I think I managed to get out of the ULM on my own, but I have no memory of how. I just remember tumbling to the ground. My lower right leg was clearly broken — my foot dangled at an awful angle, half my leg still inside the doorway of the aircraft, which was now upside-down.
My first really clear memory is of being pulled away from the wreck by a strong pair of hands under my arms. As I was dragged across the uneven ground, my foot bounced loosely at the end of my leg. It looked to me as if only my trousers were keeping it connected.
My rescuer laid me gently on the ground a good distance from the plane, then hurried back to help JL. He dragged him over to join me, and then decided to pull us both even further away — clearly worried about the fuel and the risk of fire, maybe even an explosion.
“I am going to have to move you again,” he said apologetically in French.
I agreed. We were still far too close to a potential fireball.
There was no pain, but every time I was moved, I could feel the bones in my leg grinding together. I felt very clear-headed. I knew I was in shock, running on adrenaline, but my mind felt cold and calculating.
Were we far enough away now? I thought so.
I looked at JL and was shocked by his condition. I could prop myself up on one elbow to look around, but he lay prone, moaning.
“Ian, what have I done, what have I done?” he cried.
I tried to say something calming, but our rescuer was doing a better job of soothing him. JL reached out, and we held hands briefly. When I let go to check myself for other injuries, he grabbed at my leg.
“Ian, I am sorry.”
“Don’t touch my leg!” I shouted, trying to stop him. Our rescuer calmed him again.
My lower lip was badly damaged, and whenever I moved my head blood spilled everywhere. My hands looked mangled too. Strange — the ring finger on each hand seemed dislocated at the knuckle. It felt like a simple decision: “I’ll fix them now, while I still can’t feel anything.” I popped them both back into place. No pain.
At one point, while our rescuer was busy with JL, I carefully manoeuvred myself into position to get my phone out of my pocket. I remember thinking, “I should take a picture of the crash.” Oddly, I felt I should do it surreptitiously, though I don’t know why. I don’t think anyone saw me.
Another bizarre thought crossed my mind: “Shame I’m lying the wrong way round to take a selfie with the wreck behind me!”
For a while, it felt like there were two of me. One slightly delirious idiot thinking about crash selfies — and another, colder observer, taking stock.
That cold observer spoke up: “Stay conscious. Stay clear until trained help arrives. You’ve probably lost your foot, but that’s OK. You will survive this. Even with a prosthetic foot, you’ll be fine. Others have suffered far worse and lived great lives.”
The selfie-idiot seemed to agree, confident that one day that picture would be a dark but treasured reminder of these minutes.
I was amazed at the cold clarity I’d summoned.
I turned my attention to my lip. From the outside with my fingers, from the inside with my tongue. I’ve never really been punched in the face — apart from schoolyard scuffles and one town-centre fight at 17 — but my mouth felt like I imagine it would if Mohammed Ali had taken a swing at me.
There was a huge flap of flesh on the inside of my lower lip, almost torn off — bitten, I presumed. “I’ve probably lost a few front teeth,” I reasoned. I explored gently with my tongue, but everything was numb.
I found a fragment of tooth in the mess and spat it into my hand. It didn’t look like a front tooth. Probing further, I realised it was half of one from the top row on the right. I was still sure some front teeth must be missing, but to my amazement, every one seemed intact.
I pushed the flap of lip back into place with my tongue, tucking it down in front of my teeth, then closed my mouth tightly. It felt more or less where it should be.
Things get fuzzier from there. The fire brigade arrived first, then a medical team. Assessments were made, drugs injected, splints applied, tarps strung above us to block the sun. I think my cold observer decided his job was done, fading as I surrendered to the professionals.
The medics judged JL’s injuries worse than mine. “Sorry, you’ll have to wait a short while,” one told me.
“Yeah, no problem,” I may have answered breezily, as morphine softened the hard edges.
Every time I spoke, my lip flap slipped loose again, blood flowed, and I had to reassemble it carefully before clamping my mouth shut.
“Do you know where you are?” someone asked, as I lay half-conscious.
“Yes — Corlier Altiport in the Jura. Height of the runway is one thousand…” Jesus Ian, he just wants to check you’re conscious, not get a lecture on landing patterns. I only wanted to prove I was fully present. I probably just sounded delirious.
“OK,” the medic laughed. “Date of birth?”
That one was easy.
“You’ll be OK,” he said kindly.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter arriving… or was it two? The tarps above us thrashed in the downblast, people scrambled to shield us.
Once JL was stabilised, he was taken to the first helicopter. Then it was my turn. I groaned, dreading the grinding bones in my leg.
“Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. We’re giving you a stronger painkiller for the move.”
Something was injected into the catheter on the back of my hand. A second later it hit me like a tidal wave.
It was one of the most beautiful, terrifying things I’ve ever experienced. Everything faded. I could still see people, hear voices, but none of it mattered. Then walls of polystyrene seemed to slide in all around me, boxing me in. This must be like dying, I thought — and if it is, no problem.
I became aware again sometime later, staring up at a ceiling. Ambulance or helicopter? I wasn’t sure, but then I saw the tips of rotor blades through the open door. “Yeah, it’s a helicopter,” I told myself, still not entirely convinced.
I even remember seeing our rescuer’s girlfriend at the door, asking how I was. She looked like an angel, calm and smiling, as if this was all just a pleasant outing. Later I dismissed it as drugged fantasy. Surely they don’t let rescuers' girlfriends chat to patients mid-evacuation?
We seemed to sit for a while, then finally the engine fired up and the blades began to spin. “It IS a helicopter,” I thought happily. “Shame I can’t sit up to enjoy the flight.”
We were on our way to a hospital in Lyon, I was told.
To be continued…