Dahl, Roald - Beware of the dog

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BEWARE OF THE DOG

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BEWARE OF THE DOG

By Roald Dahl

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

BEWARE OF THE DOG

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

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. 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 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 won't even bother to call up on the 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't say 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

BEWARE OF THE DOG

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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, 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 stick between 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.

As he fell he opened his eyes, because he knew that he must not pass out before he had pulled

the cord. On one side he saw

the sun; on the other he saw the whiteness of the clouds, and as he fell, as he somersaulted in the

air, the white clouds chased

the sun and the sun chased the clouds. They chased each other in a small circle; they ran faster

and faster, and there was the sun

and the clouds and the clouds and the sun, and the clouds came nearer until suddenly there was

no longer any sun, but only a

BEWARE OF THE DOG

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great whiteness. The whole world was white, and there was nothing in it. It was so white that

sometimes it looked black, and

after a time it was either white or black, but mostly it was white. He watched it as it turned from

white to black, and then back

to white again, and the white stayed for a long time, but the black lasted only for a few seconds.

He got into the habit of going

to sleep during the white periods, and of waking up just in time to see the world when it was

black. But the black was very

quick. Sometimes it was only a flash, like someone switching off the light, and switching it on

again at once, and so whenever it

was white, he dozed off.

One day, when it was white, he put out a hand and he touched something. He took it between his

fingers and crumpled it. For a

time he~lay there, idly letting the tips of his fingers play with the thing which they had touched.

Then slowly he opened his eyes,

looked down at his hand, and saw that he was holding something which was white. It was the

edge of a sheet. He knew it was

a sheet because he could see the texture of the material and the stitchings on the hem. He

screwed up his eyes, and opened

them again quickly. This time he saw the room. He saw the bed in which he was lying; he saw

the grey walls and the door and

the green curtains over the window. There were some roses on the table by his bed.

Then he saw the basin on the table near the roses. It was a white enamel basin, and beside it there

was a small medicine glass.

This is a hospital, he thought. I am in a hospital. But he could remember nothing. He lay back on

his pillow, looking at the ceiling

and wondering what had happened. He was gazing at the smooth greyness of the ceiling which

was so clean and gray, and then

suddenly he saw a fly walking upon it. The sight of this fly, the suddenness of seeing this small

black speck on a sea of gray,

brushed the surface of his brain, and quickly, in that second, he remembered everything. He

remembered the Spitfire and he

remembered the altimeter showing twenty-one thousand feet. He remembered the pushing back

of the hood with both hands,

and he remembered the bailing out. He remembered his leg.

It seemed all right now. He looked down at the end of the bed, but he could not tell. He put one

hand underneath the

bedclothes and felt for his knees. He found one of them, but when he felt for the other, his hand

touched something which was

soft and covered in bandages.

Just then the door opened and a nurse came in.

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