"A pilot you say?" said the doctor, looking wearily at the sleeping patient.

The young nurse smiled grimly. "Yes, the latest to be shot down and rescued from the drink. Lucky fellow though. Only a broken arm and concussion."

The doctor's fingers brushed unconsciously at his bloody coat. His eyes scanned the make-shift hospital, a huge tent filled with cots and broken bodies. He gave this patient one last glance before stumbling toward another.

The pilot stirred, opened his eyes and saw the nurse.

"I--I didn't die?"

"No, you--"

"Should have...like the others. Saw...Randy...his Spitfire on fire, spinning . . . crashing. He--he didn't get out." He stared at her, his eyes bulging.

Sobs tore out of him, rent the air . . . and the nurse wept.
***

A few evenings later she fed him--soup he sipped, bread he chewed mindlessly. She spoke quietly, telling him what little news she'd heard. He stopped eating when he heard the drone of a plane, its shadow flitting swiftly across the thin fabric of the ceiling.

"You'll be flying again soon," the nurse said. "Will that make you happy?"

"No. I--I can't. His eyes strayed to the nearby empty cot. The doctors could not save its occupant, another pilot who'd died hours earlier.

"You must," the nurse said, taking his hand in hers. "My brother died at Dunkirk, my cousin in North Africa. Don't let their deaths be in vain. The war won't be lost if chaps like you keep defending us in the air."

For the first time ever he really looked at her, and their eyes finally met.

Hearing the growl of another plane approaching, he grimaced.

"Not ours!" he shouted. "Take cover--"

Its huge shadow crept across the canvas ceiling. Suddenly, the world inside erupted. A blinding flash of light was swiftly followed by a thunderous roar, then undulating waves of heat. The dirt floor exploded. Wood, metal, and flesh hurtled in every direction.
***

For the second time that week the pilot awoke while prone. Trying desperately to peer through the dense smoke, he saw flames flickering distantly. Something heavy kept him from rising. He groped, then felt something supple . . . a body draped across his. The nurse!

Voices shouted. "Anyone alive? Call out!"

He moaned. No response.

Did he hear voices coming closer? A gust of wind blew wisps of
smoke away. Legs appeared.

"Here!" he cried.

Soldiers found him, took him to another make-shift hospital where another weary-eyed doctor examined him.

This time the pilot babbled.

"I gotta go back, go back . . . back."

"Don't think so, Fly Boy. You've a badly broken arm and a fractured skull. This war's over for you."

For hours the pilot lay awake in the dark, thinking.

"I'll fly again. I will! For England. For the the guys in my squadron
who lost their lives . . . for the nurse who died saving me."
!
Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I--I never learned her name."