The Unbalanced Hurricane
There are no unbalanced Hurricanes, there is death in the shores of the morning. "I'm scared. I fear that you'll leave one day and that I will never see you again." There were tears in her eyes as he finished dressing his uniform. How terribly he wanted to comfort her, but lies he never told her. He cleaned his throat. "The Laughing Gnome will bring me back in one piece, my love." She was the one who had invented his plane's name. The Laughing Gnome. And it stuck. Every pilot in his squadron, the mechanics, the squadron Leader, the all called his Hurricane by that name. And sometimes, as he throttled up its engine, he could almost hear the gentle laughing of his plane. But not now. Not today. Today his plane was roaring a challenge against the German fighters, turning and evading them, trying to sidestep them and reach the bombers with their bellies filled with can-stored death.
He banked hard to the right, went down a thousand feet and delivered a long stray of bullets against a double engined bomber. It opened up like a flower of light, a scream of a seagull. Then he felt bullets raking the Laughing Gnome and a painful punch in his body, a spear of lead and gunpowder, and then his lover's face covered the sky in front of him. For a moment there darkness followed. And then the Laughing Gnome roared to him. Challenged his will, mocked his weakness, reminded him of his promise. And he fought the pain, he spat the blood on his lips and he focused. A second had passed? Three seconds? The beautiful grey sharks were still following him like hunters leading a prey.
He kicked the stick hard left, then right, then left again forcing the enemy fighters to guess, to loose their tight formation and then he dove hard only to appear behind them. One shark wasn't fooled by this. The other took the bait. His eight twin machine guns screamed in delight. Eight angels of destruction. Eight fingers of death. The enemy fighter took it all and went down. A trail of smoke and fire appeared like a line drawn in the sky by a child. Then again the Laughing Gnome was shook by bullets. Too close. But this time pilot and plane were as one. He cut sharp in his enemy's way. They crashed against each other. His propeller making a terrible work of vengeance in the German fighter's tail. And they both went down into the Channel. Fellow enemies, pilots, friends that could have been. He saw the German's parachute open and he was glad of it.
His conscience was fading. He tried to lift his plane's nose so that he could crash land in the waters of the Channel. Darkness was pressing in, against his will. "Don't go to sleep, my love", he heard her. And the laugh of his plane, keeping him awake, his hands in the stick, sweat coming down mixed with blood and will. He finally lost conscience. For a short time. For a long time. Eternity didn't come.
He was being pulled out of his floating Hurricane by two British seamen. "You were lucky", one of them was telling him while they were taking him to the patrol boat, "your plane was still floating when we arrived. And you made a damn good landing, I'll say". He raised his head painfully. The Laughing Gnome was now sinking. He wanted to scream. "Save him! Save him, please!" But darkness called on to him again.
In the hospital, only his love, embracing him, knew why he was crying.
Joaquim
(Sorry for my poor English.)
Bookmarks