by Jenny Holmes
‘What difference does that make?’ Elsie lined up alongside Joyce, who was itching to follow Una and Brenda. ‘If the men in that plane are injured, we can’t leave them out there to die of frostbite, German or not.’
‘Jerry would do it to one of ours without a second thought.’ Dorothy’s hatred of the enemy was strong. Her brother had died in Eritrea early that year and a cousin had gone down on SS Anselm. The U-boat attack had left two hundred and fifty dead.
‘Nobody will be freezing to death,’ Mrs Craven insisted. ‘I’m reliably informed that some men from the village are on their way out here. Their plan is to send out a search party as soon as they arrive.’
‘Where did this reliable information come from?’ Joyce let her impatience show. ‘Honestly, why aren’t we forming a search party of our own?’
‘Because, as warden here, I am responsible for your welfare.’ Hilda stood her ground. ‘Please stop and think about it, Joyce – it would be madness for you girls to venture out onto the fell at night-time, in the fog and snow.’
‘When is somebody going to tell her that’s exactly what Brenda and Una have done?’ Elsie whispered in Joyce’s ear.
‘Not me, for a start.’ As the warden held firm, Joyce’s frustration mounted. ‘Listen – Mrs Craven can’t actually stop us from doing what we want – she doesn’t have the authority.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Elsie guessed the answer from the determined look in Joyce’s eye. ‘Don’t tell me – you’re going to chase after the other two.’
‘Yes! Are you coming with me?’
Elsie thought it through then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce, I agree with Ma C when she says “no heroics”. You’re on your own.’
‘Rightio.’ Still determined to slip away, Joyce sidled round the edge of the group as the girls continued to comment and fire questions. She reached the kitchen corridor and backed into it, closing the door behind her. Then she broke into a run, down the corridor, through the kitchen and out of the back door. Una and Brenda had a ten-minute start on her – she would pick up their footprints in the snow and follow them at top speed, with or without the warden’s say-so.
Una and Brenda struggled through patches of freezing fog up the fell side. They were breathless and their legs threatened to give way as they slogged on towards the wrecked plane.
‘That’s definitely it,’ Una gasped from a distance of two hundred yards. She could make out the distinctive twin tail fin pointed upwards at an angle of forty-five degrees and one of the wings still intact.
‘We haven’t heard anyone calling out for help lately.’ Brenda wondered if they’d imagined it. ‘Maybe you were right – it could have been a fox or an owl.’ Or else the desperate cry had been made in a dying breath, as life had ebbed away.
They stopped to take air into their aching lungs – two small, dark figures on a white hillside with a fierce wind whipping powdery snow into their faces and tearing at their clothes.
‘Ready?’ Una was the first to forge ahead but she immediately lurched into a snow drift and fell forward.
Brenda came alongside her and helped her up. As she hauled her to her feet they heard another cry – human but incoherent, ending in a low groan. They looked at each other in alarm then, without saying a word, they hurried on towards the wreckage.
They reached the wall at last and peered over it. The body of the plane was split in two and one wing had been torn off on impact. Roughly fifty feet long, it lay in the snow twenty yards away with its propeller still attached. The thin tail section had come to rest ten yards from the bulkier cockpit, which lay nose-down against the wall. Close by were shards of crumpled metal and shattered Plexiglas. There was a dark trail in the snow of strong-smelling diesel and engine oil.
‘Look.’ Una pointed to the damaged nose section of the aircraft. ‘It must have skidded along the ground and crashed straight into the wall.’
‘Yes, and yet someone’s still alive in there.’ Brenda and Una climbed the wall and approached with dread. There was more light than usual because of the snow, which reflected the moon’s rays, so they could make out the shape of the cockpit and a figure slumped against the control panel.
‘Pilot,’ Una murmured. She was the first to climb onto the wing and edge her way along its length.
The man wore a leather helmet and an oxygen mask that obscured his face but there was not a shadow of a doubt that he was dead – she knew this from his staring, sightless eyes. His torso was grotesquely twisted and from the angle of his head she could tell that his neck was broken.
