Page 35 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Thirty-Three

No one even tries talking over the rattle of the bus’s engine or the clatter of its suspension against the potholed road.

Then someone by the window gasps, and suddenly four or five people are leaning forwards, craning to try to see something.

When the other half of the bus shift towards whatever they are looking at, the bus lurches, tips and crunches to a halt.

Vittoria and I force the pram back out onto the road so that everyone can get off.

Standing side by side, we shade our eyes and squint into the sun.

Then I see it: a small plane is half-flying, half-falling downwards, smoke trailing from its engine, and it seems to stop and start in mid-air.

‘British!’ someone cries as the aircraft rises and falls as if buffeted by invisible forces. ‘Spitfire! Must be on patrol. Something’s gone wrong.’

The aircraft descends further, gathering pace as it hurtles towards us.

‘He has not ejected – he will die,’ another cries.

‘Why doesn’t he eject?’

‘Must be trapped . . . a malfunction.’

‘No hope of landing safely,’ says another. ‘It will crash. He will die.’

Scanning the surroundings, I realise they are right. The terraced fields around us are long but narrow and edged with low stone walls. The chances of putting anything down safely on the uneven terrain at that speed must be negligible.

‘Oh, God,’ I whisper.

I want to look away, but as with everyone else in the road, my eyes are glued to the Spitfire as it looms ever bigger in the sky.

In a few heartbeats, I can see the markings on the underside of its wings and the outline of the pilot.

Perhaps he is already unconscious. I hope he’s already unconscious.

Then it lurches down into the field next to the road.

One wing dips so low it ploughs a furrow in the dry soil, sending rocks and earth exploding into the air.

Somehow, the impact seems to right the dangerously listing aircraft just as it contacts the ground.

There’s a sickening crunch as metal folds and falls apart.

Smoke billows out of its engines as it skids the length of the field on its belly. Any second now, the nose of the plane will smash into the stone wall.

As one, we all clamber over into the field, racing towards where the impact will be Only Vittoria stays behind with the children.

Then, at the very last second, the Spitfire’s tail slides to the left, slowing its speed and bringing it horizontal to the wall. It slams against the stone, finally breaking its speed and comes to a juddering stop.

For a moment, everything is still and silent. Then a fire blossoms into life in the aircraft’s nose.

‘Water – fetch buckets of water,’ someone calls, and a group of men run off towards a simple low structure, where I hope there’s a well or a pump.

‘He can’t get out,’ a woman next to me gasps as small bright flames leap into view in the engines. ‘He will burn to death!’

Stella, me and a couple of the men run forwards.

A man nearly as old as Sal leaps onto the wreckage of the wing, dragging and smashing at the cockpit as flames nip at his ankles.

Then I see the doctor wrench a loose piece of wood from a decaying gate.

Climbing onto the remains of the wall, she bashes it against the glass.

From the other side of the field, the water-bearers are running, caught between urgency and keeping their buckets full.

The fire suddenly roars its intent, and the bus driver grapples the doctor from the wall, dragging her to a safe distance.

At the same moment, the other would-be rescuer dives off the wing, rolling in the dirt to put out the flames on his clothes.

The pilot is going to die, I realise. He made it all the way here, and now he’s going to die in front of my eyes.

Before I know it, I’m running towards the flames, just as the men with buckets throw their precious load.

But the water does nothing, and the ferocious heat stops me dead; I can smell my hair singeing.

Then two boots appear, kicking violently at the windshield.

I can’t tear my eyes away from that last desperate bid for life.

When the hood finally comes free, the second run of water is thrown at the wings, just as the pilot scrambles out of the cockpit and half-falls half-jumps into the field.

At once, we all grab hold of a corner of him, because he belongs to us now.

As one, we lift him and carry him far away from the burning wreckage.

A boom sounds just behind us as the fuel catches and a blast of hot air races over and through me, its fingers reaching to the far corner of the field.

The doctor is at the fore, helping him sit, pulling at his jacket, loosening it around the neck as he coughs and splutters and gasps in air. She tugs off the pilot’s goggles and flight mask.

Bright blue eyes stare at us from his smoke- and oil-grimed face. My hands cover my mouth in shock.

‘What luck,’ Danny Beauchamp splutters as he takes in his surroundings. ‘A bus! It looks like I’m gonna need a ride back to base.’

In amongst the throng of people, he sees me and smiles. ‘Stitches, we meet again,’ he says. Then he collapses in the doctor’s arms.