Paul Brickhill

The rigid foot of his right leg was hooked fast on something in the plane and holding him
in.
The broken Spitfire, dragging him by the leg, plunged down and spun and battered him, the wind
clawing at his flesh and cringing sightless eyeballs as it picked up speed to 400mph, then
500mph.
It went on, hurtling downwards, and all he could do was perch there, trapped in mid-air, timeless,
witless, helpless, doomed.
Suddenly he felt the steel and leather of his artificial leg snap. In a flash, the brain cleared and
he pulled the rip cord of his parachute, hearing a crack as it opened.
And then he was floating. High above, the sky was still blue, and right at his feet lay a veil of
cloud. He sank into it. That was the cloud at 4,000ft. Cutting it fine! Seconds later he saw the
earth, green and dappled, below him.
Something flapped in his face — his right trouser leg, split along the seam. Underneath gleamed
the white skin of his stump. The right leg had gone. How lucky, he thought, to have detachable
ones.
Otherwise he would have died a few seconds ago in the burning wreck of his cockpit.
He heard engine noises and turned in the harness. A Messerschmitt was flying straight at him,
but the pilot did not shoot. He turned and roared by, 50 yards away.
Grass and cornfields were lifting gently to meet him, stooks of corn and fences. Two peasants
in blue smocks leaned against a gate looking up and he felt absurdly self-conscious.
A woman carrying a pail in each hand stopped in a lane and stared up