Flight from Berlin

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He landed hands first on the wet, sandy soil and rolled over on his side. Wind roared inwards towards the blaze, sucking the air from his mouth. His skin was paper; his hair tinder.

Run, for God’s sake.

Richard Denham moved to get up, but the next blast flattened him, sending a huge jet of flame over his head.

He crawled forwards through showers of brilliant white stars. Some fifty feet away a man in a sailor’s cap was beckoning, shouting through the rippling glow.

‘Over here, buddy, come on.’

I’m coming, friend, he thought, seeing in his mind that first day on the Somme twenty years ago. Which way are the Jerry lines, pal?

He staggered up and began to run, but a roll of burning diesel smoke engulfed him. Stumbling, he hit his head against something metal.

The next thing he knew he was being carried away at a run, jiggled over the sailor’s shoulder like a sack of oats, the man’s lungs heaving under the load.

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