Stan gathered him up and carried him toward a field ambulance which was roaring toward them with its siren screaming, while O’Malley trudged along behind muttering savagely to himself.
A white-coated ambulance surgeon leaped out to meet them as the ambulance slithered to a stop. Stan laid his burden down gently and stepped back out of the way, dragging O’Malley with him. The surgeon knelt beside the unconscious man and made a swift examination, then turned and snapped to a couple of internes hovering behind him:
“Get a stretcher down here. This man is badly wounded.”
Stan surged forward and clutched his arm. “How badly?” he queried through bloodless lips. “Not...?”
The surgeon smiled and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “No,” he replied simply. “I promise you he won’t die. England needs all her fliers, and we’ll pull him through to go into the air again. I can’t tell how soon,” he ended briskly. “Not until I get him to the hospital and make a complete examination.” He turned away and leaped into the ambulance behind the stretcher, and it sped away with its unconscious burden.
“Glory be to God,” breathed O’Malley fervently. “Come along with you now, we’d best make our reports.”
In the briefing room the flight officer met them with more eagerness than was usual with such an official. Nodding toward the chutes, neatly piled on the floor, he said:
“You usually take care of those things, don’t you know.”
Stan nodded grimly. He was thinking about Allison. O’Malley just grunted and planked his bony elbows on the high desk. Thrusting his chin out, he remarked:
“What you limeys need is more fire wagons like I just slid meself out of. I want one for my own use.”