Peter looked down at the English Channel from the small passenger window of the Airspeed AS.5 Courier in which he was flying. Although the single-engine light aircraft had room for six, today there was only himself and the two RAF pilots. As the plane pitched up slightly, his eyes were drawn to the skies above. He saw a flurry of perfect white clouds and thought back to how, as a child, he had firmly believed that heaven was on the other side of those clouds and that if he were able to fly high, he’d be able to snatch a sneak preview.
While he’d been trapped under the ruins of the building in Sainte-Mère-Église, he had wondered, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, if he had in fact died and was languishing in limbo while the powers that be judged if he was worthy enough to pass through St Peter’s pearly gates. Acting as judge and jury on his own life, Peter had lain there, with barely enough space to move his arms and legs, and had thought about the life he had led. Sitting here, strapped into a plane on his way back home – alive – he surmised that the celestial jury must have ruled in his favour.
A burst water main had kept him from dehydrating while he had been trapped under a blanket of bricks and mortar. Peter’s survival training at Wanborough Manor had taught him that he could last without food for weeks, but only days without liquids. The water from the ruptured pipes had been tainted with mud and dirt, but it had served its purpose. And, of course, he’d had oxygen. The air had been dusty and acrid, but he had been able to take short, shallow breaths.
During the time he’d been buried alive, he had hypnotised himself to stay calm and not think about his inability to free himself, forcing his mind to think of a life beyond his concrete coffin. When he had felt dust and debris on his face and sensed movement above him, heard the voice of a young boy, he’d started banging hard on the wooden boards of the caved-in trapdoor. On hearing his rescuers he had experienced a rising feeling of insanity that, thankfully, he had managed to keep at bay for the time it took a team of men to dismantle the bomb site and reach the basement. As he’d been freed from his prison, he’d heard a French voice, which he guessed belonged to a doctor, telling the medics to blindfold him and give him a water-soaked cloth to suck on. And so he was kept in darkness as his body was hauled onto a stretcher and into a truck. He had felt the jolts as the vehicle drove over potholes and after losing consciousness he had woken in a darkened room in a makeshift medical centre. Apart from being dehydrated and having some cuts and bruises, he was told he’d had a miraculous escape.
The nurse charged with his care had been a chatty young girl and she had told him the story that had now gone around the town several times: how Madame Toulouse had originally noticed there was life amongst the rubble, but it had initially seemed like a false alarm, that the rat had been very much alive, but the man whom the rodent had unwittingly unearthed hadn’t been. Peter expressed sadness that a young boy had been forced to see death up close, but the nurse had waved her hand and said, ‘Ce n’est rien,’ it’s nothing, he had not only seen dead bodies before, but had witnessed men die. Peter didn’t think he had felt so sad in his entire life, hearing the nurse’s words. What had become of the world where a little boy had become accustomed not only to death – but to cold-blooded murder?
Peter had vowed to himself there and then that one day he would like to go back to Sainte-Mère-Église and thank both the old woman and the young garçon. Perhaps Rosie and Charlotte would come too. He knew Rosie would also want to thank them. He thought about the letter he had written to her. His unit had all been in agreement that they wanted their loved ones to be given their letters as soon as reports of their demise came through. They had not wanted their wives and families to wait longer than necessary, especially as they knew there was a good chance that their bodies might never be found or identified. It hurt him to think that Rosie would have read her letter by now. He knew how devastated she would be. It was why, as soon as he was conscious, he had asked to be taken to the commander in charge, who had facilitated his communication with London.
Whilst there he had also been given an update on the events of the past few days and his spirits had risen on hearing of the success of the Battle of Normandy. It was clear that Jour J had more than lived up to the Allies’ hopes and expectations. Battles were still being played out, but the second front had been established. There was no doubt that this marked a decisive turning point in the war. Victory was not far off.
As his thoughts again wandered to his wife, Peter’s stomach was suddenly in his mouth. The plane must have hit a pocket of air and momentarily lost altitude. He looked out of the window and could just about make out the White Cliffs of Dover. His heart leapt with joy. Not long before he saw Rosie. Not long before he could wrap his arms around her and hold her tight. He didn’t think he’d ever let her go.
As they flew over the clifftops, it felt as though the plane was again losing altitude.
They seemed to be flying very low.
So low he could almost see the houses beneath.
He looked out of the window and saw smoke coming from the engine; the view below was now obscured by thick, billowing grey smoke.
He looked towards the cockpit as one of the pilots turned and looked over his shoulder.
‘Strap yourself in and assume the brace position!’ the pilot shouted.
Peter stared ahead for a moment. Both pilots were pulling back on the yoke with all of their might. He looked beyond them and through the window of the cockpit. He could see a flash of houses, then a mass of treetops. A forest. In the distance he caught sight of fields of sun-kissed wheat.
He put his head down to his knees and covered it with his hands.
There was an eerie silence.
It took him a beat to realise the engine had died.
He knew it would just be seconds before he felt the impact as the plane crash-landed.
He’d got so near. So near to getting home. To being with the woman he loved.
He thought of Rosie. Imagined her smiling face, determined that if these were to be his last moments on this earth, then she would be the last image he saw.