Free Bomber by Paul Dowswell

Hill and Clifford Skaggs nodded, then Corrales.
    ‘I guess so,’ said Dalinsky finally.
    Harry’s face lit up. ‘I’ll go tell the captain.’

    Soon after midday Harry and his hut mates were disturbed again. This time it was Bortz. ‘Shift yourselves, boys,’ he called through the door. ‘We’ve all got to report to the MO.’
    They sat together in the base hospital, in a stark waiting area, all feeling deflated, almost despondent. On their way there they passed the intensive-care section. They’d all glimpsed the guy in there, wrapped head to toe in bandages and plaster. John whispered he must be a burns victim or something. Or maybe he had burns and a lot of broken bones. ‘Even if he survives he’s going to be a real mess,’ he said. It was a fate none of them wanted to think about – utterly helpless, surrounded by doctors and nurses talking in concerned, hushed voices.
    The co-pilot was missing. ‘Is Lieutenant Stearley all right?’ Harry asked.
    ‘He’s on a ward. Twenty-four-hour observation,’ said Holberg. ‘That was a nasty bump he got when we landed. Concussion. I’m sure he’s going to be OK though.’
    The station medical officer, a gruff civilian doctor who had come out of retirement to serve with the air force, checked each of the crew over – the usual battery of tests for reflexes, heart rate, pulse …
    Harry’s turn came to enter the examination cubicle.
    ‘Any aches, pains you’ve noticed? Anything unusual?’
    ‘I slept pretty bad, sir, last night,’ said Harry, and he mentioned his dream.
    The doctor took out a brown glass jar and shook out a little black pill. ‘That’ll sort you out, son,’ he said. ‘Take it just before you turn in for the night. You’re lucky not to be suffering from exposure after a midnight ditching in the North Sea.’
    In a few minutes, the doctor had declared him fit for active service and Harry rejoined the others back in the waiting room.
    ‘Ditching should be worth at least twenty-four hours on the observation ward,’ Corrales grumbled.
    ‘There’s a war on, Sergeant,’ Bortz said wearily.
    Harry was surprised to find himself agreeing with Bortz. Putting them on the ward would have been unnecessary mollycoddling. He was proud of the way his crew had got through their ordeal. They were tougher than he had realised.
    But he hoped this didn’t mean he would lose that survival leave Holberg had mentioned. John Hill had asked if he would like to go to Edinburgh with him and he didn’t want to miss out on that.
    As they waited for the all-clear from the MO they hunched together to speak in low voices.
    ‘I’ve got to see Kittering this afternoon,’ said Holberg. ‘I know what he’s going to say to me.’
    Corrales mimicked the colonel’s gritty voice. ‘Uncle Sam pays quarter of a million dollars each for a B-17 …’
    Holberg silenced him with a stern look.
    ‘I wanted to talk to you all together, and this seems like the best opportunity. If they grill us all in debriefing, we’ve got to have the same story. Cain, you flew us over the Atlantic, you flew us all that way from Nebraska, for Chrissakes; you’ve always been spot on. Tell us all again what happened last night.’
    ‘I still don’t really know how I got it so wrong.’ Cain looked desperate. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t feeling myself on that flight. I was fine to begin with, but a few hours in I started to feel light-headed. I don’t know if it was the cold, but I just felt really detached from everything …’
    LaFitte spoke up, barely able to contain his hostility. ‘Lieutenant, didn’t you recognise anoxia symptoms from your training?’
    ‘I guess I should have realised, but I was having a hell of a job trying to keep our bearings in that storm and I suppose I just didn’t think about it.’
    ‘Sounds like a faulty oxygen mask to me.’ Holberg put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Lieutenant, in other circumstances I’d be recommending you for a