One

It is dark when the airman falls from the sky.

Above him, a storm rages, but it is an artificial one; the thunder and lightning are shellfire and tracer bullets.

As he tumbles like a leaf in an autumn gale through the cold night air, he twists gently on his lines, the parachute sighing to him softly from above. He watches the storm, the flashes above him, the flashes below him.

One of those flashes below will be his Supermarine Spitfire, and he tries to still the feeling of fear and loss that this thought gives him. Minutes ago it was a roaring beast, a tiger of the sky; now it will be a bonfire burning around a twelve cylinder Rolls-Royce engine, twisted and broken.

He tries to spot his landing, but it’s dark, and the lightning flashes only serve to blind him further.

Then suddenly the ground is right there, and there is no time to prepare himself.

He’s unconscious before he even feels the pain.