What happened next wasn't very coherent in Page's memory. Instead of being a clear and easily remembered narrative, it was a jumbled up mass of impressions and terrifying mental images as he plunged through the air, a mortally wounded German clutching him in a death grip. Though it only lasted a few seconds, it seemed to last far longer, but the specifics of exactly what had happened when seemed permanently out of his mental reach.
He could see that the plane had been low, only about thirty or forty feet above the water's surface as Alix had brought it in for the landing. This was a good sign, but it was cancelled out somewhat by the fact that the plane was still going at quite a clip when they'd both tumbled out, which rather cancelled out the potential survivability. He could feel his body twisting in the air, the wind screaming in his ears as the German's dead body dragged him down to the water, which would have the effective hardness of concrete when they hit -
- And as far as he could tell, that was what saved his life.
The German was so much heavier than Page was, and had such a tight grip on him, that when free-fall had set in, gravity had taken effect and the German's body had swung around so that he hit the water first, absorbing the vast majority of the impact (likely turning what were left of his internal workings into a bloody soup of fluid and bone fragments in the process), protecting Page from much of the shock of the impact as it was diffused through the trooper's body. Much of the force was dispersed, but enough remained that it felt like he'd been shot in his left side when his senses returned.
When they came back, he was deep in the water, the pain in his side almost unbearable. Below him, the dark form of the black-clad trooper disappeared into the murk, red blood faintly visible as it leaked out of the holes in his uniform. He tried to swim to the surface, but only his right arm responded, the left dangling limp and useless at his side. Thankfully, his legs, while also in pain, still responded, and he managed to swiftly kick himself to the surface, gasping for breath in the icy air when he came up. The muddy shore was only about twenty feet away, and he made for it as best he could.
It felt like the most hellishly long twenty feet he ever traveled. Finally, after what felt like hours of painful, thrashing exertions, he crawled out onto the muddy bank, and collapsed on his back, coughing out the brackish river water. In the distance, he could see the bulk of the transport wallowing in the canal like a whale, still upright.
He could barely move. He could barely breathe. At least one rib - probably on the right side - was broken, as was his arm and maybe a few fingers. He was absolutely freezing and sopping wet, out here in the open, practically crippled. He didn't even know where exactly he was. Even if his injuries didn't get him, he could die of exposure out here like this.
But it was all right. He was free now. He was home.
That made a surprising amount of difference to him.
