10Arras, Monday, 9 April 1917
Adam eased forward and reached down to massage his left leg as he levelled out at five thousand feet. Each time he’d flown since he’d returned to duty, he’d felt twinges of pain where the break had been. He reached into his pocket, caressed the bullets from his wounds and thought of the nursing sister who’d removed them. His arm and shoulder still ached if he over-worked them, but that reminded him of her too. With a sigh he dismissed the thought. This was not the time for romance. What could he offer a girl? Tomorrow he might be dead. He forced himself to concentrate on flying. If he didn’t keep focused he’d be dead today.
It was six months since his crash, and three months since he’d been flying again. Whether it was the cold at the altitude he flew or som
