STORY - ~ Beware of the Dog

DOWN below there was only a vast white undulating sea of cloud. Above
there was the sun, and the sun was white like the clouds, because it
is never yellow when one looks at it fromhigh in the air.
He was still flying the Spitfire . His right hand was on the stick,
and he was working the rudder bar with his left leg alone. It wasquite
easy. The machine was flying well, and he knew what he was doing.
Everything is fine, he thought. I'm doing all right. I'm doing nicely.
I know my way home. I'll be there in half an hour. When I land I shall
taxi in and switch off my engine and I shall say, help me to get out,
will you. I shall make my voice sound ordinary and natural and none of
them will take any notice. Then I shall say, someone help me to get
out. I can't do it alone because I've lost one of my legs. They'll all
laugh and think that I'm joking, and I shall say, all right, come and
have a look, you unbelieving bastards. Then Yorky will climb up onto
the wing and look inside. He'll probably be sick because of all the
blood and the mess. I shall laugh and say, for God's sake, help me
out.
He glanced down again at his right leg. There was not much ofit left.
The cannon shell had taken him on the thigh, just above the knee, and
now there was nothing but a great mess and a lot of blood. But there
wasno pain. When he looked down, he felt as though he were seeing
something that did not belong to him. It had nothing to do with him.
It was just a mess which happened to be there in the cockpit;
something strange and unusual and rather interesting. It was like
finding a dead cat on the sofa.
He really felt fine, and because he still felt fine, he felt excited
and unafraid.
I won't even bother to call up onthe radio for the blood wagon, he
thought. It isn't necessary. And when I land I'll sit there quite
normally and say, some of you fellows come and help me out, will you,
because I've lost one of my legs. That will be funny. I'll laugh a
little while I'm saying it; I'll say it calmly and slowly, and they'll
think I'm joking. When Yorky comes up onto the wing and gets sick,
I'll say, Yorky, you old son of a bitch,have you fixed my car yet?
Then when I get out I'll make my report and later I'll go up to
London. I'll take that half bottle of whisky with me and I'll give it
to Bluey. We'll sit in her room and drink it. I'll get the water out
of the bathroom tap. I won'tsay much until it's time to go to bed,
then Ill say, Bluey, I've got a surprise for you. I lost a leg today.
But I don't mind so long as you don't. It doesn't even hurt. We'll go
everywhere in cars. I always hated walking, except when I walked down
the street of the coppersmiths in Bagdad , but I could go in a
rickshaw . I could go home and chop wood, but the head alwaysflies off
the ax. Hot water, that's what it needs; put it in the bath and make
the handle swell. I chopped lots of wood last time I went home, and I
put the ax in the bath. . . .
Then he saw the sun shining on the engine cowling of his machine. He
saw the rivets in the metal, and he remembered where he was. He
realized that he was no longer feeling good; that he was sick and
giddy. His head kept falling forward onto his chest because his neck
seemed no longer to have any strength. But he knew that he was flying
the Spitfire , and he could feel the handle of the stickbetween the
fingers of his right hand.
I'm going to pass out, he thought. Any moment now I'm going to pass out.
He looked at his altimeter . Twenty-one thousand. To test himself he
tried to read the hundreds as well as the thousands. Twenty-one
thousand and what? As he looked the dial became blurred, and he could
not even see the needle. He knew then that he must bail out; that
there was not a second to lose, otherwise he would become unconscious.
Quickly, frantically, he tried to slide back the hood with his left
hand, but he had not the strength. For a second he took his right hand
off the stick, and with both hands he managed to push the hood back.
The rush of cold air on his face seemed to help. He had a moment of
great clearness, and his actions became orderly and precise. That is
what happens with a good pilot. He took some quick deep breaths from
his oxygen mask, and as he did so, he looked out over the side of the
cockpit. Down below there was only a vast white sea of cloud, and he
realized that he did not know where he was.
It'll be the Channel, he thought. I'm sure to fall in the drink.
He throttled back, pulled off his helmet, undid his straps, and pushed
the stick hard over to the left. The Spitfire dripped its port wing,
and turned smoothly over onto its back. The pilot fell out.

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