Kramer's War

by Derek Robinson

Genres: Action & Adventure; War & Military

Synopsis

Jersey, 1944. Lieutenant Earl Kramer, sole survivor of a ditched USAF bomber, crawls out of the sea one night and cuts the throat of a German sentry. Big mistake. Jersey is under Nazi occupation, and the lives of its inhabitants depend on an uneasy co-existence with their oppressors. Though Kramer's motives were entirely patriotic, to the islanders he presents a terrifying risk to their very survival. But to Kramer, a man governed by an overriding sense of duty, this stronghold of Hitler's armies proves too irresistible a target to ignore... Kramer's War is a powerful novel about the savagery of war, from the bestselling and Booker-shortlisted author of Goshawk Squadron.

Release date: June 19, 2014

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 357

Sample

Earl Kramer was wet and cold and his fingers felt as if they belonged to someone else.

He lay curled up in the rubber dinghy with his knees at his chest and his hands between his thighs. Rain collected in the hollows of his body and lay there, coldly absorbent, until his body suddenly rebelled and shuddered, shaking the water loose. He curled up again and at once the rain began to refill the hollows.

His head lay on the slick, rubberised canvas. From time to time a long swell eased under the dinghy, heaved it high and slipped away with an empty hiss. Earl Kramer felt these swells throb remotely past his head and ear, but he saw nothing. Rain drained out of the night and made a soft black screen all around.

He wondered where the hell he was. It could be anywhere. They must have been hundreds of miles off course when the Liberator ditched. Flak had smashed the instrument panel while they were still over Frankfurt, and then the engines began to pack up on the way home. In and out of cloud, dodging fighters. Dusk before they ran out of fuel. The navigator said he thought it was the North Sea. Whatever it was, he was at the bottom of it now, poor bastard. When the Liberator hit the water and came to pieces, Earl Kramer was the lucky one. By the time he’d swum to the dinghy and crawled in, the bomber had gone and the rest of the crew with it.

The damn dinghy was filling up again. He felt water lap over his lower knee. He ought to bail, but then his hands would get cold, so he kept them between his thighs. Not yet. Let it get a bit higher. The flap of his ear was tucked under his head and his pulse beat into the cold canvas. Rain collected on his nose until a drop fell on his lip. He counted the pulsebeats between falling drops. Seven. Nine. Seven again. A stray current slowly turned the dinghy. His body shuddered and dislodged the icy little pools, but it was a much weaker shudder than before.

Now that was new. That was different. Earl Kramer thought back to all those survival-technique lectures. Sir, how long does it take a man to die of exposure? A fit young man? That’s an interesting question, lieutenant. Can you supply further data, such as where this exposure is taking place …?

God damn this lousy dinghy. It was really filling up bad. Why can’t they put drain-holes in the bottom? Typical Air Force foul-up … Oh Christ: you don’t want to be sick again, do you?

Earl Kramer forgot the water sloshing around his body and studied the unhappy prisoner inside him, a miserable bastard who once in a while tried to retch up something that wasn’t there any more. Lie still, buddy. You don’t really want to throw up. All that bending over and choking, just for nothing. Last time, you nearly fell in the sea, remember? Take it easy, buddy.

The dinghy stopped.

Immediately, the sea got annoyed and began tugging and heaving, working to jostle it free. The swell was stronger now that it had an argument. It rocked and wheeled the dinghy, thumped it, dumped waves in it, rolled Kramer about until he had to grab the rope handles.

Damn dinghy. Don’t make ’em like they used to. Hellish uncomfortable. Lump sticking up in the floor. Right in the ass. Lousy sea’s full of lumps. Don’t make sea like they used to. Oh Christ look out another wave …

As the swell reared up, Kramer rolled onto his stomach. The shift of weight made the dinghy slide across the tip of the submerged anti-tank obstacle and rammed its inflated ring onto the spike. Air galloped out, and he felt the tense canvas yield under his fingers. Unhurriedly, the boat collapsed and lowered him into the water. It was shockingly cold.

