Story Stats:
Published: 1919; Word Count: about 2,180;
Reading Time (What's this?): about 11 minutes silently, about 17 minutes aloud
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Faulkner's first published short story tells the story of the first solo flight of an underprepared pilot, and the trainer who takes credit for his success.
This story is just the "bare bones"--that is, it is posted almost exactly as I found it online, though I have added paragraph numbers in [square brackets] and may have revised the formatting somewhat.
Still, it is an enjoyable read.
In time, I will be adding
- an Introduction
- Annotations
- a Summary, and
- Questions
Check back soon!
NOTES
- Items in [square brackets], including paragraph numbers, headings, etc., were added by yours truly.
- This story was originally found at Internet Archive.
by William Faulkner
[1] The machine levelled off and settled on the aerodrome. It turned and taxied back and stopped, headed into the wind again, its engine running idle. The instructor in the forward cockpit faced about and raised his goggles.
[2] "Fairish," he said, "not so bad. How many hours have you had?"
[3] Cadet Thompson, a "barracks ace," who had just made a fairly creditable landing, assumed an expression of assured confidence.
[4] "Seven hours and nine minutes, sir."
[5] "Think you can -- hold that stick back, will you? -- think you can take her round alone?"
[6] "Yes, sir," he answered as he had answered at least four times a day for the last three days, with the small remaining part of his unconquered optimism in his voice. The instructor climbed slowly out onto the lower wing, then to the ground, stretching his legs. He got a cigarette from his clothes after a fashion resembling sleight-ofhand.
[7] "You've got to solo some day. The C. O. gave us all a raggin' last night. It's chaps like you that give this stage such a name for inefficiency. Here you have had seven hours, and yet you never know if you are goin' to land on this aerodrome or down at Borden. And then you always pick a house or another machine to land on. What ever brought you to think you could fly? Swear I don't know what to do with you. Let you try it and break your neck, cr recommend you for discharge. Get rid of you either way, and a devilish good thing, too."
[8] A silence hung heavily about Thompson's unhappy head. The instructor, sucking his cigarette, stared off across the aerodrome, where other wild and hardy amateurs took off, landed and crashed. A machine descended tail high, levelled off too soon and landed in a series of bumps like an inferior tennis ball.
[9] "See that chap there? He's probably had half your time but he makes landings alone. But you, you cut your gun and sit up there like a blind idiot and when you condescend to dive the bus, you try your best to break our necks, yours and mine too; and I'll say right now, that's somethin' none of you rockin' chair aviators is goin' to do. Well, it's your neck or my reputation, now. Take her off, and what ever you do, keep your nose down."
[10] Thompson pulled down his goggles. He had been angry enough to kill his officer for the better part of a week, so added indignities rested but lightly upon him. He was a strange mixture of fear and pride as he opened the throttle wide and pushed the stick forward -- fear that he would wreck the machine landing, and pride that he was on his own at last. He was no physical coward, his fear was that he would show himself up before his less fortunate friends to whom he had talked largely of spins and side slips and gliding angles.
[11] All-in-all, he was in no particularly safe frame of mind for his solo flight. He gained speed down the field. The tail was off the ground now and Thompson, more or less nervous, though he had taken the machine off like a veteran with the instructor aboard, pulled the stick back before the machine had gained speed sufficient to rise. It lurched forward and the tail sank heavily, losing more speed. He knew that he had gone too far down the field and should turn back and take off again, so he closed the throttle. When the noise of the engine ceased he heard the instructor shouting at him, and the splutter of a motor cycle. Sending after him, were they? Cadet Thompson was once more cleanly angry. He jerked the throttle open.
[12] His subconscious mind had registered a cable across the end of the field, and he had flown enough to know that it was touch and go as to whether he would clear it. He was afraid of rising too soon again and he knew that he would not stop in time were he to close the throttle now. So, his eyes on the speed indicator, he pulled the stick back. The motion at once became easier and he climbed as much as he dared.
[13] A shock; he closed his eyes, expecting to go over and down on his back in the road below. When nothing happened he ventured a frightened hurried glance. Below him was the yellow of a wheat field and the aerodrome far to the rear.
[14] So the cable had broken! Must have, for here he was still going forward. His altimeter showed two hundred feet. Thompson felt like shouting. Now he'd show 'em what flying was. Rotten, was he? He'd pull a perfect landing and walk up to that officer and tell him just what kind of a poor fish he was.
[15] "Blasted Englishman," he said, "thinks he's the only man in this wing who can really fly. Bet if he'd a' hit that cable he'd a' been on his back in that road, right now. Wish t'hell he was."
[16] He made his turn carefully. Below at the edge of the aerodrome stood the ambulance, its crew gaping foolishly at him. "Like fish," he thought, "like poor fish." He leaned out of his cockpit and gestured pleasantly at them, a popular gesture known to all peoples of the civilized world.
[17] Eight hundred feet. "High enough," he decided, and made another circle, losing height. He picked his spot on the field. "Now," he thought, cut the throttle and pushed the stick forward. He found a good gliding angle, wires singing, engine idle and long flames wrapping back from the exhausts. The field was filled with people running about and flapping their arms. Another machine rose to meet him. He opened the throttle and closed it again, a warning. "Why'n the hell don't they get off and lemme land?" he wondered.
[18] The other machine passed him in a long bank, its occupants shouting at him; one of them carried something to which he gestured and pointed frantically. Thompson came out of his dive. They circled again and he saw that the object was about the size and shape of a wheel? A wheel from the landing gear of a machine. What kind of a joke was this? Why had they brought a wheel up to show him? He'd seen lots of wheels. Had two on his machine -- on his machine -- wheels? Then Thompson remembered the cable. He had stripped a wheel on that cable, then. There was nothing else it could mean. His brain assimilated this fact calmly. Having lost a wheel, he had nothing to land on. Therefore it were quite pointless to bother about landing, immediately, anyway. So he circled off and climbed, followed cautiously by the other machine, like two strange dogs meeting.
