Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) by Douglas Reeman

broad daylight. The last barricade of hedgerow was piled up and over a thick stone wall, an old building or barn, its crumbling beams just visible. But the wall was solid, had likely been here for a century or more.
    The aircraft had been torn apart, but had not caught fire. Only the tail section looked undamaged, the swastika holding the light as if still unvanquished.
    Bird said quietly, ‘Mr. Sewell’s over there now, sir.’ Masters felt his eyes. ‘Knows you well, ’e tells me.’
    Masters nodded, lowering the binoculars to allow his mind to settle.
    ‘Does he have his rating with him?’
    ‘Aye, sir. There’s a deep ditch over there, by the far gate. He’s in there, intercom in use. Should be safe enough if . . .’ He did not continue.
    ‘I’ll crawl over and have a word with him.’ He saw the gunner’s sudden concern, could almost hear what his orders had been on the subject. He added, ‘The intercom, that’s all.’
    The gunner almost smiled. ‘I should ’ave said, sir. One of the Jerries is, or was, still alive in that lot. But Mr. Sewell thought it best to keep things as quiet as possible, until . . .’
    Masters saw the pensive, schoolmaster’s face in his mind again. It was what he would think. And all this time they had been stuck in crawling traffic. He stood up and said, ‘Stay here, Mr. Bird. If I duck out of sight, you hit the dirt, right?’
    Bird studied him again, impassively. ‘Be right ’ere, sir.’
    Masters walked deeper into the field. There was a fold across it which he had not noticed in the binoculars. It was deeply scarred, with fragments of metal flung on either side to mark where the aircraft had struck and rebounded for the last and fatal impact.
    Two, perhaps three times he dropped to his knees, ready to cover his head and ears with his arms, but there was only silence, and the light breeze in the bushes. He wondered what the admiral would say if he eventually turned up with his uniform covered in mud. He stopped it right there. If you could joke about it, you were over the edge.
    He waited, and then out of nowhere he heard someone speak.
    ‘Got it, sir. I’ve put it all down!’
    The ditch was a good choice; he was on top of it without even seeing it, or the upturned face only feet away. He put a warning finger to his lips and then lowered himself down beside the rating, Sewell’s assistant.
All those other times.
The assistant was dressed in seaman’s rig, a torpedoman’s badge on one sleeve. Masters knew he had been with Sewell for some time, and yet he looked more like a boy than a man. He was kneeling on an oilskin, his cap nearby on his tool pack, and he wore a headset with speaker attached, something Sewell must have invented for the job. The usual intercom lay nearby, humming softly.
    Masters took out his binoculars.
    ‘All quiet?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ The eyes moved slowly across his uniform, the rank. ‘We knew someone was coming, sir, but . . .’ He lifted his head and peered again through the bushes.
    Masters recognized the anxiety, the strain. Waiting was always the worst part. Almost.
    He said, ‘What’s your name, by the way? I’m Masters – I know your lieutenant pretty well.’
    He saw the young sailor’s breathing steady as he nodded and answered, ‘I know, sir. He told me about you.’ He looked down and Masters saw the drawing pad he was holding against his knee. He noticed the hands too, well shaped, almost delicate. ‘My name’s Downie, sir.’
    One hand flew to his switch as a voice came out of the intercom. ‘He’s there with you, is he?’ Sewell, sounding clear and untroubled. ‘Tell him I can’t hang about any more. The kraut has just died, poor chap. I’m going to have a go.’ The smallest pause. ‘So be ready, all right?’
    Downie said quietly, ‘There were three in the crew, sir. Two died in the crash. The other one was too smashed up to move. And Mr. Sewell said it was too risky.’
    Masters took the pad. ‘May I?’