There were several different ways of leaving an aeroplane—so Rudi had explained—and it all depended upon how much time you had which method you chose. Sometimes of course the plane was damaged and you had to leave in a hurry … but Franz need not worry about that. Franz could take lots of time and do everything slowly and carefully, and, this being so, it was extremely simple. Franz was to climb out of the cockpit through the sliding roof and allow himself to be blown off … that was all.
Suddenly Franz felt Max tugging at the straps of his parachute harness, he looked up in surprise and saw Max’s face quite near his own, smiling at him.
“Get ready,” said Max. “You have to take off that uniform, you know.”
Franz had forgotten this. He had his English clothes underneath the uniform, his English clothes with a little English money in the pockets … his fingers were all thumbs as he fumbled with the straps, but Max helped him and, in a few minutes, he was ready.
“See that his parachute is properly adjusted,” Rudi said.
“I have done so,” replied Max.
“Is he ready?”
“Yes.”
Rudi was circling now, circling above a rift in the clouds and looking down.
“Now!” he said in a firm tone. “Now, Franz—and hurry, for there is no time to waste. Help him, Max … Help him, and hurry …”
Max was already helping him and encouraging him. “It is easy,” he was saying, “it is so easy, Franz, … there, the roof is open … up you go! That’s right …”
“Hurry, Franz, there is no time to waste,” urged Rudi again.
Somehow or other Franz found himself climbing through the opening in the roof. He had known that the wind would be terrific but it was beyond anything that he had imagined—it was like a living force—it tore him off the roof and swept him backwards over the tail, and he felt himself being whirled into space like a leaf in an eddy. Then he was falling … falling …
He pulled the ripping bar.
Chapter Twelve
Franz opened his eyes … and then he shut them again for the pain in his head was so intense … there were fiery circles before his eyes, and a roaring sound in his ears. For a little while he lay still … he was alive, anyhow, and perhaps in a few minutes the pain would abate … he was alive.
Beneath his hands he could feel turf, and the woody stems of heather … he was alive and he was on a moor somewhere in Britain. He lay very still, but there was something in his brain urging him to move, urging him to make a bid for life and safety. Slowly Franz turned on his elbow and raised himself from the ground. Slowly he managed to open his eyes and accustom them to the glare. He saw now that he was sitting on a bare hillside and there was mist all round him. There were rocks behind him, and he decided that he must have hit his head on a rock as he came down … his head ached terribly. He put up his hand and tried to discover whether his head was cut, but there was no blood to be found. He had hurt his foot too, and already it had swollen badly.
The parachute lay beside him spread out upon the faded heather, limp and helpless-looking. It seemed odd to think that it had been so strong in the air, holding him up, for there was no life in it now. Franz unbuckled the harness and rolled the whole thing into an untidy bundle and hid it amongst a clump of gorse. He took a long time to accomplish this, because every time he moved he felt as if his head would split with pain, but at last it was done. The thing was hidden and unless a careful search was made it was unlikely to be found.
There was a small stream running down the hillside (it was like the streams that he and Roy had seen on their way to Inverdrum) it cascaded over some rocks and fell into a deep pool. Franz dabbled his hands in the water and then he wet his handkerchief and tied it round his head. The cold water revived him a little and he began to follow the stream down the hill. He had no very clear idea why he should follow it but it seemed the only thing to do … he wanted to lie down amongst the heather and sleep, but something urged him on, some subconscious feeling that he must go on … and on. His head felt top-heavy and full of pain and his foot was so swollen that he could hardly bear to put it on the ground, but he limped on. He limped on until he caught his foot in a wiry heather-stem and pitched forward on his face.
The fall jarred him unbearably and he lay there for some minutes without moving. He was very cold and a deadly feeling of sickness was on him … he felt so ill that it seemed impossible to move, but somehow or other he managed to scramble on to his feet, and to limp on.
The mist was thinning now—it was really a cloud which was resting on the hill—and suddenly Franz found himself in bright sunshine. Below him was a road, a narrow strip of grey ribbon winding across the deserted moor. The sunshine hurt his eyes and the whole world seemed to be swaying beneath his feet … Franz staggered on. He fell several times and each time he fell it was more difficult to get up again … there was a film before his eyes—it was like looking through water—and everything seemed to waver and was distorted. He reached a gate at the roadside and clung to it and then a black curtain swept over him and the world was blotted out.
Franz was floating in empty space. He was floating down through darkness shot with fiery lights, and the parachute was tight beneath his arms. Down, down he floated, alone in illimitable space. Somehow or other he seemed to know that when he reached the bottom it would be the end … but I don’t want to die, he thought. He reached out and caught hold of the wing of the Heinkel and then Rudi’s voice came to him and shouted to him to let go … but I don’t want to die, he thought. Everything swirled round him and he was falling, falling into space and the darkness was shot with fiery lights. He was drowning now, drowning in a cold, dark sea, and twice or thrice he rose to the surface and tried to grasp the side of the boat, but each time he sank before he could open his eyes. He shouted—or tried to shout—“Hilf mir … halte fest …”
“You’re quite safe,” said a voice close to his ear. He opened his eyes and became aware of a woman’s face framed in a white cap. It was bending over him.
