Wheldon unbuckled his straps and turned to climb quickly out.
Vachell was in his way.
‘Get out, Tony, quick…’
Vachell’s movements were lethargic. Wheldon shoved him hard but he still clambered along the collapsed fuselage as though he had suddenly grown very old or been hit hard on the skull with a cosh.
Ufland was already out and waiting, navigation bag in hand, when Wheldon stepped clear and the firemen scrambled aboard with the two nursing orderlies and their stretcher.
‘You O.K., Pete?’
‘Compared with what, Beaky? Compared with those two poor bastards in there?’
Wheldon heard the M.O’s voice, crisp and more disapproving than pitying. ‘Come along, Flight…’
‘I’m staying here… sir, till they get my crew out.’
‘That won’t help them… or you. Get into the ambulance, Flight Sergeant.’
Discipline would always triumph over anger and a sense of decency. Wheldon turned reluctantly away and realised, as he climbed aboard, that he had only just made it before his knees gave way.
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Battle Climb Page 20