For a few seconds he clung to the wreckage, but the sea lunged and searched for his mouth, and the cold was numbing his body. He let go and swam. His flying boots felt like sewerpipe, so he stopped using his legs and just thrashed with his arms. That was exhausting. His boots dragged his legs down until he was upright in the water, flapping his arms and straining with his chin, gasping. Waves washed over his head. Everything was a terrific effort. He had to rest. He couldn’t go on. He deserved a rest. It was time to rest …

His knee banged on a hot and violent rock, and the pain made him struggle. His boots kicked the rock, and as the next swell arrived he lunged for it and got a foot on top. The swell sucked him off, but he swam back and planted both feet. He was only chest-deep.

As he rested, he saw other rocks outlined against the weak phosphorescence. They were slimy with weed, a rope-like mass that slipped under his boots. But the beach shelved fast: he climbed clear of the sea in ten dragging steps. He lay face down on the pebbles and listened to the rattling shuffle of the surf and thanked God he was here, wherever that was.

*

At the top of the beach he found a cliff. He patted the rockface and blinked up into the wet night. This could be Norway, Denmark, Holland, France or Belgium. It could be Germany. It could even be England. It could also be mined.

If he waited here until daylight he might freeze to death. Or get captured. If he began wandering along the beach he might blow himself to bits.

At least death would be warm. He had to get warm. Under his soaking shirt his body was shuddering and cowering, trying to get inside itself. His feet were numb. He dragged off his flying boots and massaged his toes. They moved stiffly, like old piano keys. When he emptied his boots the survival knife fell out of its sheath, sewn to the leg of his right boot. He put the knife back and remembered his pistol. There ought to be a pistol in a holster on his belt. He found the holster twisted around behind him. The pistol was very wet. He tried to point it at something, but he couldn’t see anything and his arm shook with cold.

All the same, finding the weapons made him feel better. Now that he had a knife and a gun he was in better shape for walking through mine-fields. He set off. Then he came back and put on his boots and set off again.

He wanted to keep close to the cliff but he kept walking into boulders which forced him to edge down onto the beach, where the mines would be. After ten minutes of cautious shuffling he was knee-deep in seawater again. Either the beach had vanished or the cliff had fallen into the sea or some damn thing.

He stood with his forelock dripping into his eyes and tried to see a shape or a skyline, anything; but the night and the rain cancelled everything. He turned and trudged back, no longer shuffling. The sand sucked at his boots and seaweed kept hooking itself around his ankles. He got sick of stopping to unhook the weed. Next time it happened he kicked out, tripped, and fell headlong.

For a while he lay, thinking Jesus Christ, if there is a goddam mine anywhere on this beach I’m going to find it if I have to crash around all night. Running water was splashing over his fingers, running down the beach. A stream.

He got up and followed it to a gap in the cliff. The stream-bed was steep and twisting: he had to clamber on his hands and knees. Water bustled over his fingers and pebbles scrambled away from his boots. His legs were bruised and greasy with mud, and still the hillside climbed invisibly and forever into the soaking blackness. When at last he groped and heaved himself over the top, he lay on his back, panting. Rain fell into his mouth; crimson and purple discs kept expanding inside his eyeballs. The taste of sickness revisited his throat. Earl Kramer was cold and exhausted and lost, and nobody cared.

The navigation lights appeared diffused and haloed by the drifting rain, hanging in the night like flares. They seemed to approach slowly and then gather speed. The runway lights came on, and the aircraft side-slipped a few feet into their dim glow. It was a Junker 52, sturdy, capable, pig-snouted. Its three wheels touched down and raced ahead of three soft plumes of spray.

The plane taxied over to the control tower and stopped. First out was a boxer dog, frenzied with freedom. It bounced ecstatic circles around the guard of honour and chased after the officer who walked across to the aircraft steps. Next out was General Rimmer.

The officer saluted. ‘Good evening, general. I’m Major Wolff. I was adjutant to General Gebhardt.’

