The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall Page B

into a near-vertical climb, and nearly stalled. While he was battling to regain control, he was spotted by a lone pompom gunner on the Bank Top, who had been seeing to his gun sight. Long lines of red stitching followed the fighter up the sky.
    More pompoms opened up. One blew off the fighter's wing-tip and that seemed to drive the pilot mad. Far from trying to escape, he started a personal vendetta against the pompoms. Once he came so low, he curved around the lighthouse on the Bank Top at zero feet, causing a fat woman with a pram to faint at the entrance to Chapel Street.
    The end to such mad behavior was inevitable. Three Spitfires from Acklington got between him and the sea. But the pilot seemed beyond caring. He headed straight for the Spitfires, guns blazing. They were still blazing when he blew up over the harbour mouth. You could hear people cheering on both sides of the river.
    What with the explosion and the cheering, nobody had noticed a small dark mass that had detached itself from the Messerschmitt at the last possible moment. It fell nearly to the ground before a parachute opened, and it still hit the ground rather hard.
    Sergeant Rudi Gerlath, of the victorious Luftwaffe, tried to stand up, but his ankle was agony. So he crawled instead, gathering the telltale folds of parachute as he went, into a clumsy bundle. He was in some sort of garden. Apart from the forest of brussels sprouts around him, the only cover was some little wooden sheds.
    He crawled to the first shed, and opened the door, only to be greeted by a frantic clucking and fluttering. Hens! And where there were hens, people came to feed them. No go. He shut the door and crawled on. The next hut contained one big fat rabbit, who regarded Rudi thoughtfully while chewing his way up a long dandelion leaf.
    "Rabbit, I envy you," said Rudi. "Rabbits live longer than rear gunners."
    The next hut was empty, except for spades and sacks. Rudi climbed in painfully, pulling the muddy parachute after him. He looked at his ankle. It wasn't broken or even bleeding. Just sprained so he couldn't walk.
    Might as well surrender, he thought. Might be a hot meal before interrogation. I'd reveal all the secrets of the Third Reich for a glass of schnapps and a lump of sausage.
    He opened the hut door and shouted loudly. Nobody came. Eventually he got tired of shouting and fell asleep.
    The glare of the exploding plane, right overhead, did queer things to Chas's eyes. Everything he looked at had a glowing blue hole in it, the shape and size of the explosion. He wondered whether he would go permanently blind. It would be a tragic loss to the world. He heard a BBC announcer's voice in his head say, He could have been the finest brain surgeon England has ever seen. Even blind he is a superb concert pianist... but how sad he should never see the blue sky again... .
    He went on walking around in circles and peering at things. The hole in his eyes seemed to be fading. He suddenly felt hungry and wondered what was for tea.
    Cem was capering like a dervish on top of the Fortress, pulling up Audrey's camouflage bushes and whirling them around his head.
    "We got him, we got him!"
    "You and how many Spitfires," said Audrey acidly. "You've certainly blown a fine hole in our roof with that thing."
    "Stop squabbling, you two," announced Chas with tears in his eyes. "A brave man has died. He died facing his foes. What more can any man hope for?" He felt all grand and squashy inside, like when they played Land of Hope and Glory at school.
    But the next second he felt cross because the Messerschmitt had blown up above the waters of the harbour, and there wouldn't be any souvenirs to pick up.
    "What about that hole in the roof?" asked Audrey again. "And next time you might kill somebody with that nasty great gun."
    "That's what it's for—that's what I was trying to do, so! Anyway, what do stupid girls know about it? Besides he—" he pointed to Cem—"that stupid laughing fool jogged my