Four

When David wakes again he is in a bed.

He has no idea how long he has slept. After they’d brought him to the farmhouse, Erik had sent Benjamin back to the wheat field to collect the airman’s equipment.

David had told Rebecka how to administer the morphine, and within moments of the injection, he’d started to feel very drowsy, the exhaustion and shock catching up with him.

“We will hide your parachute,” Erik said. “And your equipment.”

But Flight Lieutenant David Thompson was already asleep.

“Well,” said Erik, shaking his head, “so it is.”

*   *   *

David wakes now in a large but simple room, barely more than a peasant’s dwelling. The mattress he’s lying on is filled with straw, he’s underneath a plain white quilt, stuffed with goose or duck feathers; he can hear both birds in the farmyard.

He might have slept for twenty-four hours, which seems likely as he’s desperate to pee. Which presents a problem, since he cannot walk.

He hears voices downstairs, cannot make out the words, but the voices are raised, arguing.

He hears a door slam, and a few minutes later, footsteps in the corridor. The door opens.

Rebecka pokes her head around the door, expecting to find him asleep still.

“Oh!” she says. “So you are awake, after all.”

“Never felt better,” he lies.

“We thought it best to let you rest for as long as possible.”

“That’s very kind. You’re very kind, in fact. I don’t know how I shall be able to thank you.”

Something passes across Rebecka’s face. She comes into the room, and begins fussing and tidying, and he has a chance to appraise her. She has an honest face, he thinks. She is tall, very tall in fact, and strong. The word sturdy pops into his head.

He realizes that they have undressed him; all his clothes hang over a chair by the bed neatly. On the top of the pile, even his camouflage pattern silk scarf is precisely folded.

He feels the need again, and coughs.

“I wonder,” he says. “Call of nature, you know?”

She looks at him blankly, then realizes what he means. She reaches under the bed and pulls out a large china pot.

“Do you think you can manage?” she asks.

My God, he thinks in horror, is she offering to help me?

He smiles. “I’ll find a way,” he says briskly.

She leaves, and he performs his task. Every second is agony.

When it is done, he collapses back in bed, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

I should have gotten her to give me another jab, he thinks, but very soon he begins to get sleepy again anyway.

As he drifts back to the blue dreaming heavens once more, his eyes fix on his clothes, on the remains of his equipment pack, and he notices something.

His pistol is missing.