He managed to put his hands on the shoulder and seat-belt buckle, and to lift it. He fell out of the airplane onto the ground.
My God, I can’t move! What did I do, break my back?
I can smell avgas!
Worse, he could see it leaking from a ruptured tank.
I don’t want to go this way!
He managed to start crawling. Every breath hurt, and he was convinced he had broken a rib, several ribs. He couldn’t use his left arm. There was no pain, it just didn’t work.
He crawled toward the tail, pushing himself with his feet.
God, don’t let me burn!
And then hands, strong hands, were clutching the thin material of his Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical.
He was dragged across the ground.
More than one guy has to be doing that. Two.
There was the whoosh of gasoline igniting.
Whoever was dragging him stopped doing that, and suddenly someone was lying on top of him. The weight hurt his ribs.
After a moment, a voice said: “I don’t think it’s going to blow up.”
Some of the weight pressing him into the ground came off. Then the rest of it.
“You all right, Lieutenant?” a voice asked.
“I don’t know,” Clete replied, truthfully.
He tried to roll over, to get his face out of the dirt.
Strong hands pressed him back.
“I think you better wait until the Corpsmen show up before you try to move,” a voice said—a suggestion that was in fact an order.
God, he thinks my neck is broken! Or my back! Is that why I don’t feel any pain, except when I breathe?
He heard the sound of a jeep engine approaching, and then the particular squeal of a jeep’s brakes.
And then there were hands, fingers probing him.
“You with us, Lieutenant?” a gruff but surprisingly gentle voice inquired.
“Yeah.”
“It looks like you bent your airplane,” the voice said. “Can you move your legs?”
Clete moved them.
“How about your arms?”
“I know I can move the right one,” Clete said, and demonstrated.
“I’m going to roll you on your back. If it starts to hurt, yell.”