Sergeant Mechanic Wandzel stood at the foot of the bed. He was holding onto the bed frame and staring at Ludwik’s chart trying to decipher the notes scribbled on it in the timeless, messy manner that most hurried physicians seemed to use.
“Good to see you, Andrzej,” Ludwik said quietly.
“Ahhh, Ludwik, glad you made it my friend. How do you feel?”
“Good enough, my friend. And you and the others?”
The lack of military formality between the two men was typical of the Polish Air Force. Rank had no real meaning with most of the men. They were friends first and foremost. Officers and enlisted men both shared the same dream; to win back the brief but wonderful independence that Poland had gained after World War I.
The sergeant lowered his head for a moment then said, “Edward is dead. His body washed up on the shore. Stanislaw and Witold are missing. Zygmunt and Jan are here in the hospital. They are not allowed any visitors. I got out of the plane through a break in the fuselage about ten feet from Edward’s position in the tail. I never saw him. I have some cuts, bruises and a broken ankle. God was with me,” the sergeant replied. He raised the crutch that had been resting on the bed frame and gave his friend a sad smile.
“How long have I been here?” asked Ludwik.
“Three days,” the flight mechanic answered.
Three days. And two men still missing! Probably dead by now. Ludwik was shaken by that. He hoped their bodies would eventually wash ashore like Edward’s had. Then they could all be buried together at the base with the honor they deserved.
He had lost three good friends. Three more men that would never see their homeland again. A surge of guilt ran through him. He had been the pilot that put the plane in the sea. If only he had seen the runway sooner. If only he could have managed to loosen the controls and climb over the storm. He knew he had done the best he could considering everything that had happened. He also knew he would have to live with the fact that men had died while he was at the controls. It was a sad moment for him.
Days passed. A week went by. Then two weeks. The pain from the deep bruises on his chest had lessened considerably. His facial cuts were healing nicely. The hospital care, along with the almost daily letters from Nellie, had done him well. Andrzej visited every day and brought updates on the other two survivors. They were improving. Concussions, cuts and a few broken bones aside, the hearty Polish lads would
