Voices on the Wind - Assault

Then, out of nowhere, the Flying Officer who’d flown her to Malta walked into the ward. To see him looking perfectly healthy and wearing his forage cap at a jaunty, non-regulation angle felt like a little miracle — or at least a ray of sunshine in the darkness.

In the next instant, however, Candice quailed. She wasn’t vain. She had always preferred praise for the things she accomplished over compliments on her looks. Yet she was still a young woman of 22. She hated encountering a charming young man when she hadn’t had a proper wash or been able to brush her teeth or hair, much less put on make-up, for days — not to mention wearing a faded and darned hospital shift.

The Flying Officer stopped beside her bed, wearing an expression of deep concern, almost shock. “Flight Officer Weld?” he asked, sounding as if he was uncertain of her identity.

“Yes, it’s me. It’s so kind of you to come, Flying Officer!” It was terribly embarrassing not to remember his name.

The young officer shrugged and with a half-apologetic smile he handed her a bunch of wildflowers. “I’m afraid there isn’t a florist left on the island, but one of the Maltese girls working in the Mess brought me these from her parents’ garden.”

“They’re beautiful,” Candice said, taking them from him and admiring them with her unbandaged eye. Something bright and cheerful was so rare in this dingy and dusty hospital. She sat up a little straighter and twisted to look for a glass and water to put them in. Understanding her gesture, her visitor hastened to pour water from a chipped, pottery pitcher into the waiting drinking glass. While he busied himself with the flowers, Candice tried to explain herself, “I couldn’t find anyone who knew what had happened to you and the others and I’d forgotten your name. I feared you had been injured or killed. Are all of you all right?”

“Nettleton,” he introduced himself. “Ned Nettleton. As for the others, Sergeant Campbell broke a finger, but the rest of us just have some bruises, abrasions, and cuts. Nothing serious. We’re fit to fly, but we don’t have an aircraft — or not until the erks finish patching something together. They’re trying to put together one serviceable aircraft using bits and pieces from the one we flew in and the Beaus abandoned when the rest of the squadron pulled out. Supposedly, it will be ready tomorrow — but they’ve been saying that for days!” he added with an enchanting grin.

“What happened? I don’t remember anything after the crash.”

Ned took a deep breath. “The hydraulics had been shot away by the Messerschmitts that attacked us some fifty miles west of Malta, so I had to make a wheels-up landing. The Beau is a very solid aircraft, and it skidded well. At least it didn’t ground loop or cartwheel, but the runway was littered with bomb craters, which made it a bumpy ride. As soon as we came to halt, I ordered everyone out in a hurry, fearing the remaining fuel might explode. Unfortunately, the Luftwaffe was still attacking, so explosions were going off all around us, filling the air with dust, smoke and debris. We made a dash for safety but didn’t get far because a strafing Me109 came in low, and we all dived for a bomb crater. Somehow, you hit your head on something sharp. All I know is that when I looked around, you were crumpled up in a bomb crater, out cold and bleeding profusely. The ambulance picked you up as soon as they could get to us, but … is it very bad?”

“What?”

“The injury. I tried to visit every day since the crash, but they turned me away until today.”

“I was a little delirious at first. I’m better now.”

“You aren’t in pain?”

“No, they’ve been giving me morphine. The doctor said a rock splinter came close to blinding me, and I lost a lot of blood, but he says no serious damage was done.”

“Well, that’s lucky at least.” He tried to smile, yet somehow he looked more upset than relieved.

That unsettled Candice, and she probed further, “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head rapidly, like a guilty child. “I just feel so bad. I’m so sorry.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Candice assured him. “You did a marvellous job evading the Messerschmitts. There were two of them, one on either side of our tail, and I was sure we were going to be shot down. Somehow you kept dodging their attacks and got us safely to Malta. I’m very grateful.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. I was just lucky. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, the doctor says I’ll be fine,” Candice told him. “I hope to be out of here in a few days.”

“I’m so glad. I’ll be able to sleep better now,” he added with a timid smile. “I felt so terrible.”

“There’s no need,” she insisted. The conversation seemed to be going in circles and Candice wanted to break out.

Instead, Ned concluded it with, “I’ll let you get some rest. We probably won’t see each other again, but I wanted to be sure you would make it — and say it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise!” she replied eagerly, feeling that was so inadequate, so banal.

He held out his hand, “I wish you all the best.”

She took and shook his hand, wishing she could think of something to say that would encourage him to stay longer, but her brain wasn’t functioning properly. She was conscious of feeling slightly dizzy as she watched him walk away. All she could do was wish he would change his mind.

At the door, he turned and looked over his shoulder. When their eyes met, he smiled and waved one last time. Then he was gone.

The moment he was lost from sight, Candice felt abandoned — which was silly. They were practically strangers. He’d given her a ‘lift’ to Malta and that was all. She didn’t blame him for the crash or her injuries, yet they had clearly upset him. Maybe they were worse than she thought? She reached up her hand and felt her bandages for the hundredth time. For the first time, she wondered if she might be scarred for life.