Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,43

at me? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’

‘Look, if I stay stuck here much longer I’m gonna die,’ said the pilot. ‘I already had a bunch of my own soldiers come down and then run off before they could get me out.’

Will crept gingerly down the side of the crater, as near to the two of them as he could without getting sucked into the mud. The German boy stared at him with something approaching revulsion.

The pilot was still pointing his pistol at him. Will tried to sound as reasonable as he could. ‘Please don’t do that. I need to get something to help you. I don’t want to get sucked into the mud too.’ As he spoke, he felt dried blood crack on his face.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ said the pilot.

Will realised his face must be covered in blood. That was what happened when your nose bled. It looked so much worse than it really was.

‘If you let me go, I will come back soon with something to pull you out of here,’ he said.

‘Swear to me you’ll come back,’ said the pilot. He seemed close to panic. ‘Don’t go dying on us. Don’t get killed out there.’

‘I will come back, but only if you put your revolver away,’ said Will. The pilot gave an embarrassed grin – the nearest Will was going to get to an apology – and put the gun back in his holster.

So Will crawled back across the field to the edge of the forest. He didn’t care if one of them was a German, he was determined to get those two out. Sinking into mud to freeze to death, or even worse, to drown. It was the stuff of nightmares. He reached the dense line of trees, grateful that no one had taken a shot at him. It had gone quiet, and only in the distance could he hear the occasional shell or rifle shot. He wondered if it was his hearing, but when he clicked his fingers he could hear that perfectly.

On the edge of the forest, just where the trees gave way to the open field, was exactly what he was looking for – a long thin branch, recently fallen from a tree. He picked it up and bashed it on the ground. It seemed sturdy, certainly not rotten or so weak that it would snap if anyone grabbed hold of it.

Will crawled back, still surprised by how quiet this recently churned-up battlefield had become. He heard the occasional chirp and wondered if it was his hearing playing up again. Then he realised what he could hear was birdsong.

Will reached the crater, half expecting to find both of these strangers had gone. But they were still there and the look on their faces when he appeared reassured him that they were not going to do him harm. He slid down the inside again, dragging his branch, and held it out to the German boy.

‘Hey, Limey,’ said the flyer. ‘This kid’s OK. Don’t worry about him.’ His voice seemed stronger. He seemed to have revived, now the prospect of rescue was imminent.

Will noticed a German rifle at the side of the crater. The boy had obviously put it down there when he went to rescue the pilot. He would keep an eye on him though, make sure he got to the rifle before the German, if there was any funny business.

The flyer had noticed him looking at the weapon. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he called wearily. ‘He’s a good kid, I told you. And if he decides not to be, I still got my revolver.’

Will held out the branch to the boy and dug his boots into the mud to steady himself. He could feel his feet sinking as the boy pulled hard, but he came out eventually. ‘Danke! Danke!’ the boy said, then, ‘Sank yew, Kamerad!’

The flyer was more difficult to get out. Both of them pulled on the branch, but the man was too weak to hold on. The German boy had an idea. He took off his leather belt and fastened it to the end of the branch with the buckle, just above a knobbly lump.

Then they both held it over the flyer’s head. The pilot grabbed the dangling leather strap, and wrapped it around his wrists. With all three of them straining to get him out, they made progress – and eventually he lurched forward in a great splash of mud and water, and an agonising