Three Fokkers dropped from the cloud cover above.
A Spandau machine gun chewed a dual line of holes through my starboard upper wing. What was left of the bracing wire began to flay the Camel's lower wing to pieces. A burst from my Vickers put one of the German planes out of the dogfight, but I had no time to glory in my kill. I pulled up on the stick in a vain effort to climb and spun out of control. A chap from Sopwith Aviation had warned me, as well as a hangar full of other RAF flyboys, about the inherent spin characteristics during training last summer. At low speed the machine displayed a tendency to go into a tailspin.
That morning's flight was to be reconnaissance only. My wingman, a major, and I were to locate and report any observation zeppelins gathered over some troop formations the generals wanted to keep a secret.
"That locate and report business is rubbish," my friend the major said as we walked out of the hangar and across the airfield, "We're going to do some balloon-busting."
I had crawled into the cockpit of my Sopwith Camel.
The major's bi-plane took off ahead of me, trundling down the grass runway ahead of my own machine and lifted into the wind. I followed into the sky, hoping for a chance to see some action. But two hours into the patrol we still had nothing to report. For a skyline allegedly swarming with gasbags the sky remained overcast and uneventful. At least I was airborne. I'd rather fly a plane than a desk any day. I took a fuel gauge reading. Low.
Time to head back to the Aerodrome.
The major branched off, flying out of my sight. I never saw the major again; I hope he's well.
I remember thinking, "Bloody hard to see out of these goggles," when I'd become preoccupied with the Fokkers. The remaining two buzzed overhead like angry bees. My folly was attempting to outmaneuver them. I climbed when I should have dived. My Camel also chose that critical moment to stall. At that altitude the instant silence of a dead engine can send a pilot's heart into his mouth. I thought my heart would burst from the sickening falling sensation.
As I plummeted toward France those Spandau machine guns chattered again. Bullets ripped into my right leg. Hot pain lanced through me before an icy calm of shock swam over me. The square patterns of the fields spun round and round faster, but I saw everything with an unreal clarity. My starboard wings shredded as if beaten by ferocious steel whips. One of the Fokkers flew into my line of sight. My head drooped. I noticed the cockpit awash with blood.
The face of the French girl from the night before reeled through my mind, but I could not remember her name. Nor could I recall the name of my wife as the Sopwith Camel plunged into the unforgiving winter soil.
A number of things registered at the point of impact.
The jarring cessation of downward spiraling motion accompanied by an explosion and the heat of flames.
Then I felt nothing.
I awoke to the sound of running water, the voices of people shouting.
A high bluff overlooked where I lay on my back, unable to move. From the cliff a group of savages looked down at me, their faces smeared with war paint. They cheered my predicament and waved their spears. I closed my eyes for a moment, when I reopened them the men were gone. Apparently they had left me for dead. My head lolled, sluggish syllables poured from between my lips. The unmistakable feel of grass touched my bare legs, but my back brushed against sand.
I smelled sweet flowers in the warm breeze. A layer of sand stuck to the sweat of my tattooed arm.
My tattooed arm? I, Colonel Daniel Walker, aged fifty, of the Royal Air Force, had no tattoos! But I could only see my arm however and couldn't lift it for a closer examination. I wanted to spit the vile taste from my mouth, but lacked the wherewithal. I must be delirious, I thought.
But not dead!
All five senses were accounted for. Despite a bad taste in my mouth the scent of flowers filled my nostrils. I felt the surface of the ground beneath me, had heard and seen people above me. My limbs lay motionless but my chest rose and fell with labored breathing.
Why was I not a cinder in the French snow?
As my eyes traveled down the expanse of my body a cold finger of panic probed my guts. Below my waist was a scarlet mass. All the dizzying hope of still being alive faded in bitter disappointment. Had I been unmanned by the hail of lead from the Spandaus? I remembered the cockpit splashed with blood. Had I survived a terrible crash only to emerge as half a man? Any soldier preferred death over dismemberment. Sadness descended on me.
I groaned as I looked again down the length of my body and saw bright red. Something gold glinted just below my navel. What in God's name? Then the breeze blew on my legs, high on my legs. Would a man still have feeling in that area if so sorely wounded? A gust of wind caused a scarlet flap to flutter in the air like silk. I squeezed my eyes shut having no desire to look upon so ghastly a wound. My arm wouldn't move, but my fingers would. Cautiously I shifted my hand and touched my hip, felt the feel of silk between my fingers. That encouraged me to open my eyes again. What I had thought a red mass of torn skin and organs was a garment of some sort. I blinked several times unbelieving.
Around my hips I wore a scarlet loincloth and the gold object below my belly appeared to be an elaborate belt buckle. "Walker, you're delirious," I said aloud. The words sounded foreign to me. I knew what I meant to say and had said it, but the words didn't come out in English. Or French either, a language I know very little about.
Relaxing the muscles in my neck I allowed my head to roll back to the side. The sight of the tattoos on my arm added to my certainty of delirium. Off to my left, water blazed in the sunshine and I shut my eyes. I listened to the water, ignoring the questions roiling in my mind.
Something tickled my cheek. I cracked my eyelids. A long lock of black hair, like a woman's, brushed my chin. Ah, my French lover had black hair; she came to rescue me; what was her name? I sought to look upon her face, but no woman leaned over me so the hair must be mine, except I had had a haircut a week ago in Bois de Marmal. My gray hair didn't reach my ears let alone my chin. I was hallucinating, seeing painted warriors with spears and women's hair, babbling in a strange tongue.
My eyes closed again.
I surrendered myself to blissful darkness.
Footsteps crunched through the sand and came to a halt close to me. I tried to look up, but the effort kept me from doing so.
The toe of a shoe, or boot, nudged my arm. I mumbled wordlessly.
"By the seven gray gods, he lives," a voice spoke, the language foreign to me, but I understood the words well enough.
"No one could survive that fall," a second voice disagreed. "Look how high the top of the cliff is from here."
"I don't believe it myself, " the first voice replied. The toe prodded at me again. "He just tried to say something. He moved his head."
"It cannot be," said the other man. I heard the rustle of cloth beside me. I smelled a strong odor of sweat. Fingertips touched my chest, the palm of a hand pressed down over my heart.
Not opening my eyes I asked, "Who are you?" The words sounded odd on my lips yet once more I understood.
"Does the Sheikh believe me now?" asked the first man.
"His heart's beating." The hand left my chest, fingers touched my face, turned my head back and forth. The voice of the Sheikh hissed in my ear: "Thwart, Thwart! Gather your wits about you, man."
"Must drink," I grated, "thirsty."
"Don't just stand there, Namtor. There's wine in the saddlebag."
I heard footsteps in the sand.
Someone knelt beside me. A hand clamped my jaw and propped my head back, liquid dribbled across my lips, sprinkled across my tongue. I drank hungrily at the sweetest wine I'd ever tasted.
"Enough, Namtor, we don't need a hurt man who's drunk to look after," snapped the Sheikh. "Put him over the back of one of the dromendaries. We must make haste back to the camp. The Askaar are no doubt still nearby."
Briefly my eyes opened when I felt myself being lifted. The whole world tilted and I saw sand and sky, tropical greenery. Long hair hung in my face. I glimpsed a man in a dirty white burnoose standing next to a line of camels.