‘What a shame,’ Rimmer said. ‘Such a loss. And him only seventy-three. Well, you’re my adjutant now.’

He strode past the guard of honour, looking at their eyes and not their uniforms, and halted in front of the last one. The soldier was eighteen at most, bespectacled and lanky. Even when he stood at attention his knees were slightly bent. Rimmer pulled the bayonet from the man’s belt and thumbed the edge. ‘Gardening going well, is it?’ he asked. ‘Got your potatoes in early, I see.’

The soldier’s lips parted but he had no answer.

‘Get that weapon razor-sharp, lad.’ Rimmer ordered. ‘If you can’t shave with it you can’t kill with it.’ He dropped it into the soldier’s greatcoat pocket, and snapped his fingers. ‘Come Dum-Dum.’ Rimmer, Wolff and the dog got into a car.

‘Congratulations on your appointment, sir,’ Wolff said as they drove away. Rimmer found a hair misbehaving inside his right nostril and jerked it out. ‘General Gebhart was so awfully fit, sir,’ said Wolff. ‘The news of his heart attack came as a great shock.’

‘Gebhardt didn’t have a heart attack, he had heart failure. He stopped a large rocket in the small of the back. A Mosquito strafed his car.’ Rimmer sneezed, and startled Dum-Dum, ‘But you’re right: officially it’s heart failure. What’s your big problem here?’

Major Wolff glanced across. Rimmer’s eyebrows were turned down in a small but permanent frown; the corners of his mouth were turned up but in determination, not humour; he hunched his shoulders and thrust his head as if seeking challenge. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about General Gebhardt,’ Wolff said. ‘And I don’t think we have any really big problem here, sir.’

‘Oh no. There never is any big problem. They told me the same story when I went to Greece, Italy, Poland, Russia, Jugoslavia. No problem here, general. Just partisans and resistance and saboteurs and spies everywhere. But no problem. Oh no.’

‘Things are different here, general.’

‘Different, are they? I’ve heard that before, too. Things are always different. Well, I’m not. I stick to the tried and true formula.’

‘What’s that, general?’

Rimmer reached out a foot and rubbed Dum-Dum’s stomach. ‘Retaliate first,’ he said.

*

Earl Kramer had lost the stream but he had found a wall.

It carried a five-strand barbed-wire fence planted on top of it. The whole thing stood about nine feet high. He couldn’t climb over it and he hadn’t the strength to break through it. He plucked at the second strand and stared. It looked like a lane on the other side.

He turned right and started walking. The ground was flat, so he stepped out confidently, keeping an arm’s-length from the wall, until he tripped and landed on his face. Tears of pain and frustration came. He got up slowly and spat out bits of grass. He found the wire strut and gave it a kick. Its twang faded to a buzz which died as his fingers followed the strut to a steel post on the wall.

It marked a join in the wire. Eye-bolts held the ends on either side. He took out his knife, probed for the end of the lowest strand and levered it open. The wire was wet and tough and awkward but he persisted, standing in the rain like a blind man and swearing softly when the points spiked his fingers. At last he tugged the end clear and flung it away. It rattled softly on the roadway.

The second wire fought more stubbornly. Its end was needle-sharp and guarded by a cluster of barbs. It had a springy resistance to change. His hands were raked and scored before the first, crucial inch gave way, but the pain strengthened his obstinacy. When he got both hands on the wire it unwound more easily. A light flashed somewhere to his right.

Earl Kramer stood motionless, blinking at the blackness. A car? Too small. Maybe a distant car, then. With one headlamp? Okay, a motorcycle. Or a nearby flashlight. Or a very nearby cigarette lighter.

He held his breath and listened to the sigh and spatter of the rain. Slowly his stomach muscles relaxed. He turned back to the wire and carefully fed the corkscrewed end through the eye. He tried to throw the strand away, but it recoiled and slapped him on the arm so he pulled it towards him and tucked it down against the wall. Now the gap was big enough for his head and shoulders. He smelled fresh tarmac. The light flashed again.

