What followed only took seconds. I pulled at my lever, shut off the petrol, and at the same time received a sharp, heavy blow. I clutched convulsively at my steering-wheel, and flew into the air, hitting my head against some part of the machine.
A deathly silence reigned around me.
Deep darkness; from which I was only roused by feeling a stream of pungent liquid pouring over my face.
I lay motionless, my head pressed forward, my body huddled together, feet sticking out. But suddenly I realized my position with a start, and, obsessed by the fear of the machine catching fire at any moment, I tried to free myself from my cramped position, until I succeeded in switching off the ignition. At last I gradually regained complete consciousness of my surroundings, and my first thought was for my poor observer. I felt sure that as he sat in front he must have borne the brunt of the first shock and was probably crushed to a pulp, as the fuselage had splintered under the impact. As no sound broke the silence, I gasped at last—for I was so squeezed in that I could hardly breathe:
“Strehlchen, are you alive?”
A dreadful pause; no answer.
On repeating my question, I heard at last: “I say, what has happened? It is quite dark here—something must have happened!”
Ah, how glad I was! I shouted with the rest of my strength: “Strehlchen, man, you are still alive—that’s all that matters! What about your bones? Are they whole?” But the poor chap was lying so huddled up that he was only able to gasp: “I don’t know. We’ll see later on.”
Again silence supervened. The petrol flowed in a rich stream from the tank, which held its full capacity of 170 litres; but after a time, which seemed an eternity, somebody knocked outside, and a far-away voice floated to where we lay: