Page 50 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘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 hisankles. 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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Stand back,’ the doctor tells them, beckoning to Vittoria who hands the baby to an older lady, racing towards us with the bag. ‘Bring water. Vittoria, my bag.’
‘What can I do?’ I ask, refusing to move back with everyone else.
‘Be near – he knows you,’ she says. ‘He will be in shock. Take his hand. We need to check for injuries.’
I pick up Danny’s hand, pulling off his charred gloves.
Quickly and efficiently, the doctor opens his jacket and the shirt underneath. His torso is lean and tanned, no blood that I can see. Vittoria hands her a stethoscope, and she listens to his heart.
Then the two of them roll him onto one side, Vittoria keeping him in place as the doctor checks his back and legs for wounds, pulling off his scorched boot. They repeat the process on the other side. It takes some effort but I keep his limp hand in mine throughout this, unable to pinpoint the exact meaning of the swell of emotion tightening my chest. His fingers are bruised; one nail hangs loose.
‘Remarkable,’ the doctor mutters. ‘Hardly a scratch. Bring me water.’
Someone hands her a flask, and she promptly tips half of it over his face.
‘What the fu—?’ Danny splutters awake, sitting up abruptly. ‘Am I dead?’
‘Somehow, you are alive, and apart from smoke inhalation and the odd scratch, completely uninjured,’ the doctor tells him.
The passengers erupt into spontaneous applause as Danny looks at us with an expression of mild bemusement.
‘Stitches,’ he says, breaking into a lopsided grin as he realises that I’m holding his hand. ‘You sure I ain’t dead?’
‘You’re not dead.’ I squeeze his fingers a little too tightly, and he winces. ‘You made it out of there.’
‘The flying ace Danny Beauchamp!’ someone shouts.
‘The hero!’ another.
The small crowd of passengers hug one another, shaking hands and clasping arms. Somehow, from somewhere, someone produces a camera and tripod and sets it up to take a photo.
‘Whoa there.’ Danny holds up a hand when the would-be photographer approaches. ‘Let a man button his shirt and get his boots back on before you snap him for posterity.’
‘Get back!’ The doctor stands up, shooing the crowd away. ‘Give the man a moment.’ No one dares defy her.