Kramer ducked. The light was a flashlight and it was coming up the lane. He crouched against the wall and thought about retreating down the hillside. Too risky, too noisy; better to stay here and let the flashlight go past. Sit tight and wait. For God’s sake don’t sneeze.

Heavy, unhurried footsteps approached. Occasionally they sent a stone skittering, or scraped a heelplate. Kramer squatted with his arms around his legs and his mouth pressed against a knee, and listened. The man passed the gap in the fence, and tramped on. Then he walked into the loose strand of wire.

Kramer heard a muttered exclamation, followed by scuffing and kicking and more muttering. The flashlight clicked on. Rain flickered across its aura and the beam swung to the fence above the wall. Kramer twisted his head to watch, and his toes curled as the beam found the half-empty post.

That discovery brought a grunt of surprise. Kramer edged away from the hole and found that he was dragging the other wire with him: it was hooked in his trousers. He tried to rip it loose, and made it worse.

The man came over to the post. He flashed his beam into the night, sketchily, as if he didn’t expect to find anything, and found nothing. He placed the flashlight on top of the wall so that it lit up the post. He found the loose wire and brought it into the pool of light. He was a German soldier.

Earl Kramer stared up, stiff with cold and fright. That ugly coalscuttle helmet, that grey greatcoat with the crazy eagle on the top, that damn great rifle: this bastard was a typical Nazi. Heavy face, big jowls, squinty eyes. Probably shot and looted his way all over Europe. He had a bayonet somewhere, and probably a couple of hand grenades too. A lousy sadistic fascist bastard. Kramer felt for his knife.

The German wrapped the wire around the eye-bolt and went along the wall, looking for the other wire. Kramer twisted desperately and felt the barbs rip loose from his trousers. He rolled away just as the German began pulling. The wire scraped over the wall and then stopped, caught somewhere. Kramer reached out and fumbled for the snag, while the German shook the wire. It wouldn’t come. The German tugged and jerked grunting with effort, while Kramer scrabbled at the stonework. Still it was jammed.

The German took a rest. Kramer prayed that the son of a bitch would give up and go. The German decided on one more try. He spread his elbows on the wall and leaned over to find out what the problem was. Earl Kramer saw the thrusting, armoured head and sprang at it. He grabbed its greatcoat collar and stabbed and stabbed in the back of the neck; stabbed and stabbed until Kramer was gasping for breath and the German was quite dead and too heavy for him to hold. The body folded at the knees and slid down its own side, leaving its helmet lodged against the wire.

Automatically, Kramer took the helmet. He stood with the steaming knife in one hand and the warm helmet in the other, panting, and blinking at the glow from the flashlight. It signalled the death, at the age of thirty-seven, of 323789196 Private Wilhelm Keller, B Company, 4th Battallion, 12th Regiment, 319 Division, German Army, while carrying out his six hundred and forty-eighth guard patrol. Private Keller, who left a wife and three children, was sadly missed by the guard commander, but not for another forty-five minutes.

General Rimmer came into the middle of the coffee lounge of the Hotel Bristol and looked around. In one corner three lieutenants and a captain stood stiffly beside a bridge table. ‘Very pretty, Dum-Dum,’ Rimmer said.

‘Your suite is on the first floor, sir,’ Major Wolff said. ‘It faces the sea.’

‘Charming, I’m sure. When you’ve seen one sea you’ve seen them all. What’s wrong with my operational headquarters?’

‘There’s not much more than a bunk and a washbasin over there, general.’

‘Whereas this place is like an overpriced Turkish brothel. Who lives here, anyway?’

‘Distinguished visitors. And Count Limner and his wife.’

Rimmer walked over to the card table. ‘You mean the show-jumping Limners? How fascinating.’ He began turning over the hands of cards. ‘Send for them.’

