Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

‘Not too bad, boy,’ said Pieter, doing his best to sound in charge and calm. ‘We’ll need to get a tourniquet on that,’ he added, looking around for something to use. He ripped off the rest of Stef’s trouser leg and from that tore a strip long enough to tie around his leg above the knee. He secured it around and tied it up. ‘We need something we can use to wind it tighter. Something long and thin.’

‘Like your pecker?’ Stef grunted painfully.

Pieter smiled and knuckled the lad’s head. ‘At least it’s long.’

He found a socket wrench in a toolbox beneath the port waist-gun. He inserted the wrench between Stef’s leg and the tourniquet.

‘Now this is going to hurt a lot, sorry.’ He twisted it round once and the tourniquet tightened with a creak. Stef let out a scream of agony that he quickly bit down on, turning it into little more than a stifled whimper.

Pieter winced sympathetically. ‘It’s okay, you can let it out if it hurts.’

Stef shook his head stubbornly, his mouth clamped tightly like a vice, refusing to let out anything more than a grunt.

Pieter patted him roughly on the shoulder. ‘So… no more of that “Baby Bear” shit, then. I promise.’

The boy smiled. That was about as much praise as he would get from the bastard. But it was more than enough.

‘You’re not going to pass out, are you?’

Stef shook his head, ‘I’m okay,’ he hissed painfully.

‘You hold that tight for me, right? I’m going to let Max know what’s going on back here.’

Stef leaned back against the bulkhead and held the wrench in both hands as Pieter stamped out a couple of the small fires which were still burning on the wooden floor and then made his way forward to update Max.

‘We’re both fine. Gunter didn’t take a single scratch, and my plane, amazingly, appears to still be in one piece,’ said Schroder, holding the yoke with his right hand, his left clamped tightly over the gash in his right forearm. ‘Will didn’t make it, though.’

‘I know, I saw him go down,’ Max replied.

Even if he had managed to bail safely, out at sea, there was little hope for him. If he didn’t get pulled under by the parachute and drown immediately after he splashed down, he was unlikely to be picked up by any ship.

‘A good thing the three of you made it off the airstrip. They would have had us.’

‘Then the refuel was worth it,’ Schroder offered.

‘I’ve got to check the damage and get a navigational plotting, and I think one of my crew’s hurt. Let me deal with these things and then I’ll tell you how we’re doing for range.’

‘Of course, speak with you soon.’

Schroder checked his fuel gauge. He had lost too much in the last few minutes to be accounted for by the manoeuvres he’d pulled during that skirmish. He must have taken a hit on the fuel tank and was losing it quickly.

‘Gunter, am I leaving a trail?’

The reply was prompt. ‘Yes, sir. Looks like fuel.’

He cursed under his breath. That was that, then, he wouldn’t be making it back to France. Gunter might be able to make it back, though.

‘What’s your fuel reading?’

‘Good, I have about a fifth capacity left, sir.’

They were roughly 235 miles out from the French coast and he had a fifth of his fuel left to burn. He could make it back if he turned around right now.

‘Gunter?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You need to head home now. Fly low, you should make it back to France.’

The young pilot failed to respond.

‘Did you hear me? You need to turn around.’

‘What about you, sir?’

‘I’ll be fine for another half an hour, then I’ll need to be heading back too.’

There was a pause; the young pilot was foolishly going to object. ‘Gunter, that’s a bloody order, now piss off back to France.’

‘Yes, sir… Good luck, sir.’

‘And you… now go!’

Schroder could tell by the tone in Gunter’s voice that the young man had guessed he was in trouble. He watched as the young pilot pulled his plane around in a roll that arced one-eighty degrees, taking him back east. Gunter waggled his wings once in the distance.

Schroder looked back down at his fuel gauge again, the pointer was wobbling unsteadily and indicating that he was virtually empty, with only the unreliable promise of another half an hour’s flying time, at best.

Max kneeled beside Stef and inspected the wound.

‘We’re going to need to tie this wrench in place so the tourniquet doesn’t unwind if you lose consciousness. Pieter, go find something we can tie this up with.’

‘What?’

‘Anything! Just look around.’

Max turned back to Stef. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘The tourniquet’s painful, sir, really hurts,’ he said between gritted teeth.

‘Well, it’s got to stay tight, Stef. There’s a severed artery in there, which we’ve got to keep the pressure on for the next thirteen hours. I’m going to tie up this wrench to the side of your leg so this thing doesn’t unwind, and you’re going to need to sit as still as you can until this thing is done and we can get you to a doctor, all right?’

The young lad nodded.

‘We need you to get us there. While you can still focus I need you to navigate. Think you can do that?’

He nodded once more.

‘Hans?’

The big man stepped forward. ‘Yeah?’

‘You’ll need to get Stef’s things; the map, his navigation tools, and bring them all here.’

Max looked around the waist section. The wind whipped noisily in through the gun portholes and numerous punctures along the metal fuselage. ‘And see if you can find something to put over him to keep him warm.’

‘Yeah,’ he said again and stooped through the bulkhead leading to the navigation compartment.

‘What’s the damage, sir? Are we going to make it?’ asked Stef.

‘We’re doing fine, don’t you worry about the plane, they built these things to take far worse than we’ve taken today.’

One engine had been hit and begun to splutter and Max had turned it off, fearing the engine might cause the fuel feeding it to ignite. They could make their way across on three. Apart from that, they had fared well, all things considered. The landing gear was damaged, possibly even ripped off completely. None of these things would prevent them completing the mission. Max’s only worry now was whether they had the fuel to get them there.

That’s all that mattered now, fuel… everything else was secondary.

Pieter returned with an open parachute bail. ‘I found it in the bombardier’s compartment. It’s useless, cut to ribbons.’

‘That’ll do,’ said Max, taking it from him and hastily ripping a long strip from the silky fabric. He held the wrench against Stef’s thigh.

‘Is that still tight?’

Stef nodded, gritting his teeth. Max wound the parachute fabric firmly around his leg and the wrench, binding them tightly together.

‘This should hold up if you don’t move around. If you start leaking, for God’s sake give me a shout and we’ll tighten this thing up again.’ He patted him on the cheek. ‘We need you with us, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Max’s eyebrows knitted in a mock frown. ‘Call me “sir” one more time and I’ll undo it and let you bleed to death.’

Stef grinned. ‘Yes, Max.’

‘When Hans has brought you your things, I need you to give me your best guess on our position now. Think you can do that?’

Stef gave Max a thumbs-up. His leather glove was black with drying blood.

‘Good lad,’ Max replied and then made his way forward, squeezing past Hans in the navigation booth. ‘Keep your eye on him, Hans, he’s lost a lot of blood,’ he muttered under his breath.