“Halte fest,” cried Franz again, struggling to the surface.
She seemed miraculously to understand. She was holding him. Her firm hands were cool upon his wrists, and, for a moment he lay secure.
Days passed, and long nights made up of horrifying dreams. He was always falling, sinking, drowning, always knew that Death waited at the bottom of the abyss; he was always alone, and the loneliness was profund, there was no other soul near to help him and encourage him in his struggle … Then he would wake suddenly to find the room dark, save for a shaded nightlamp on the table beside his bed, or to find it bright with sunlight and the woman in the white cap bending over him … he would clench his hands and try to hold on to life but, before he could grasp it, he would be sinking again. Sometimes when he woke like this he was conscious of whispering voices, or the tinkle of a glass, and once he opened his eyes and saw a bearded face, a kind old face with dark-brown eyes oddly magnified by the lenses of a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He was conscious of these things as if they were far away and belonged to another life, or as if they were happening to another person. It was his dreams that were real, and his dreams were lonely and dreadful.
Gradually his conscious moments lengthened and he was able to take in his surroundings: the small bare room, the white-washed ceiling, the primrose coloured walls, a glass-topped table with some medicine bottles on it, and a white jug with a linen cover. There were blue beads on this cover and they jingled against the side of the jug when the cover was removed. His dreams were different now. The nightmare of falling and sinking came less often … he was running in a meadow and Tant’ Anna was coming towards him. Her eyes were blue, and she was wearing a scarf … a blue scarf made of wool … and he ran so fast to meet her that he fell. He fell and lay there, floating between two worlds. Now he was swimming in a warm sea with long, even strokes, and Roy was swimming strongly by his side. “You old dark horse,” Roy was saying. “You old dark h
orse, Frank” …
There was a jingle of beads and he opened his eyes and saw the woman’s face, she had a cup in her hand.
“I’m Frank again,” he said and the words seemed to come from a long way off. He could scarcely hear them for the rushing noise in his ears.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That’s nice, you’re Frank. What’s your other name, dearie?”
He could not remember and the effort exhausted him. He drifted away amongst the shadows.
The next time he woke it was dark, and the nightlight was burning dimly. He heard a rustle beside his bed and a hand felt below his armpit for the thermometer. His brain was clear, now, and he knew that he was ill in a strange place. He was very ill—perhaps he was dying. People often had an interval of complete consciousness and lucidity just before they died. He was dying and he was all alone. There was nobody near him—nobody who cared.
The nurse was looking at the thermometer, her head thrown back a little as if she were long sighted; she examined it carefully and then pursed her lips and began to shake it down. Her eyes fell and focussed on her patient’s face.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she exclaimed. “You’d like a nice drink, wouldn’t you?”
“Very ill,” whispered Frank.
“Poor boy,” she said, smoothing the sheet, “poor laddie! Here’s a nice drink.”
He would have liked a drink but there was something he must do first, something he must do before he drifted away into that strange dreamland which he had inhabited for so long.
“Write,” he said clearly.
She stooped down. “What is it?” she asked.
“Write,” said Frank again.
She understood this time and fetched a pad and a pencil, and bent over him so that she could hear what he wanted to say.
“Major … Worthington … Fernacres … Chellford,” said Frank.
It was a frightful effort, and it left him weak and trembling … he slipped away into darkness again.
Tides of time rolled on. He woke and slept and woke again, and each time he woke there was a cup at his lips. His dreams were fainter and more vague and the real world came nearer, the rushing noise in his ears diminished.
Suddenly the clouds lifted. He woke one morning and found that he felt different, drained of feeling and strength but strangely peaceful. The ceiling was streaked with sunshine. Shadows flowed across it like water. He lay at rest and watched the shadows for a long time.
Somebody said, “He’s conscious now. See if he knows you.”
There was a movement beside his bed and he turned his head a little on the pillow and saw Dane. Their eyes met.
“Hullo, old chap!” said Dane. “I’m here all right. Don’t talk.”
He couldn’t talk anyhow. There was a queer feeling in his throat and his eyes were full of tears.
Chapter Thirteen
The next time Frank awoke it was broad daylight. He woke slowly and easily and the rushing in his ears had almost gone. He turned his head from side to side and found that the pain had almost gone too. He was better—much better—but he felt as if he had been washed up on the shore after a storm.
“Flotsam—no, jetsam,” said Frank.
“What did he say?” somebody inquired and a bearded face with large brown eyes swam into view.
“I said jetsam,” declared Frank.
“Not bad,” agreed the man. “Not bad at all. That’s what you are.”
“You’re real,” said Frank thoughtfully.
“Did you think I was just another bad dream?”
“Not a very bad one.”
“I’m your doctor, and I’m fairly well pleased with you. You’ve a grand constitution. See and take care of yourself and do what Nurse tells you.”
“You’re Scottish.”
