Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands by Peter von Bleichert

cockpit interior.
    Albert released the harness.  While the movement was minor, it sent him spinning with vertigo.  He threw up on himself.  Covered in a cold sweat, Albert fought to move within the cockpit chair.  He lifted himself from its confines.  On the verge of falling unconscious, he slumped back again.  Concussion .  Albert worried about Donnan; he still had not moved.
    “Donnan,” Albert repeated.  The he tried yelling: “Lieutenant Bruce.”
    The stabbing pain in his head told Albert not to do that again.  He groaned as he tried to keep himself from vomiting again, or, worse, from blacking out.  It would be up to him to get out and retrieve Donnan.  Albert reached for the Apache’s canopy release.
    The mechanism’s red handle required more strength than Albert could summon.  He fished a knife from his flight suit pocket and used its shiny blade as a lever, working the canopy release until it clicked free.  Then, with dizzying effort, he rotated the release to the ‘Unlock’ position.
    The canopy lifted a few inches.  Fresh salty air flushed the cockpit.  Its warmth blew away the chemical-laden fumes from within.  Albert’s head cleared, and his thoughts became less disjointed.
    “Donnan.  Wake the hell up.”
    Only seabird song answered, accompanied by the howl from wind forcing its way into the cockpit.  An acrid smoky smell came in, too.  Albert turned and saw the column of black smoke rising above the crash site, emanating from one of the engine pods.  He did not, however, see nor smell the fuel that had leaked out of the punctured tank.
    Albert strained his aching neck to look past his other shoulder.  He saw that the Apache had broken in two; just where its tail boom had struck a big, immovable boulder.  He looked up and saw that one of the helicopter’s composite rotors had snapped, too, and only the thin titanium strip at the leading edge held the blade’s frayed carbon fibers.  His head movements did not bring spinning, confirming his vertigo had passed.  With a grunt, he raised his arm to press a hand against the canopy glass.
    Pushing hard, Albert coaxed the canopy open a little bit more.  This provided enough room for his aching body to squirm in the seat.  He pushed himself up and, with his shoulder, pressed against the canopy.  The canopy budged and creaked up to a new position.  There was now a big enough space to crawl through.  The wind entered full-force and delivered salty spray that refreshed Albert’s sweaty face.  This provided the inspiration he needed to get free.
    Albert attempted to lift his legs out, but managed only to hook his ankles over the metal lipof the cockpit’s threshold.  Progress , he thought, and shimmied his calves over the edge.  Pushing with his arms, he launched his torso upward until he felt the sharp metal in his gut.  Fighting nausea, Albert rolled and let gravity do its thing.
    He grunted as he hit the ground.  The jagged rock that poked Albert’s side told him to focus.  He rolled onto his back.  The grass felt soft and cool against his face, and the morning sky: baby blue.  Albert spied a fluffy cloud and focused on its abstract shape.  He found an elephant there, and remembered how he and his brother Henry would lie on the lush lawns of Balmoral and find such puff-forms.  He suddenly missed his big brother—a feeling he had not had in ages—and muttered his name: “Henry.”  His big brother could not help him anymore, though, so Albert did his best to lift his body and stand.
    He managed to get to a crouched position and paused to fight the urge to throw-up again.  His concussed brain spun with vertigo.  Albert rubbed the big, black, knotted bruise on his forehead, and fell back into the tall, swaying grass.  He lay beside the wrecked Apache that cradled the body of his closest friend.  Albert heard nothing but his own deep breathing and fell asleep.
    The sun began to burn Albert’s face.  His lips were