During daylight he spent most of the time hidden in woods, where he concealed himself in the sparse winter undergrowth as best he could. He slept fitfully, waking often because he was cold, or because he imagined that he heard voices. After his plane crashed he’d seen German soldiers on their way to the wreckage, and he didn’t know if they were looking for him or had assumed he was dead. He had no clear recollection of the crash itself, only the tops of the trees rushing to meet him. He thought he must have blacked out, and when he came to he was lying on the ground, and it was raining fire. The wreck of his plane was lodged in the woodland canopy above him, where it had come to rest. The trees were burning. He’d managed to crawl clear of the fire. His leg ached badly and there was a gash in his scalp that had left his hair matted with blood, but otherwise he seemed to be uninjured. He saw the soldiers soon afterwards. They were crossing a field towards the thick pall of smoke rising from the woods.
