I drew her goggles back to her hairline. Her eyes remained closed, her head and shoulders lolling slackly. I had always loved above all her expression of serenity. Even in her moments of deepest emotion it had never left her. Now I looked on a face which was the same, yet different. There was pain in it and a slight puffiness about the cheeks and lips on the left side under the nostril. With dawning astonishment I realized that I had been the cause of it. The knowledge didn't soften my resentment; just heightened the tumult of my emotions.
I began to haul her out of the cockpit but stopped halfway at the thought that she might have internal injuries. There was no sign of blood but still she made no sound. A further hasty check revealed nothing. Then I manhandled her on to my shoulders and stumbled towards the rear of the plane, out of reach of a possible explosion. There was a growing smell of burning rubber, hot oil and fuel. The hard gloss of the vinyl jacket prevented my feeling any contact with her body. Where the softness of her breasts should have rested against my shoulder there was merely the insentient plastic. It was as though the slack body had never known desire for mine. It all seemed part of the strange impersonality of the scene. Once we were well clear of any possible blast I put Nadine down and propped her up against a boulder. I unfastened a press stud above her right temple and got rid of the cap and goggles. Her long hair fell down and framed the stark white face, softening its contours. I made a hurried examination of her head but could find no injury. When I tried to free the awkward zip of her polo collar I found my fingers trembling: I dreaded what damage I might find.
I was still fumbling under her chin when she opened her eyes.
There was a flash of shock and disbelief; joy marked in her eyes but almost as it leant it was gone and the shadows shrouded their green depths.
There was an uncomfortable moment of constraint. of waiting. Neither of us knew what to say to deflate the tension with some trite or wryly humorous phrase. Her lids were heavy, perhaps with delayed shock from the crash. Still silent, her eyes on mine, she brought the ring to the tip of her tongue and then touched the back of my hand with the tiny wet spot she'd made.
The sound of fire came from the wreck. I assumed she had heard it too and got to my feet with the intention of going back for the pilot. She however not having heard the crackling, misconstrued my move and looked aghast.
'The plane's on fire — I'll try and get him out,' I managed to say. 'It could go up at any minute.'
'Guy, wait. . no, go.' Her voice was an uneven whisper. '
Save Peter. . I heard the bullet go into him. . but take care of yourself, for God's sake!'
The bullet had ripped into the airman's left shoulder and plugged the wound with a tear of his silk choker. I spotted its tiny entrance hole in the side of the cockpit. Spurred on by the brittle crackle of flames I hurried to get his safety strap loose. The blaze appeared to be gathering momentum and I was terrified at the thought of how soon it might reach the tanks. I struggled with the deadweight body, which seemed to hook on every projection, but eventually I got him to the ground. The flames a blow-torch on my back. I knelt to flip him on to my shoulders and somehow managed to pick him up and start off. We hadn't gone more than a few yards when the tanks exploded and threw us to the ground.
Little meteors of flaming fuel raced into the dry bush. One fell on to the pilot's jacket and I beat it out. With the tinder dry bush for fuel, each incendiary spot became the start of a new fire. I humped the pilot up again and stumbled towards where I had left Nadine but saw her coming, white and shaky, towards me. I tried to wave her back but she joined me and tried to help me set the pilot down in her own patch of shade. I found my shirt and hands sticky with the blood from his wound. A tall plume of smoke rose above the burning machine and everywhere the bush was ablaze.
I welcomed the need for quick action about the wounded man. It begged off all the impossible questions in Nadine's eyes and quietened the devils inside me.
'Who is he?'
'Peter Talbot. My father's personal pilot. He. . "
'The explanations can wait. He's in a bad way. The first thing to do is to get well clear of the fire.'
'Guy — you..
She seemed to sway a little. I went to her. 'Here! You'll pass out from heat stroke in that jacket. Off with it.' 'It's not the heat … Guy!'
'We can't talk now.
'Have you seen yourself? What have they been doing to you?'
She bit back the rest of her words.
I wondered if Rankin, too, had been shaken by my wild appearance. I suddenly became aware that my face was singed and stained from the Mannlicher misfire; one eye was bloodshot; my unshaven beard plastered with dust and sweat; my shirt ripped; an arm skinned and raw. I stank of petrol, sweat, cordite and fresh blood.
'There's a sort of cave over there.' I nodded towards my 'command-post', which merged remarkably well into its surroundings. 'We must move him out of the sun. It's a bit tricky crossing over. I started to explain and then asked dubiously, 'Do you think you can make it?'
'I'm all right. I'm not really hurt. A bit dazed, that's all.'
However, the shock of the crash was catching up on her fast. Despite her brave show of words she looked on the point of collapse.
She indicated the pilot: 'When you think Of all the flying risks he's come through, and then he crashes because of a bullet which wasn't his fault!'
There probably wasn't any imputation in her words but nevertheless I found myself replying defensively. 'I couldn't get there in time. I was just too late to prevent the shot.'
'We saw you waving to us. We both felt certain it was you.'
A billow of smoke, acrid with the smell of petrol fumes and kanniedood timber, swept over us.
'We must hustle,' I said. 'Soon this whole hillside will be ablaze. The "command-post" and its approaches are solid rock so we'll be safe there. I'll make the first trip with him. You wait where the wall ends and I'll come back for you. It's a nasty stretch and you're in no state to make it yourself.'
'What about. . I mean, the man who fired the shot?'
I laughed grimly. 'You needn't worry. I took care of Rankin.'
Her constraint cracked. 'You must be joking — Rankin I didn't feel up to meeting the emotional challenge which lay all the time just below the surface.
'I'll tell you later,' I replied, 'it's too involved. But Rankin's no threat to anyone at the moment. He's out — unconscious. Now help me get this man on to my back!'