‘Count Limner is Head of Civil Administration, general. He doesn’t come under your authority.’ Wolff watched Rimmer stroll around the table. ‘In any case, he and his wife are out.’

Rimmer nodded absently. He gave each hand a final glance, and pointed to the captain. ‘You win,’ he said. ‘Good night.’ The officers picked up their hats and went out. ‘We shall wait for the celebrated Limners,’ Rimmer said.

They arrived twenty minutes later, laughing. Count Limner was tall and lean, with thick grey hair and sleepy brown eyes looking out cautiously over a much-broken nose. With his tweed jacket, dark grey flannel trousers and cane, he had an easy elegance which made Rimmer look like an infantryman – and this despite the fact that Limner’s left shoe carried a built-up sole two inches thick.

His wife wore a green silk dress under a white cardigan, with a raincoat over her shoulders. Her hand was tucked inside her husband’s arm, and her head rested on his shoulder so that thick brown hair hid one eye. The other eye blinked lazily and lustrously. Count Limner and his wife were a little drunk.

Major Wolff performed the introductions. Nobody offered to shake hands. Rimmer made a small bow to the Countess.

‘Is it true that Gebhardt’s dead?’ she asked.

‘A heart attack. While visiting France, you know. Quite sudden.’

‘Out of the blue,’ Major Wolff said.

‘Thank you, major, you may go,’ Rimmer told him.

‘How very sad,’ she said.

‘It was sudden, he didn’t suffer. This is a great personal pleasure, Count. I was an admirer in your showjumping days. Tell me: why was it you withdrew from the German team in the Berlin Olympics?’

Wolff paused at the doorway.

‘Let’s say I felt a bit lopsided,’ Limner said. He tapped his left shoe with his cane. ‘And those Olympics were sufficiently lopsided already.’

‘I understood that your riding accident took place in 1937. After the Olympics.’

‘Let’s say I had a premonition.’

‘That would be very curious.’

‘Yes, let’s say it was very curious.’

Maria Limner swung her hair back and revealed a long smile that curled up on the right and dipped down on the left. ‘Michael has second sight, general,’ she said. ‘For instance, he knows what’s going to happen to you. Don’t you, darling?’

Limner screwed his face into a grimace of effort. He looked Rimmer up and down. ‘No,’ he said.

‘He does, really,’ she said. ‘He’s just too sleepy to try.’

‘A tiring evening?’ Rimmer asked.

‘Been playing bridge,’ Limner said. ‘With the de Wildes. Too good for me. We lost.’

‘The de Wildes,’ Rimmer said. ‘Who are they?’

‘He’s what they call the Bailiff. He really runs the show around here.’

Rimmer squared his shoulders. ‘That is no longer the case,’ he said firmly, ‘I run the show around here, Count. Let me make the situation crystal-clear.’ He handed Limner a piece of paper. ‘This is my appointment as Fortress Commandant, signed as you can see by the Fuehrer. I am flattered that he chose me. When invasion comes, we shall be the vanguard. I have given my personal oath that the enemy will be flung into the sea or we shall fight and die to the last man. Here we defend not just the coast of Europe but the whole future of the Third Reich, and that is an honour and a responsibility I am not prepared to hand over to your Mr. de Wilde, who will do exactly what I tell him or blood will flow.’

‘Goodness gracious,’ Maria Limner said. ‘You do feel strongly, general.’

‘I speak as I see, Countess.’

‘Well, but things are rather different here,’ Limner said. ‘Let’s say you and I and de Wilde will work things out.’

‘Let’s say he’ll do as he’s told.’

‘Let’s say nobody will wish to do anything foolish.’

‘Let’s say good-night,’ Maria Limner said. ‘Before the lights go out.’ Rimmer cocked his head. ‘The power supply is rationed,’ she explained.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I thought for a moment you might mean sabotage.’

‘Dear me, no,’ she said. ‘We haven’t had a case of sabotage since General Gebhardt’s horse misbehaved itself during a parade for Hitler’s birthday.’