Brenda joined her. ‘We can’t do anything for him, at any rate.’ She knew there must be others trapped in the belly of the plane but wasn’t sure how to reach them so she jumped down from the wing and went round to the rear of the cockpit where she started to pull at pieces of jagged metal.
Una stayed where she was. There was almost room for her to squeeze past the pilot into the section below but first she would have to shift the body a little. She steeled herself and leaned within inches of the dead pilot’s face to push him sideways. As she did so, she saw a dark trickle of blood emerge from behind the mask.
‘I can’t get in from this angle. How are you getting on?’ Brenda called.
Brenda’s muffled voice re-energized Una. ‘I’m small enough to squeeze in, I think. I can’t see much, though – it’s too dark.’
Brenda rejoined her, scrambling back onto the wing as a lone figure made its way out of the low-lying fog at the bottom of the hill, a torch lighting the way. She stood and waved both arms above her head. ‘Help is on its way,’ she reported to Una.
The pilot’s dead, grey stare and the dark blood made Una shudder. It was a young, unlined face – this was not much more than a boy. She eased the mask away from his mouth as if this would make a difference – it was illogical, but she felt that a man deserved to be fully visible in death. She wiped away the blood then removed the leather helmet to reveal short, fair hair.
‘It looks like Joyce is on her way,’ Brenda told her. ‘Yes, it is her – I can tell.’
Joyce saw Brenda standing on the wing and waving at her. The wreckage was scattered far and wide, which meant there wasn’t much hope of rescuing any survivors and if they did find someone alive, how would they get him off the hillside, away from this remote spot? They would have to wait for reinforcements, she decided, as she made her way through snowdrifts. That would be in the shape of the search party that Hilda had told them about. At least she, Joyce, would be of some use, if only to pass on this scrap of information to Una and Brenda.
‘All right, I can get down now.’ Una’s heart bled for the boy pilot but there was more to be done. She eased herself into the belly of the plane, letting her arms take her weight as she dangled her legs in the space below the pilot’s seat. Her foot brushed against a soft object. She heard a groan.
Brenda leaned forward and stared into the cockpit. ‘Who’s that? What’s happening in there?’
‘Wait a second.’ Una’s feet touched a solid surface and she slid from sight. She felt her way, running her fingers along a metal shaft with a barrel and a strip of ammunition – a forward-facing machine gun, she guessed – and then some canisters that she thought might be loose oxygen bottles that rolled and made a clinking sound under her feet. ‘I can’t see!’ She panicked and called up to Brenda.
‘Throw me your torch,’ Brenda told Joyce who had reached the wall.
The narrow beam danced in the darkness as Joyce threw and Brenda caught. She leaned into the cockpit, casting light on the dead pilot before she directed the beam into the belly of the plane. She trained it on Una’s head and shoulders.
‘Shine it in front of me.’
Brenda slid the beam forwards, directly onto the face of a second man. He lay on his back, arched across the barrel of the machine gun, his lips stretched into a rigid grin. The back of his skull was smashed. There was blood everywhere.
In the confined, blo
ody space, Una pressed her body against the fuselage and held her breath.
‘Come back up!’ Brenda’s instant reaction was intended to save Una more distress. ‘He’s dead. We can’t help him.’
‘No. Shine the torch the other way – towards the tail section.’ Una grew certain that this was where the groaning sound had come from and sure enough, when Brenda redirected the beam, she saw a third man curled on his side. He lay next to his machine gun, following her with his eyes.
She had to step over the dead gunner to reach him and hold out her hand. ‘Are you hurt? Can you get up?’
He pushed her away and said rapid words that she didn’t understand.
‘I think his arm is trapped,’ she called up to Brenda, who had been joined by Joyce on the wing. ‘He’s frightened. He won’t let me near.’
‘I’ll tell you what – Joyce and I will have another go at getting in from the back,’ Brenda decided. ‘There’s a big sheet of buckled metal blocking the way but with two of us we might be able to wrench it free.’
