My Story
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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 from high 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 was quite easy. The machine was flying well, and he knew what he was doing.
Everything is fine, he thought. Im doing all right. Im doing nicely. I know my way home. Ill 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 cant do it alone because Ive lost one of my legs. Theyll all laugh and think that Im 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. Hell probably be sick because of all the blood and the mess. I shall laugh and say, for Gods sake, help me out.
He glanced down again at his right leg. There was not much of it 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 was no 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 wont even bother to call up on the radio for the blood wagon, he thought. It isnt necessary. And when I land Ill sit there quite normally and say, some of you fellows come and help me out, will you, because Ive lost one of my legs. That will be funny. Ill laugh a little while Im saying it; Ill say it calmly and slowly, and theyll think Im joking. When Yorky comes up onto the wing and gets sick, Ill say, Yorky, you old son of a bitch, have you fixed my car yet? Then when I get out Ill make my report and later Ill go up to London. Ill take that half bottle of whisky with me and Ill give it to Bluey. Well sit in her room and drink it. Ill get the water out of the bathroom tap. I wont say much until its time to go to bed, then Ill say, Bluey, Ive got a surprise for you. I lost a leg today. But I dont mind so long as you dont. It doesnt even hurt. Well 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 always flies off the ax. Hot water, thats 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 stick between the fingers of his right hand.
Im going to pass out, he thought. Any moment now Im 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.
Itll be the Channel, he thought. Im sure to fall in the drink.
He throttled back, pulled off his helmet, undid his straps, and pushed the stick hard over to