Rimmer reclaimed his written appointment from Count Limner’s hand. ‘I believe I know how the beast felt,’ he said. ‘There are times when we all take more than we can stomach. Good-night to you both.’

*

The shaking was so bad that Earl Kramer had to tense his body to make it do things. If he stood still he began to feel dizzy from the fever of excitement racing around his brain; but when he moved, everything was very slow. It took him a long time to re-open the wire and get through the hole, and all the time, his memory was liable to release one of those frantic glimpses of a right fist, stabbing and stabbing: at first frantic with fear, and then frantic with triumph.

Kramer sat on the road in the rain until he heard his teeth chattering. He made himself get on his feet and walk over to the light. He found the loose wires and took them back and laced them up. The exercise calmed him and helped to control the trembling. He made a good job of the wire, tugging it tight and winding the ends to the last inch. It looked neat and secure. Earl Kramer, the local wire expert.

He shone the flashlight on the dead German. The body lay on its side, knees bent, one arm under the bald head. Kramer was surprised: Nazi soldiers shouldn’t be bald. He got hold of the wrists and pulled. The body rolled onto its back, and the fingers flickered wetly against his forearms. He let go. Where the hell was he taking it?

On the other side of the road a field stretched into the night. Kramer walked into it, looking for anything: a barn, a haystack, a woodpile. Nothing. He turned back and fell into a trench, half-full of water. ‘Come off it, God!’ he shouted hoarsely. He climbed out and sat on the edge and looked at the hole. ‘Okay, God, I get the idea,’ he said.

He got the body under the armpits and hauled it across the grass. The German rolled into the trench with a mighty splash. One of his boots had come off. Kramer found it and threw it in. The boot needed mending. For the first time Kramer shone the flashlight on the dead man’s face. It was a nightshift face, tired and lined and ready for rest. Kramer dropped the rifle down the side of the trench, carefully, so as not to hit the face. Earth lay alongside in a smooth, weathered hump. He kicked it in. By the time the trench was full the rain was already at work, smoothing and blending. Kramer felt better now. Maybe it hadn’t really happened after all.

He turned his back on the grave and walked inland. He knew what he had to do. He had to find the Underground Railway and go to Spain.

Large, soft, white discs kept appearing in the night. They vanished when the rain in his eyes made him blink. Then they appeared again. The funny thing was they didn’t light up anything.

Kramer stumbled on a hunk of grass or something and his knees went wobbly, so he stopped. He seemed all empty inside. No warmth anywhere. Hollow belly, shaky shoulders, cold all over. Shaky all over. Better start walking again. Here come those damn lights.

He tried to swat them with the flashlight. It swung stiffly and slowly, and he nearly fell over. The lights in his head streaked and blurred and changed colour: shimmering blues, dappled mauves. Mustn’t fall over. Got to keep walking. Mustn’t use the flash. Good reason for that, goddam good reason. What? Can’t remember. Had it just now. Gone again.

Oh yes. Got to find the Underground Railway and go to Spain. Long long long long way. Mustn’t waste the light. Save the light to find the Underground and get on their little old Railway to Spain. That’s what all the survival lectures said. Okay then. Keep walking. How many more fields? Christ what a night. Jesus Christ what a day and a night. Goddam shakes are getting worse. Just don’t fall down. Please don’t fall down.

A dog howled.

Kramer stopped and got his thumb working and switched on the flashlight. He saw a hedge, a gate. A sack. Faded printing. Agricole, it said. And Pureté Garantie. He turned it over. Address in Cherbourg. Well well. So this was France. Well well well. Lot of rain in France. Very wet country. Wet and cold.

He opened the gate and saw a house. The dog howled again. It sounded angry. Maybe it was a German dog. Maybe it belonged to the dead sentry. Maybe the house was full of Gestapo. He went up to the front door and knocked. The dog howled more loudly.

An upstairs window opened and a woman called: ‘Who’s there?’

Kramer shone the light on her. She was elderly, with curly white hair, worn long. ‘Pardonnez-moi, madame,’ he said.

