the trail and looked toward the direction the plane had obviously come. There was nothing else in the desert to indicate what had happened. The German pilot must have just crashed simple as that. George looked back at the plane. Then he eased himself out of his trousers and relieved himself. He shook himself when finished and then slowly made his way back to the wreck. Bert and Dougie picked their way over the ruined aircraft. Bert bent down to inspect a petrol can. The sand around it had recently been wet and when he picked the can up petrol trickled from a bullet hole in its side.
“I think we may have found what brought her down,” he said putting his finger in the hole to show Doug.
Doug lifted up a large piece of ripped canvas revealing the planes skeleton sides. It was riddled with bullet holes. He peered through a gash. On the floor which was in fact the roof he could see spent bullets.
“Someone shot the hell out of her.”
Bert nodded.
“She didn’t just crash then. Or run out of fuel.”
“Let’s take a look inside.”
Bert followed Doug. They had to get down onto their knees to look in through the smashed windows.
“They’re in there all right.”
Bert got to his feet and shouted across at Harry Doyle.
“The crew are still inside Sarge.”
“Any of them still alive?”
“No don’t think so. No signs of movement. Couldn’t see exactly how many. At least three I think.”
Doyle puffed on his cigarette.
“Leave them where they are. The Germans can bury them if they want to,” Doyle said now walking towards the wrecked plane, “Just quickly search it and return to the Jeep.”
Doug pulled open the passenger door with difficulty. It was stuck at first and he had to put a foot on the bodywork and yank it. The first thing he came across was the inert form of Kleber. He had a large bruise to his forehead. Doug put two fingers inside Kleber’s collar and felt for a pulse.
Nothing!
Kleber was cold. Doug had to pull him roughly about to be able to see past him. He could see a pair of legs sticking out from behind the passenger seat, which had been ripped from the floor and now lay upended on the plane’s roof. The other body was laying face down, its legs tangled in amongst the debris. Doug turned at the door as Doyle approached.
“Anything?”
“No they’re all dead. I don’t think there’s anything we can salvage.”
Doyle peered in through the door.
“Have you checked them over?”
“Just the first one there. They’re definitely dead Sarge.”
“Anything else to report?”
“No Sarge.”
“Sure?”
“Like what Sarge?”
“Like why two of them are wearing British uniforms.”
“Are they Sarge?” Doug pushed past Doyle to look back inside the wreckage. They both looked up as they heard another vehicle approaching.
“It’s the Major,” Doug said.
“What! Oh shit! Let me do all the talking, okay.”
The Jeep pulled up with a squealing of brakes. Major John Rushton jumped out and rushed up to Doug and Harry.
“You’re taking your time Sargeant. You were supposed to just search the wreckage.”
Doyle saluted.
“Yes sir. But we’ve found something.”
“What,” Rushton asked smoothing his fingers over his black bushy moustache.
“Well sir it looks like there may have been two spies on board.”
Both of Rushtons eyebrows went up.”
“Spies! What makes you think that?”
“Two of the men in there are wearing British uniforms.”
Rushton looked inside the door.
“Well better get them out of there Sargeant. Look for clues. Documents, maps, anything.”
“Yes sir,” Doyle turned to Doug “Drag them out of the wreckage. Come on. Go! Go!” he yelled clapping his hands at his men.
Bert and Doug grabbed one of Kleber’s legs each and pulled him from the plane. They laid him on the desert floor. All could see that he was dead. His eyes stared up at them, lifeless.
When they grabbed hold of Alf a groan escaped his lips.
“Did you hear that?” Bert asked “’Ere this one’s still alive.”
“Get him out quickly,” Rushton ordered.
They lay Alf next to Kleber.
“Check his injuries.”
Alf lay on his back, his head was pounding. His eyes were rolling from side to side. He tried to focus them as faces appeared above him. They were talking foreign, it sounded foreign, no wait! It could be English but their words were slow and distorted.
“Give him some water.”