“Well, what else did you expect?”
“I didn’t know where I was.”
The doctor looked at him. “I daresay not,” he said, “and let me tell you you’re lucky to be here at all. Imphm—well, here you are, anyway, and well on the right road.”
“I’m hungry,” Frank said. “I want something to eat, something solid.”
“You do, do you—a beefsteak, I suppose.?”
“Bread and butter and tea,” said Frank dreamily. “English bread and butter and Indian tea.”
“And what’s wrong with Scottish bread and butter?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had some,” said Frank cheekily.
There was silence for a little and Frank lay and looked at the ceiling with its shifting shadows, and presently he heard the rustle of a starched apron and the sound of a tray being set down on the table.
“Here’s your bread and butter,” said the nurse cheerfully, “and a nice cup of tea. The doctor says it won’t do you a bit of harm.” She slipped an extra pillow beneath his head and began to feed him dexterously. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m always glad when a patient begins to get solids. You’ll feel quite different soon. Your friend is coming to see you in a wee while and you can talk to him for ten minutes. There, it’s all finished.”
“It was good,” said Frank, “just as good as English bread and butter—tell the doctor I said so.”
Dane came in and stood there looking at him, and Frank looked back at Dane. Why had he sent that message to Dane? It was so odd, because he had made up his mind firmly that he would hold no communication at all with Fernacres … and then he had sent that message. Why had he done that?
“I thought I was dying. That was why,” Frank said.
“Why what?” Dane inquired in a bewildered tone.
“Why I sent for you.”
“Was that the only reason?”
“Yes,” said Frank.
Dane came over to the bed and sat down beside him.
“There’s such a lot to tell you,” said Frank with a sigh.
“Don’t worry,” said Dane quickly. “You can tell me gradually when you begin to feel stronger. I’ll do most of the talking.”
“Did they send for you?” Frank inquired.
“Yes,” replied Dane with a smile. “I got a most mysterious letter from Doctor Duthie to say that he was attending a young man in the Cottage Hospital. The young man was too ill to give his name, and he had no papers on him, nor anything which could provide the smallest clue to his identity. In a lucid interval he had mentioned my name and address to the nurse and Doctor Duthie hoped sincerely that I would be able to identify him.”
“What else?” inquired Frank, smiling.
“The young man had been brought to Dalfinnan Hospital by a passing motorist who had found him lying at the side of a road, but his injuries did not appear to be due to a road accident. Doctor Duthie was at a loss to account for the injuries sustained by his patient, they consisted of a fractured skull and a—”
“A fractured skull?” inquired Frank in horrified tones.
“He didn’t call it that,” admitted Dane; “but I gather that’s what it was. You’re getting on splendidly now, so there’s no need to worry, but you have been very ill indeed. They were glad to shift some of the responsibility.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t know,” replied Dane smiling, “but I thought it might be. It was just as well to make sure.”
“Have I been talking?” inquired Frank anxiously.
“Talking!” exclaimed Dane. “You never ceased talking for a single moment. Doctor Duthie told me you talked for days, and it was all in a language which he recognised as German—though apparently he could only understand a word here and there—”
Frank gave a little groan of relief.
“Just as well—eh?” Dane inquired, looking at him intently.
“I’m full of secrets,” said Frank wearily, “I’ve been full of secrets for months … full up to the brim. Sometimes I felt as if I might burst … Dane, I believe that’s what happened,” he added in a surprised tone.
“Oh yes,” agreed Dane,
“there’s no doubt about that. You burst, Frank. We’re putting the pieces together again, and soon the cracks won’t be noticeable … but the point is I had to do something to allay their anxiety. I had to tell them who you were. I took the liberty of saying you were my cousin, Frank Hyde, and that you had been in Germany for months on a Secret Mission.”
“Oh, Dane, it was good of you!”
“Nonsense—I had to say something. I had to give you some background. I couldn’t tell them where you had come from because I didn’t know. You’re the local mystery, Frank. The police have been making inquiries all over the country but they couldn’t find out anything about you … in fact you seemed to have dropped from the clouds.”
“I did,” said Frank with a feeble chuckle.
“You did what?”
“Dropped from the clouds.”
It was at this moment that the nurse bustled in and declared that the ten minutes were up. Dane rose very reluctantly indeed—he felt like a man who has been reading an exciting serial which stops abruptly at the most interesting moment.…
“To be continued next week,” said Frank, smiling.
Although he was too weak to talk much there were long hours when Frank lay awake, and his brain was so clear—clean-washed like a plate-glass window—that he began to understand many things which he had not understood before. All the strange things that had happened to him (thought Frank) had happened in a natural sequence. He had had the power of choice of course, but, because he was fashioned in a certain way, he had been bound to choose as he had chosen. Everything in himself and everything that had happened to him had built him up into what he had now become. He thought of all that Tant’ Anna had told him—it was part of him now—he thought of the suffering which was being endured and he remembered that Tant’ Anna had said it was because there was hatred in the world—hatred and mistrust instead of love between man and man.
The English Air Page 26