Philly
I tightened my safety harness, checking the satchel was still tucked beneath my seat, as the pitch of the engine slowed a little and we began to circle. I squinted out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the pale smudge of the lavender field.
And then suddenly, out of nowhere, came a noise like the sound of hailstones rattling against the side of the plane.
The Lizzie bucked and lurched as a German fighter plane roared by, close enough for me to see the gleam of its silver paintwork and the stark black swastika on its tail fin in the moonlight.
It must have been on its way somewhere else, though, because to my relief it didn’t turn back to finish us off but disappeared upwards to resume its pursuit of perhaps a bigger, more important prey.
Up front, Commander Elliot sat upright, apparently unperturbed. The Lizzie’s engine continued to slow as we descended towards the field, which I could make out ahead of us now.
‘That was close! Where were we hit?’ I shouted over the intercom.
There was no reply. But then I realised the sound of the engine had changed, overlain by a hollow whistling of the wind, and I saw the canopy had been pierced by a line of bullet holes.
There was still no reply from Jim Elliot and, at first, I thought he was just concentrating on finding the marker lights beneath us.
But then, to my horror, he slowly slipped sideways in his seat, and I saw the blood blossoming from his neck like a red rose opening its petals to the sun.
I think I screamed his name.
Time seemed to slow as the realisation that we were going to crash began to dawn. And then I heard Teddy’s voice, as if in one of my troubled dreams, and he was telling me to move. ‘Fly the plane, Philly,’ he was saying. ‘You have to try to fly the plane.’
I don’t remember undoing the straps that held me, but I flung myself across the compartment and desperately attempted to squeeze myself through the gap between the reinforcing struts separating me from the cockpit.
My jacket caught on the metal but I wrenched it free, buttons pinging on to the floor, and tried again to push myself through the gap alongside the fuel tank.
The space was too tight though. I was trapped.
And the unyielding steel of the tank was a horrible reminder that the bomber pilots at the base used to joke that Lysanders were basically flying incendiary devices – above all, these specially adapted ones with the additional tank welded on below.
The plane continued its ponderous descent.
Surely the engine must stall? But somehow the prop kept on turning and I watched helplessly as the grey smudge of the lavender field grew closer.
The plane slowed even more until it felt as if we hung in the sky like some helpless stringed puppet and with a grinding crunch the automatic wing flaps closed for landing.
I could see the ground, tantalisingly close ahead of us.
There were no torches marking the landing strip.
If the maquisards had been there, they must have scattered at the sight of the German plane.
I knew if I stayed where I was, wedged between the reinforcing struts, I would surely be killed on impact – that is, if the exploding fuel tank didn’t incinerate me first – so I wriggled backwards, manoeuvring on to the rear-facing passenger seat.
I groped desperately for the straps, but in my panic I couldn’t find them.
Instead, I hunched over, hooking one leg around the metal leg of the chair to try to brace myself for the impact.
With another lurch, the fixed landing gear and heavy extra fuel tank on the underside of the plane collided with the trees.
The dull roar of the labouring engine ceased suddenly as it stalled at last and instead my ears were filled with the screech of tearing metal.
And then the world spun upside down as the Lysander’s starboard wing dropped and the plane corkscrewed.
My leg twisted with a sickening wrench as everything seemed to implode around me.
And then my head collided with the canopy, and everything went black.
I think it was the pain that brought me round as the men pulled me from the wreckage.
I screamed as they freed my leg from the jagged metal on which it was impaled.
They were speaking French, their voices low and urgent, saying something about blood, too much blood.
I remember looking up from the ground on which they’d laid me, among a crush of lavender beside the wreckage of the plane, and seeing the dying moon caught in the torn branches of the trees overhead.
And then the pain surged through me once more, too much to bear, and I must have lost consciousness again.
I dreamed I was searching for something, although I couldn’t quite remember what.
I was stumbling through the woods, and I could hear sounds of muffled voices, coming and going through the trees, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Up ahead I could see a faint light, so I pushed on towards it, the effort almost more than I could manage, until I reached a clearing.
The figure of a woman stood there in a dark-blue uniform, her blonde hair the colour of moonshine. She turned towards me and smiled.
‘Amy!’ I tried to say her name, but it caught in my chest. I staggered forward, wanting to reach her, but she shook her head, and her expression grew sorrowful.
She opened her mouth to speak and I strained to hear her words, which were little more than a whisper.
They were from Ben’s poem. ‘ The dark of the moon, in the night that we face, holds the promise that helps us get through.’ I felt myself falling as she turned and walked away.
I longed to go with her, but it was the thought of Ben’s words that was holding me back, keeping me pinned to the earth among the tumbled leaves on the forest floor.
The mutter of voices came to me again from the trees, but I was too exhausted to move.
The pain and the sadness were too much to bear.
Then the voices faded, and oblivion drew me into its welcome embrace once more.
I woke in a sort of twilight and looked up, expecting to see the trees overhead again.
But instead of the darkening sky, there was a white plaster ceiling above a shuttered window.
And instead of the leaves beneath me, there were smooth cotton sheets.
A cool hand pressed against my brow. It felt hard to turn my head to look, it was too hot and heavy, my neck too stiff, too sore.
Then the hand moved away, and Janina’s face appeared above me, a worried smile crinkling the skin at the edges of her eyes.
‘Eveline,’ she said. ‘ Dzi?ki Bogu! Thank God! We thought we’d lost you.’
She lifted my head and held a glass of water to my lips. I drank thirstily. My tongue felt too big for my mouth, and my voice cracked as I tried to find the words, fragments of memory returning ...
