Bobby awoke on his back in the snow, still strapped into his seat, 40 yards from the plane. Everything ached, but his head most of all. He was bleeding, aware of the smoke and the grit in the air.
At first all he could hear was the howling wind. The plane had crashed through the perimeter fence and smashed into a house, before spinning into a hut housing a truck filled with fuel. The port wing had sheared off and the rear of the plane was on fire.
He saw a team-mate nearby, obviously dead. Some deep-rooted sense of decency and discretion meant he never revealed who.