Battle of Britain by Chris Priestley

here much longer, the cold would numb the rest of me too and I’d be a goner. Suddenly, being hit by the Messerschmitt’s guns seemed appealingly fast and final.
    â€œIt is cold, is it not?” said the German, as if he read my thoughts.
    â€œYes. Very,” I said.
    â€œAre we to die then, Englishman?”
    â€œNo!” I shouted.
    â€œGood,” he shouted back. “I am not ready to die.”
    â€œWho is?” I shouted.
    Then I heard the drone of an engine over my shoulder. I turned to see a fishing boat heading for us. I whooped and shouted and waved and shouted and so did the German.
    â€œOver here! Over here!” I yelled. The boat came in close and they hauled me up and on to the deck.
    â€œYou’d better get out of those wet things or you’ll catch your death,” said one of the crew, tossing me a blanket. “How’s that wound?” The trouser leg was chewed up and bloody.
    â€œOK, I think,” I said, struggling to get out of my flying suit. But out of the water, it started to hurt like hell again.
    â€œLet’s go get your friend, there,” said the skipper. The boat pulled up alongside the German pilot.
    â€œ Danke, danke! ” he shouted as they reached for him.
    â€œHe’s German!” yelled one of them.
    â€œI’m not having any Jerry in my boat,” said the skipper. “The fish can have ’im if they want ’im. Let ’im drown!”
    The boat started to turn for shore, with the German flailing and yelling.
    â€œNo!” I shouted, surprising myself, and everyone else, with the violence in my voice. “Pick him up!”
    They all turned to face me.
    â€œAnd why the hell should I? Murdering swine that they are. A minute ago ’e was trying to kill you!”
    â€œI know,” I said. “I know that. But we can’t just let him drown. We have to be different. If we’re going to be as bad as the Nazis then what’s the point? If we leave him there, then what are we fighting for ? If we’re just the same as them, then what are we fighting for?”
    They all looked at me. A flag fluttered at the top of the mast and the boat creaked and groaned in the swell. The German’s cries for help grew fainter.
    â€œOK,” said the skipper with a sigh. “Fish ’im out.”
    The boat turned again and they hauled the German out, though with a lot less care than they had with me. Even so, the crewman who had thrown me a blanket did the same with the German and he duly stripped and wrapped himself up, wincing at some injury to his side.
    Someone appeared with a mug of tea and a shot of brandy. We both sat there in silence as the engine chugged and gulls hung in the breeze around us, crying like children. My leg throbbed and I didn’t dare look for fear of what I’d see.
    â€œBlasted Nazis,” said one of the crew.
    â€œI am not a Nazi,” said the pilot. “I am just a German. I love my country.”
    â€œThen why didn’t you stay there, you swine?” shouted another man. The German looked away, down at the deck, but the man leaned closer and continued. “Look at all this,” he said with a wild wave of his hand that took in me, the dogfight above and the whole splintered and bloody world. “Look at it! Don’t tell me you love your country, or so help me I’ll throw you back in!”
    The skipper came over and pulled him away.
    â€œYou’ll have to forgive us,” he said to the German. “We haven’t forgotten what it was like picking soldiers off the beach at Dunkirk, with you cowards trying to kill us all for doing it. Most likely we’ll never forget it. I don’t think I’ll ever get the smell of that beach out of this boat.”
    â€œI am sorry,” said the German.
    â€œShut up,” said the skipper coldly, “Or I’ll throw you back in myself.”
    They left us alone. I could think of