The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots Read Online Free Page B

beckoned. We embarked in a Longhorn; I was given a flight lasting nearly half an hour. And after that things moved more quickly. Several days in succession were marked by flights either in the stillness of very early morning or in the calm of late afternoon. I began to know my way about a Longhorn. The forest of struts did not grow any thinner, but meaning and order came to it. It no longer took me minutes to thread an anxious path through the wires; I learnt to scramble quickly into my seat in the nacelle where the controls were at last becoming familiar. I was allowed to feel those controls while flying. After half a dozen flights I was even permitted to land and take off with only slight assistance from the instructor. In the air I could sense some connection, however vague, between the harmonium pedals working the rudder and the handlebars shaped like a pair of spectacles which gave lateral control. Presently I felt sure that I was making steady progress.
    viii
    One cold grey morning a few of us were gathered upon the stretch of tarmac in front of the sheds expecting to enjoy that most exquisite of amusements, the sight of another’sembarrassment, agony and discomfiture. One of our number, a man who had come to Shoreham before me and who had done considerably more flying, was to go for his first solo flight. He had been warned the night before, after half an hour in the air with the senior instructor.
    “You’ll go solo at dawn tomorrow,” he had been told briefly. And if for “go solo” the words “be shot” had been substituted he could not have been more upset.
    Anxious though we were to be taken up for instruction, we hoped that first of all we should be permitted to witness the unfortunate man’s departure. Secretly, I think we rather hoped that he would crash – not badly, we wished him no harm, but just enough to provide us with real entertainment. Before one’s own turn comes, one is apt to be merciless – not only in aviation.
    We were discussing the prospects of this little quiet fun at another’s expense, when the instructors came from the office. One of them marched up to our group; as he passed I caught his eye. He stopped. Ah-ha, I thought, this is where I put in some more instructional flying. But the winged Hero was regarding me thoughtfully with something in his eye that reminded me of a hungry tiger looking at his meat.
    “How much dual control have you done?” he asked.
    “Three hours and twenty minutes,” I answered, hopeful that so small an amount would induce him to give me more at once.
    “H’m –” he muttered, still looking at me fixedly. “Do you think you could go solo?”
    The question staggered me. All my past lies flashed before me, whirled in my head and merged into one huge thumping fib.
    “Yes,” I answered, and at once regretted it.
    “Very well then –” The instructor’s voice was kind now, like that of a surgeon about to announce the necessity for a major operation. “Very well, take up Longhorn Number 2965.” 2
    Behind me there was a titter of mirth, but it evoked no response on my part. My hour had struck before I was prepared. I knew nothing whatever about flying, and it was far too early in the morning and it was cold and I hadn’t had my breakfast or said my prayers. I was doomed and I knew it. I felt like asking for a priest. . . . Walking blindly forward, I put on my flying cap.
    Against the wings and struts of Longhorn Number 2965 mechanics were idly leaning. They made no move as I approached, gave me no more than a quick glance. They knew well enough that I was a pupil, that unless I came to a machine with an instructor there was nothing doing. But when I began to clamber into the nacelle they stopped talking and looked at one another uneasily.
    “I am taking this machine up, Flight-Sergeant,” I announced boldly.
    There was a nasty sort of silence during which I felt that behind my back signs were being made indicating doubt of my sanity. At