‘Leave me the torch!’ Staying in the dark belly with the injured man was unthinkable – Una needed light.
‘Catch!’ Brenda dropped the torch into Una’s outstretched hands then slid down from the wing.
‘Don’t worry – I won’t hurt you,’ Una promised the German gunner. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Helfen,’ he echoed faintly.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ This man was older than the pilot – perhaps thirty – strongly built and with very short, dark hair. His free hand had been hit by shrapnel, opening up a wide gash from which blood flowed. ‘We’re going to get you out of here.’
He muttered something then struggled to free the arm that was trapped between the gun mounting and the crushed fuselage.
Una winced. ‘Don’t – it’s best not to move in case something’s broken.’
He grimaced and kept on talking under his breath as he managed to twist his body into a kneeling position, with his head hanging and his torso bent forward. From this position he could use the weight of his body to press against the bent mounting. It shifted a fraction of an inch – just enough to release his arm. Once free and still kneeling, he turned towards Una and with a sudden swipe of his hand he knocked the torch from her grasp.
‘What was that noise?’ Joyce called from outside. She and Brenda worked furiously to open up the back section of the fuselage, striking at it with heavy stones from the demolished wall to create an opening.
The torch rolled against the body of the lifeless gunner. Una darted forward to pick it up and shine it in the injured man’s eyes. ‘That was me dropping the torch. He’s broken free. What should I do?’
‘Keep calm. Tell him there’s not enough room to haul him out through the cockpit,’ Brenda answered. ‘We’re nearly through. Ask him to stay where he is.’
‘He won’t understand what I’m saying.’ She held the torch with both hands, kept the beam trained on his face and tried anyway. ‘Wait,’ she murmured. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. It’s just me and my two friends. We’ll get you out.’
Her soft tone confused him. Her double-breasted coat seemed to be part of a uniform, which would make her the enemy, but her voice said something different. She was a slight woman – easy enough to overpower, and yet he hesitated. He glanced down at the blood on his hand, trying to ignore searing pains in his shoulder and leg.
Brenda and Joyce kept on hammering at the broken fuselage. The strong smell of spilt fuel bothered them and they realized that a small spark as stone struck metal might blow the whole thing up so they quickly threw the stones aside.
The gunner nodded and shouted to them about Feuer.
‘That’s right – fire.’ It was Joyce who replied. ‘Sit tight while we prise this open.’
‘Like a tin of sardines.’ Brenda’s gallows humour only made them try harder. The buckled metal had been weakened by the impact – they used all their strength to fold it back and create enough space for Una and the gunner to crawl through. ‘Hang on!’ she called through the opening. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘Only a few more minutes,’ Una told him as he became aware of his dead comrade sprawled across his gun. He crawled to him and tried to raise him but recoiled when he saw the smashed skull then scrambled back towards Una. He gestured towards the upper part of the cockpit with a questioning look.
Una shook her head. ‘I’m sorry – your pilot’s dead too.’
‘Tot,’ he breathed. He sagged forward and almost keeled over. She put out her hand to steady him. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, moving his lips as if in prayer.
It was Brenda who eased herself through the new opening and took in the scene – one man dead and one injured – though not too badly, by the look of him. ‘Follow me,’ she urged. ‘We’ll go down on our bellies and slither out.’
‘He won’t … he doesn’t …’ Una tried to explain. Seeing Brenda’s face had flooded her with such relief that she lost the ability to speak clearly.
‘Come,’ Brenda said again as her feet touched the ground and she reached out for him. ‘Komm.’
Nursing his injured shoulder with his blood-covered hand, the man went down on his belly and wriggled towards her.
‘It’s a miracle how you managed to survive this lot.’ Brenda surveyed the mangled metal and the body of the dead gunner. ‘I suppose your pilot made some sort of crash-landing before he hit the wall.’
He groaned and inched forward towards the cold air. Una lit his way, anxious not to be left alone in the belly of the plane and preparing to follow him through the gap as quickly as possible. Brenda and Joyce waited until his head and shoulders had emerged then took his weight.
