The Spitfire Lord
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by Ellen Margret
Category: Romance/Historical Fiction
Description: One minute he had the controls of a Cessna, and the next he found himself sitting in a Spitfire battling the Luftwaffe. Greg nursed the crippled Spit back to RAF base, but it was Nurse Beatrice Latton who nursed him back to health. Soon they were in love, but when Greg confessed to Bea that he was from the future, she refused to believe him. The last thing he needed then was to be whisked back to the present, a time in which Bea was dead. Somehow he had to get back to her.
eBook Publisher: DCL Publications LLC, 2011 2011
eBookwise Release Date: August 2011
1 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [129 KB]
Reading time: 80-112 min.
The screaming of the engine brought him back to his senses. The noise was horrendous, and the smell of acrid smoke filled his nostrils, and made him gag. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, blinking frantically to sharpen his vision. "George, are you okay? Did you radio in?" He glanced to his left, hoping his brother would come into focus. He didn't because he wasn't there. No one was there. He realised then that he sat in the cockpit of a totally different plane. There was only one seat, and the instrument panel seemed very different. He reeled from the shock when his befuddled brain forced him to realise that he now sat in a Spitfire. A hasty glance out the window told him that a section of the starboard wing had been lost. The plane was in a nose-dive, and far below he saw a man descending rapidly to earth. He didn't think the fellow's parachute opened, but visibility was poor. Clouds marred his vision, as did the thick smoke coming from the plane's damaged, labouring engine. "This isn't real. It can't be," he said to himself. Yet the Spitfire continued to plummet, spinning like it had been sucked into some vortex. His hands felt frozen. The cold had become intense, but with numb hands he took the controls and somehow managed to bring the nose up. "I can't be flying a Spitfire. This is impossible, and that's surely not a Messerschmitt coming at me through the clouds?" It was, and it began to fire at him. The shots peppered the port wing, and Greg banked the plane and dived down into cloud cover. He had been in this situation so many times before, in simulated games, but this was no game. It was real, and he knew he now had a life or death situation. "Right, that's it. I'll fight back!" The Messerschmitt descended, and came at him again. Greg lined up the sights, knowing he had a clear shot. He hit the button that released cannon fire, and had the satisfaction of gaining a direct hit on the German plane's engine. The fighter plane exploded, throwing out metal, fire, and smoke.
Greg glanced around. He knew from the games he'd played that it was highly likely there would be another enemy plane somewhere. But, there wasn't, and as the clouds suddenly cleared he found he had a clear view all the way down to the sea. He shot a glance at his instruments. The plane flew at three thousand feet, but was steadily losing altitude. It also had very little fuel. He frantically looked for a radio, but there wasn't one. "Bugger," he swore, "this is one of the earlier models." He had no time to question, or to wonder what the hell was going on. He turned the plane around, and headed back towards England. Everything was real; the plane, the cockpit, the screaming engine, the intense cold that burned his fingers, the smoke pouring from the damaged engine, the Messerschmitt he had just shot down, the pilot he had seen dropping to earth with no parachute. All real, and it scared the life out of him. He doubted there would be enough fuel to get him back to the coast. When he got there, would he even be able to find an airstrip to land on? He swept those thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on flying the crippled Spitfire. He had no idea how much time passed, but it felt like an age, and then suddenly the coast came into view. So far so good. Now to find an airstrip, and put the plane down.
He and George had left a twenty-first century airport, but that wasn't what he saw as he flew the plane low over the English countryside. He saw an aerodrome surrounded by what he thought might be barracks. He saw an old Red Cross ambulance, and a line of Spitfires in a large field. Then he made out the airstrip. It wasn't a proper runway. It was merely a long, grass strip, but it was all he had. The plane was out of fuel, and all he could do was lower the wheels, line up the Spitfire and bring her in. With a large section of the starboard wing missing, he knew the landing wouldn't be easy, and that she would likely overbalance. He assumed right. The plane's wheels hit the ground, and he hit the brakes. Then something flying about in the cockpit hit him in the head.