‘The plane crashed.’
She nodded.
‘Need to hide it from the enemy ...’
‘Hush,’ she said. ‘It’s been taken care of.’
‘The pilot . . . ?’
She shook her head. ‘He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.’
‘There was an envelope ...’ I said. Panic filled me as I remembered the money and papers for the Poles’ escape. I struggled to try to sit up, but she pressed gently on my shoulder, making me lie still.
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we have it safe. Thank you for bringing it for us. Here, try to drink a little more.’
Something felt wrong. I frowned, concentrating. Everything ached. But there was a deeper, more intense pain somewhere, too.
‘My leg . . .’ I said.
‘Hush,’ she said again, gently wiping my face with a cool cloth. ‘You were badly hurt in the crash. But we are taking care of you now. Try to sleep again. I am here. You are safe.’
The next time I swam upwards through the layers of sleep and troubled dreams, it must have been night-time.
The room was dark and silent, the air thick with the smell of some sort of disinfectant.
With an effort, I turned my head. Janina’s husband, Jakub, appeared to be asleep in a chair beside the bed but he must have sensed my movement because he opened his eyes and smiled.
‘Here,’ he said, leaning forward to pour water from a jug into a glass and hold it to my lips. ‘Drink a little.’
‘Janina ...?’ I asked once I’d swallowed a few sips and my tongue could work again.
‘I’m doing the night shift so she can get some sleep.’
‘The baby . . . ?’
‘Is growing well. Kicking now. Going to be a strong one, like its matka .’
I licked my lips and swallowed, with an effort, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Four days. You were badly injured in the crash, scarcely alive when the maquisards brought you here. We need to get you out as soon as you’re strong enough, so you can get proper treatment.
We’ve sent a message back to Britain. But you’re too sick to travel at the moment.
In any case, the moon is dying now, so it will be at least two weeks.
They will come and get you as soon as they can. ’
I felt there was something important I needed to tell him, something urgent.
But my brain felt muddled, and I struggled to remember what it was.
Then it came back to me. A wave of dizziness engulfed me as I tried to sit up, forcing me to fall back against the pillow.
‘Jakub, you all need to get out of France now. Go immediately. That was what they sent me to tell you. To give you the papers you’ll need and to tell you to go to Spain.
The Germans will take control of the whole of France any day.
It will be too dangerous for you all to stay here. ’
He smiled again, a little sadly. ‘This we already know,’ he said. ‘We hear the messages, can tell they are growing uneasy. But our French hosts continue to look after us and our work here is important. We cannot leave just yet.’
‘We will take care of you in Britain. If you can get across the border into Spain, we’ll get you out. It will be so much safer for all of you there. Think of your baby, Jakub!’
He nodded. ‘We will go soon, don’t worry. But for now we need to stay and keep on telling the Allies what is happening in the east. And we won’t desert you.’
I began to protest again but he hushed me. ‘Calm yourself, Eveline. I promise we will go soon. We’ll talk to Bolek, because we’ll need his help to get through France to the mountains. We have a little more time, I think. Once the British can come for you, then we will leave.’
When Jakub went off to refill the water jug, I gingerly raised my throbbing head from the pillow and lifted the sheet that covered my battered body.
My right leg was swathed in bandages from ankle to thigh and around the shin a dark bloodstain oozed through the thick layers of wrapping.
Another wave of weakness forced me to lie back again.
I couldn’t go anywhere even if I tried. I had to accept I was stuck there for at least the next couple of weeks.
The days passed slowly. I drifted in and out of sleep and Janina was there when I woke, trying to encourage me to drink the nourishing broth she’d made, or helping me clean myself with a bowl of water and a washcloth.
I think the priest was there once or twice, holding my hand, praying at my bedside, although my mind was so muddled I wasn’t sure if perhaps I dreamed that.
A French doctor came to change the dressings on my leg.
His visits were usually followed by muttered conversations with Janina, which I couldn’t hear.
They cared for me attentively, but I found it frustrating that I wasn’t getting better any faster.
I’d already been enough of a burden to my hosts.
I wanted to be ready to walk to the lavender field and climb the ladder into the Lysander that would come for me as soon as the moon grew to fullness.
But the pain and the weakness were ever present and so I swallowed down the pills the doctor gave me with gratitude, sinking back into the release of sleep.
I must have been there for about a week, existing in that limbo, drifting in and out of consciousness. But then something changed.
Amy appeared to me in a dream again, standing in that same clearing in a forest. But this time, instead of turning away, she smiled at me in the moonlight and beckoned me to follow her.
I took a faltering step towards the trees, then another, unsure whether my injured leg could carry me.
It hurt. But, somehow, I understood that if I followed Amy the pain would end . ..
All at once, Janina was shaking me awake, saying, ‘Eveline! Eveline, wake up!’ and the doctor was in the room.
My body was burning with fever, but my fingers and toes felt icy cold.
Janina held my hand while the doctor removed the bandages from my leg.
A sickly stench filled the room, and I realised it came from my wounds.
I watched Janina’s face, saw her blanch.
The doctor frowned. He said something to her and at first I thought he must be referring to the seven days that remained before I could be evacuated.
But then he said the word again: ‘ Septicémie ...’ My fever-muddled brain struggled to decode it.
And then I understood. Sepsis had set in.
I understood the next thing he said as well. ‘ Nous devons amputer. ’ We have to amputate. ‘ Sinon, elle mourra. ’ Otherwise, she will die.