you won’t be for long if you don’t get out of there and over here.” As if to emphasize the point, a line of holes appear in the Parasol’s wing. I rip my harness off and haul myself out. But when I try to run, my right leg gives way beneath me and I collapse onto the grass, strands of barbed wire snagging at my jacket.
“Keep your head down and crawl left,” the hidden voice advises.
By now there’s rifle and machine-gun fire from both sides, and I can hear bullets whining over me.
The Pour le Mérite! I forgot it. It’s still tied in the cockpit. I turn my head, but the bullets snapping through the Parasol convince me that it would be suicide to try to get back to the plane, even if I could make it with my injured leg. My lucky charm will have to wait until later.
Lying on my left side to minimize the pain, I slither along until I come to a break in the wire. I crawl through and fall, with great relief and a shout of pain, onto the fire step inside the trench.
My leg is in agony. I look down to see a long tear in my trouser on the outside of my thigh and a spreading bloodstain. I feel weak and nauseous. But at least the machine-gun fire is dying down.
“You’re lucky, flyboy.” I look up to see an officer standing before me. He’s wearing the distinctive blue puttees of the Newfoundland Regiment, and there’s a lance corporal standing behind him. “Second Lieutenant Jim Raleigh,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome to our little corner of paradise. Thought you were headed for the Danger Tree out there. You didn’t miss it by much. I’ll get my servant, Lance Corporal Broughton, to take a look at that leg.”
We shake hands and I introduce myself. Then Broughton steps forward, cuts open my trouser leg and begins washing the wound. I clench my teeth.
“Looks like you’re in for a rest, sir,” he says cheerfully. “Maybe even some home leave. Doesn’t look too bad, though. Deep, but I can’t see any bone. Keep it clean and let those lovely nurses fuss over you, and you’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you,” I say as he begins wrapping a bandage tightly around my thigh.
“I’ve seen lots worse,” Broughton declares. “I used to be an orderly in the hospital in St. John’s. The wounds I’ve seen on those fisherman and sealers coming back to port, you wouldn’t believe.”
I’m feeling a bit better, and as Broughton chatters on, I look around. Everything I see makes me glad to be a pilot. The trench is deep enough to stand in and the wall I’m leaning against is sandbagged, but the rest is muddy. Pieces of equipment are scattered all over, and men are sprawled either on the fire step or in shallow holes dug out of the trench wall. There’s a strong smell of earth and nearby toilets, but there’s also something else, a strange sweetness that underlies the heavier odors.
“Not the clean air you’re used to, I bet,” says Raleigh, appearing to read my mind. “We took this stretch over from the French. There’s not been much fighting here recently, but occasionally an exploding shell turns up a body from the early days. Not pleasant, but what can you do? Can you walk?”
S OLDIERS IN THE TRENCHES SURROUNDED BY SANDBAGS .
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You sit there for a minute, sir,” says Broughton, tying off the ends of the bandage. “I’ve got just the thing for you. There’s a pile of broken duckboards down the communication trench. There’s a bit therethat’d be just right. Not the perfect crutch, but it’ll do for now.” He stands and hurries off.
“When you’re set, come along to the dugout and we can work out how to get you back to your unit.” Raleigh retreats along the trench and ducks into an opening on the right.
The lance corporal returns with a length of wood from one of the duckboards that line the bottom of the trench. There are several crosspieces attached. He breaks off all but one that’s about the right height
“Keep your head down and crawl left,” the hidden voice advises.
By now there’s rifle and machine-gun fire from both sides, and I can hear bullets whining over me.
The Pour le Mérite! I forgot it. It’s still tied in the cockpit. I turn my head, but the bullets snapping through the Parasol convince me that it would be suicide to try to get back to the plane, even if I could make it with my injured leg. My lucky charm will have to wait until later.
Lying on my left side to minimize the pain, I slither along until I come to a break in the wire. I crawl through and fall, with great relief and a shout of pain, onto the fire step inside the trench.
My leg is in agony. I look down to see a long tear in my trouser on the outside of my thigh and a spreading bloodstain. I feel weak and nauseous. But at least the machine-gun fire is dying down.
“You’re lucky, flyboy.” I look up to see an officer standing before me. He’s wearing the distinctive blue puttees of the Newfoundland Regiment, and there’s a lance corporal standing behind him. “Second Lieutenant Jim Raleigh,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome to our little corner of paradise. Thought you were headed for the Danger Tree out there. You didn’t miss it by much. I’ll get my servant, Lance Corporal Broughton, to take a look at that leg.”
We shake hands and I introduce myself. Then Broughton steps forward, cuts open my trouser leg and begins washing the wound. I clench my teeth.
“Looks like you’re in for a rest, sir,” he says cheerfully. “Maybe even some home leave. Doesn’t look too bad, though. Deep, but I can’t see any bone. Keep it clean and let those lovely nurses fuss over you, and you’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you,” I say as he begins wrapping a bandage tightly around my thigh.
“I’ve seen lots worse,” Broughton declares. “I used to be an orderly in the hospital in St. John’s. The wounds I’ve seen on those fisherman and sealers coming back to port, you wouldn’t believe.”
I’m feeling a bit better, and as Broughton chatters on, I look around. Everything I see makes me glad to be a pilot. The trench is deep enough to stand in and the wall I’m leaning against is sandbagged, but the rest is muddy. Pieces of equipment are scattered all over, and men are sprawled either on the fire step or in shallow holes dug out of the trench wall. There’s a strong smell of earth and nearby toilets, but there’s also something else, a strange sweetness that underlies the heavier odors.
“Not the clean air you’re used to, I bet,” says Raleigh, appearing to read my mind. “We took this stretch over from the French. There’s not been much fighting here recently, but occasionally an exploding shell turns up a body from the early days. Not pleasant, but what can you do? Can you walk?”
S OLDIERS IN THE TRENCHES SURROUNDED BY SANDBAGS .
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You sit there for a minute, sir,” says Broughton, tying off the ends of the bandage. “I’ve got just the thing for you. There’s a pile of broken duckboards down the communication trench. There’s a bit therethat’d be just right. Not the perfect crutch, but it’ll do for now.” He stands and hurries off.
“When you’re set, come along to the dugout and we can work out how to get you back to your unit.” Raleigh retreats along the trench and ducks into an opening on the right.
The lance corporal returns with a length of wood from one of the duckboards that line the bottom of the trench. There are several crosspieces attached. He breaks off all but one that’s about the right height
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