‘But nevertheless that should not stop you flying.’
‘It doesn’t help,’ I said quickly. And then, because I thought he was going to probe further, I added, ‘The competition’s pretty keen now with so many able-bodied fliers out of a job.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘I understand. But when does this happen? When my squadron is posted you are all right.’
‘Oh, it happened much later. In Italy. I crashed up near the Futa Pass between Florence and Bologna.’
‘Then you are a prisoner?’
‘For just over a year,’ I answered. ‘They did three operations.’
‘Three operations?’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘But surely one is sufficient for an amputation.’
I felt the sweat breaking out on my forehead. Even now I could feel the knife and the grating bite of the saw. ‘They need not have operated at all,’ I heard myself say. ‘My leg could have been saved.’ Somehow I didn’t mind talking about it to him. He was so remote, someone from another world. Here, behind the Iron Curtain, what had happened to me didn’t seem to matter so much.
‘Then why?’ he asked.
‘They wanted me to talk.’