Three

“Wait here,” the man says, and the airman is not sure whether he means him or Skilla, because the wolfhound stays, panting noisily beside him, while the man goes.

He is gone a long time, during which the airman wonders if he should try to escape.

“Good idea,” he says aloud to Skilla. “And where exactly shall I crawl to?”

The dog pants at him some more, hanging out its long pink tongue.

When the man returns, he’s with another, younger man, possibly his son. They have made a stretcher from two spindly pine trunks and some sacking.

Without a word, they cut him free from his lines and lift him on to the stretcher. The pain is almost enough to make him black out once more, but something makes him want to be strong in front of these two quiet men. He bites his lip and focuses on the white clouds floating in the blue sky above him as they carry him out of the wheat field.

Half delirious, he looks at the sky, his real home. That is where I should be, he thinks. In the blue heavens, the engine growling in front of me, the wind whistling behind me. It was why he joined the Royal Air Force, really. If he was going to fight, and if he might be going to die, at least he could fly like an angel first.

That is where I should be. Up there.

But now he is earthbound, and worse than earthbound, for he cannot even walk. He is a worm, stuck to the surface of a ball of mud.

Very soon, the rescue party of silent men and tongue-lolling hound steps across a low wire fence at the edge of the wheat field, and onto a path that winds beside some woods.

They turn down another track, and craning his head to one side, the airman sees they’re heading for a farmhouse.

It’s very early still. He can’t see his watch, but he can tell from the angle of the sun, from the smell of the dew evaporating off the grass, from the morning calls of the cockerels in the farmyard.

A woman runs out of the farmhouse, looks down at him briefly, and nods to the older man.

“Quickly,” she says.

They carry him into the kitchen, set his stretcher on the table, and then lift him off and sit him in a large wooden armchair. He winces as they support his bad leg on a small stool, but he’s determined not to fuss.

“Flight Lieutenant D. Thompson, 331st Fighter Squadron,” he says, as smartly as he can, then immediately realizes he’s being an ass. He’s not facing the secret police. Standing looking at him are three farmers, a middle-aged man, his wife, and their son. All three are mystified.

He smiles.

“Call me David,” he says.

The farmer nods.

He looks at his wife. “This is Rebecka. This is Benjamin. My son.”

He puts a hand on the young man’s shoulder. David can’t get up but he holds out his hand. The farmer doesn’t take it, just stays where he is.

“I am Erik,” he says.

He doesn’t smile.