‘Don’t point that thing at me!’ she cried. Kramer swung it away. He thought: What’s the French for ‘I’m sorry’?

A man replaced the woman. ‘What the bloody hell d’you want?’ he demanded.

‘Voulez-vous …’ Kramer began. That wasn’t right. ‘S’il vous plâit …’ No, that didn’t lead anywhere either. ‘Urn,’ he said.

‘Here, let’s have a look at you, Charlie,’ the man said. ‘Shine that lamp on your face.’ Kramer dazzled himself. ‘My God, Mary,’ the man said. ‘It’s a drunk bloody German.’

‘Non, non, monsieur,’ Kramer said. ‘Je ne suis pas drunk. Je ne suis pas German.’ As he peered upwards the big German helmet slipped from his head and crashed onto the flagstones. He picked it up. ‘Did you drop this?’ he asked.

Bolts slid. The door opened. The farmer held up a candle. He was wearing a raincoat over his pyjamas. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ he asked.

‘Moi,’ Kramer said, ‘Kramer, Lieutenant Earl Kramer.’

‘D’you speak English, or don’t you?’

‘Oui, oui, But je parle … um … votre language, too.’

The farmer leaned out and took stock. He saw a white face in which the eyes were slowly closing and the mouth slowly opening. The shoulders were dragged down and the body swayed as if seeking something to lean against. The arms hung slackly and the feet in the flying boots were pigeon-toed from weariness. The farmer thought: He could be a Jerry deserter, or a spy, or French Resistance, though how the hell he got here … Perhaps he’s a Commando, but …

‘Louis!’ his wife called down the stairs, ‘Send him away before he gets us all shot.’

‘Come on, come on,’ the farmer growled at him. ‘What d’you want?’

Kramer thought hard. ‘Railway,’ he said. ‘Underground Railway. To Spain.’

‘You daft bugger,’ the farmer said. Then his candle went flying as Kramer fainted across the doorstep.

*

They were climbing. They had to be climbing, because of the backward tilt. Also he could hear a steady buzzing. Nice regular climb, no turbulence, no vibration, must be through the clouds and into delicious warm sunshine, flickering across his eyelids. Beautifully warm. Wonderfully quiet flight, apart from that crackling. Just a quiet crackle. Sometimes a hiss or pop, but mainly crackle. Probably radio static. Funny smell, though. Sharp. Tangy. Can’t be static. Must be the sunshine. The crackly sunshine …

The whiff and crackle of burning grew stronger. Earl Kramer opened his eyes and saw fire: The plane was on fire! He tried to get up but hands held him down, he struggled and shouted in protest. Then a grandfather clock chimed.

Kramer turned his head and saw the clock standing next to a mantelpiece. It chimed again, with a sound like faded chintz. He looked further and saw white walls, black curtains, an old deep-buttoned leather couch.

‘You’re alive, then.’ The farmer’s voice did not celebrate the fact. ‘Drink this.’

Kramer tried to reach out but he was wrapped in blankets. He got an arm free, and took the heavy tumbler. The arm was bare. Under the blankets he was naked. He drank some of the pale brown liquid and felt it lead a torchlight procession down his throat.

‘Wow!’ he whispered. The big old cane chair creaked as he stretched again.

Behind him, the farmer’s wife said: ‘I tell you he’ll get us all shot.’

‘In that case, shot is what we’ll all get,’ the farmer replied.

‘He comes crashing around here in the middle of the night. No consideration for others.’

‘D’you want him put back out there in that weather?’

‘I never wanted him brought in here in the first place.’

‘He wasn’t brought in, for God’s sake! He collapsed.’

‘He’ll get us all shot, you see.’

Kramer felt the tingling of warmth reach all the cold, forgotten ends of his body. He rippled his toes, slowly, in the heat of the fire. He felt good. He wanted to thank somebody. He said, ‘I don’t want to put you folks to any trouble.’

‘No t