Even the mother he had left at the front gate three evenings before would not recognise the shattered remains of her son crushed into the shell-shattered turret as it sank beyond sight. J-Jump settles to the seabed in several pieces a brief sheen of fuel and oil marking the surface where she sank.
Not too far away the waves rolled another body and another, tangling them in the lines of the parachutes that had failed to save them. All seven gone, snatched in a second by the white hot shell, choked over the course of minutes by salt water, or slowly, almost gently lulled to sleep face-down by the cold North Sea.
Seven empty seats in the mess, seven empty bunks on the base, seven telegrams home.