‘That’s right – give him a shove from behind,’ Joyce told Una.
With a yelp of pain he tumbled out onto the ground where he lay on his back clutching his shoulder.
As Una wriggled through the gap, she handed the torch to Brenda. Then she landed in the snow beside the gunner and gulped in the air. Joyce pulled her to her feet and together they stared down at the man they’d rescued.
‘What’s wrong with him, do we know?’ Joyce asked. The man didn’t cut a sympathetic figure. There was something in his face that suggested brutality – the set of his jaw, the curl of his upper lip perhaps. And of course the uniform didn’t help. ‘He’s hurt his hand and his shoulder – anything else?’
‘He can’t speak a word of English, so I’m not sure.’ Una exhaled loudly as Brenda brushed the compacted snow from her back.
‘No broken bones, by the look of it.’ Joyce watched him warily as he sat up and took in his surroundings. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to walk him down to the hostel – if he cooperates, that is. We’ll probably meet the search party on their way up. One’s been organized, according to Mrs Craven.’
Una looked down the hillside into the valley bottom but the foggy darkness hid all signs of activity. ‘I suppose he’ll be treated as a prisoner of war from now on.’
‘I expect so.’ Brenda wasn’t eager to hand him over to the villagers. She felt he was their prisoner, not the search party’s. ‘Look, there’s a leak from the fuel tank on the wing. Let’s move him away from the plane to be on the safe side.’ As she spoke, she crouched down beside the man, pointed towards the leak and tried to explain. ‘Move, all right? In case of fire – feuer.’ She sniffed loudly then made an exaggerated boom noise and gave a gesture to show an explosion.
He nodded, got to his feet, then had to accept their support until they’d reached a safe distance.
‘I see now why he’s limping.’ Una pointed to a patch of blood on his trouser leg, just below the knee.
‘He’s in a bad way, poor chap.’ Joyce overcame her earlier judgement. He was bound to be suspicious of them and must be in a state of shock after seeing his comrades killed. She took off the scarf that she wore around her neck then pointed to his leg. ‘Bandage,’ she explained.
He sho
ok his head and scowled.
‘Too proud, eh?’ As she rewound the scarf round her neck, she began to understand how he might feel humiliated to have been taken prisoner by three young women.
‘Proud or not, we have to escort him off this hill.’ Brenda gestured for him to follow as she directed the torch onto the ground. She picked up the tracks they’d made on their way up and made her way carefully. ‘Take your time,’ she told him. ‘There’s no rush.’
He hesitated and when he looked back at the plane where his dead friends lay, his pale face was drained and his body shook.
‘Poor chap,’ Joyce said again. ‘It doesn’t matter whose side he’s on – you have to feel sorry for him.’
Una urged him to continue by touching his shoulder. ‘Please come.’
He raised his hand in salute then turned away from the plane. ‘Ich komme.’ He mumbled ceaselessly as he followed the three women down the steep slope – a stream of guttural words interspersed with two staccato names that they recognized – Deiter and Conrad – repeated often as he glanced back and seemed to make promises, tapping his fist against his chest and limping on.
They went on like this for several minutes, drawing closer to the elm trees that had been planted long ago to shelter Fieldhead from the worst of the northerly winds.
‘This battery’s jiggered.’ Brenda shook the torch but found that the beam had grown so dim that she could hardly see three feet in front of her.
Their airman stumbled and fell sideways into a snowdrift. Blood from his hand stained the pure white surface. He lay helpless until Joyce and Una pulled him back onto his feet. ‘It’s not far now,’ Una promised.
They were perhaps fifteen minutes from safety when they heard the search party.
‘Which way now?’ an angry voice yelled. ‘Maurice, can you hear me?’
‘I’m over here, stuck in a bloody drift!’
‘What the hell …? Jack, come over here!’ Bob Baxendale was forced to call for help.
A short way up the hill, Brenda came to a sudden halt. The German gunner stumbled into her and pushed her face down into the snow. There were grunts and a flurry of clumsy movements as Una and Joyce picked them both up.