[19] "Sir," said an orderly, entering the mess where the C. O. and three lesser lights were playing bridge, "sir, the Flight Commander, B Flight, reports that a cadet is abaht to crash."
[20] " 'Crash?' " repeated the C. O.
[21] "Out 'ere, sir. Yes, sir, 'e 'assn't got no landing gear."
[22] " 'No landing gear?' What's this? What's this?"
[23] "Yes, sir. 'E wiped it orf a-taking orf, sir. 'E's abaht out of petrol and the Flight Commander says 'e'll be a-coming down soon, sir."
[24] "My word," said the C. O., going to the door and closely followed by the others.
[25] "There 'e is, sir, that's 'im in front."
[26] "My word," said the C. O. again and went off toward the hangars at a very good gait.
[27] "What's this? What's this?" Approaching the group of officers.
[28] "Cadet Thompson, sir," volunteered one, "Mr. Bessing's cadet. Oh, Bessing!"
[29] Bessing came over, lifting his feet nervously.
[30] "What's all this, Mr. Bessing?" The C. O. watched him narrowly. An instructor gets a bad name when his cadet crashes, he is responsible for the cadet's life as well as the machine.
[31] "Rotten take off, sir. He tried to rise too soon, and when he failed, instead of comin' back and tryin' again, he carried right on. Struck that cable and lost his right wheel and he's been sittin' up there ever since. We sent another chap up to pull him up a bit. He's almost out of petrol and he'll have to come down soon."
[32] "H-m. Didn't send him up too soon, did you, Mr. Bessing?"
[33] "Chap's had seven hours, sir," he protested, and produced Thompson's card.
[34] The C. O. studied it a moment, then returned it.
[35] "Wharton, sir?" He helped the C. O. to a light and lit a cigarette for himself.
[36] "Good lad, good lad," said the C. O., shading his eyes as he stared into the sky. "Something in you people at this wing, though. Cadets and officers both. N. C. O.'s got it, too. G. O. C. gave me a jolly raggin' not a fortnight ago. Do something. Do something, swear I will."
[37] The drone from the engines above suddenly ceased. Thompson was out of petrol at last. The two machines descended in a wide spiral, and they on the earth stood watching him as he descended, as utterly beyond any human aid as though he were on another planet.
[38] "Here they come," Bessing muttered half aloud. "If he only remembers to land on his left wing -- the fool, oh, the blind, bounding fool!"
[39] For Thompson's nerve was going as he neared the earth. The temptation was strong to kick his rudder over and close his eyes. The machine descended, barely retaining headway. He watched the approaching ground utterly unable to make any pretence of levelling off, paralyzed; his brain had ceased to function, he was all staring eyes watching the remorseless earth. He did not know his height, the ground rushed past too swiftly to judge, but he expected to crash any second. Thompson's fate was on the laps of the Gods.
[40] The tail touched, bounded, scraped again. The left wing was low and the wing tip crumpled like paper. A tearing of fabric, a strut snapped, and he regained dominion over his limbs, but too late to do anything -- were there anything to be done. The machine struck again, solidly, slewed around and stood on its nose.
[41] Bessing was the first to reach him.
[42] "Lord, Lord!" he was near weeping from nervous tension. "Are you all right? Never expected you'd come through, never expected it! Didn't think to see you alive! Don't ever let anyone else say you can't fly. Comin' out of that was a trick many an old flyer couldn't do! I say, are you all right?"
[43] Hanging face downward from the cockpit, Cadet Thompson looked at Bessing, surprised at the words of this cold, short tempered officer. He forgot the days of tribulation and insult in this man's company, and his recent experience, and his eyes filled with utter adoration. Then he became violently ill.
[44] That night Thompson sat gracefully on a table in the writing room of a down town hotel, tapping a boot with his stick and talking to sundry companions.
[45] " -- and so, when my petrol gave out, I knew it was up to me. I had already thought of a plan -- I thought of several, but this one seemed the best -- which was to put my tail down first and then drop my left wing, so the old bus wouldn't turn over and lie down on me. Well, it worked just as I had doped it out, only a ditch those fool A. M.'s had dug right across the field, mind you, tripped her up and she stood on her nose. I had thought of that, too, and pulled my belt up. Bessing said -- he's a pretty good scout -- "
[46] "Ah-h-h -- " they jeered him down profanely.
[47] "Look at the nerve he's got, will you?"
[48] "He'--"
[49] "Ah, we know you! Why, the poor bum crashed on his solo, and listen at the line he's giving us!"
[50] "Well, Bessing said -- "
[51] "Bessing said! Bessing said! Go tell the G.O.C. what Bessing said!"
[52] "Dammit, don't I know what Bessing said? Ask him! That's all. You're a bunch of poor hams that think you can fly! Why, I got an hour and a half solo time. You poor fish. Ask Bessing! there's a guy that knows what's what."
[53] He flung out of the room. They watched him with varying expressions.
[54] "Say," spoke one, a cadet but recently enlisted and still in ground school: "D' you think he really did all that? He must be pretty good."
[55] "That guy? That guy fly? He's so rotten they can't discharge him. Every time he goes up they have to get a gun and shoot him down. He's the T out of flying. Biggest liar in the R.A.F."
[56] Thompson passed through again, with Bessing, and his arm was through the officer's. He was deep in discussion evidently, but he looked up in time to give them a cheerfully condescending:
[57] "Hello, you chaps."
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