The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl, Volume 1

by Roald Dahl

  Then I looked around and saw that the wood was full of aircraft. Around every corner there was an aeroplane hidden in the trees, and when we asked about it we learned that the Greeks had brought the whole of their air force down to Argos and parked them in that little wood. They were peculiar ancient models, not one of them less than five years old, and I don't know how many dozen there were there.

  That night we slept under the trees. We wrapped Katina up in a large flying suit and gave her a flying helmet for a pillow, and after she had gone to sleep we sat around eating black olives and drinking resinato out of an enormous cask. But we were very tired, and soon we fell asleep.

  All the next day we saw the truckloads of troops moving down the road towards the sea, and as often as we could we took off and flew above them.

  The Germans kept coming over and bombing the road near by, but they had not yet spotted our airfield.

  Later in the day we were told that every available Hurricane was to take off at six p. m. to protect an important shipping move, and the nine machines, which were all that were now left, were refuelled and got ready. At three minutes to six we began to taxi out of the olive grove on to the field.

  The first two machines took off, but just as they left the ground something black swept down out of the sky and shot them both down in flames. I looked around and saw at least fifty Messerschmitt 110s circling our field, and even as I looked some of them turned and came down upon the remaining seven Hurricanes which were waiting to take off.

  There was no time to do anything. Each one of our aircraft was,, hit in that first swoop, although funnily enough only one of the pilots was hurt. It was impossible now to take off, so we jumped out of our aircraft, hauled the wounded pilot out of his cockpit and ran with him back to the slit trenches, to the wonderful big, deep zig-zagging slit trenches which had been dug by the Greeks.

  The Messerschmitts took their time. There was no opposition either from the ground or from the air, except that Fin was firing his revolver.

  It is not a pleasant thing to be ground-strafed especially if they have cannon in their wings; and unless one has a deep slit trench in which to lie, there is no future in it. For some reason, perhaps because they thought it was a good joke, the German pilots went for the slit trenches before they bothered about the aircraft. The first ten minutes was spent rushing madly around the corners of the trenches so as not to be caught in a trench which ran parallel with the line of flight of the attacking aircraft. It was a hectic, dreadful ten minutes, with everyone shouting "Here comes another," and scrambling and rushing to get around the corner into the other section of the trench.

  Then the Germans went for the Hurricanes and at the same time for the mass of old Greek aircraft parked all around the olive grove, and one by one, methodically and systematically, they set them on fire. The noise was terrific, and everywhere-in the trees, on the rocks and on the grass-the bullets splattered.

  I remember peeping cautiously over the top of our trench and seeing a small white flower growing just a few inches away from my nose. It was pure white and it had three petals. I remember looking past it and seeing three of the Germans diving on my own Hurricane which was parked on the other side of the field and I remember shouting at them, although I do not know what I said.

  Then suddenly I saw Katina. She was running out from the far corner of the aerodrome, running right out into the middle of this mass of blazing guns and burning aircraft, running as fast as she could. Once she stumbled, but she scrambled to her feet again and went on running. Then she stopped and stood looking up, raising her fists at the planes as they flew past.

  Now as she stood there, I remember seeing one of the Messerschmitts turning and coming in low straight towards her and I remember thinking that she was so small that she could not be hit. I remember seeing the spurts of flame from his guns as he came, and I remember seeing the child, for a split second, standing quite still, facing the machine. I remember that the wind was blowing in her hair.

  Then she was down.

  The next moment I shall never forget. On every side, as if by magic, men appeared out of the ground. They swarmed out of their trenches and like a crazy mob poured on to the aerodrome, running towards the tiny little bundle, which lay motionless in the middle of the field. They ran fast, crouching as they went, and I remember jumping up out of my slit trench and joining with them. I remember thinking of nothing at all and watching the boots of the man in front of me, noticing that he was a little bow-legged and that his blue trousers were much too long.

  I remember seeing Fin arrive first, followed closely by a sergeant called Wishful, and I remember seeing the two of them pick up Katina and start running with her back towards the trenches. I saw her leg, which was just a lot of blood and bones, and I saw her chest where the blood was spurting out on to her white print dress; I saw, for a moment, her face, which was white as the snow on top of Olympus.

  I ran beside Fin, and as he ran, he kept saying, "The lousy bastards, the lousy, bloody bastards," and then as we got to our trench I remember looking round and finding that there was no longer any noise or shooting. The Germans had gone.

  Fin said, "Where's the Doc?" and suddenly there he was, standing beside us, looking at Katina-looking at her face.

  The Doc gently touched her wrist and without looking up he said, "She is not alive."

  They put her down under a little tree, and when I turned away I saw on all sides the fires of countless burning aircraft. I saw my own Hurricane burning near by and I stood staring hopelessly into the flames as they danced around the engine and licked against the metal of the wings.

  I stood staring into the flames, and as I stared the fire became a deeper red and I saw beyond it not a tangled mass of smoking wreckage, but the flames of a hotter and intenser fire which now burned and smouldered in the hearts of the people of Greece.

  Still I stared, and as I stared I saw in the centre of the fire, whence the red flames sprang, a bright, white heat, shining bright and without any colour.

  As I stared, the brightness diffused and became soft and yellow like sunlight, and through it, beyond it, I saw a young child standing in the middle of a field with the sunlight shining in her hair. For a moment she stood looking up into the sky, which was clear and blue and without any clouds; then she turned and looked towards me, and as she turned I saw that the front of her white print dress was stained deep red, the colour of blood.

  Then there was no longer any fire or any flames and I saw before me only the glowing twisted wreckage of a burned-out plane. I must have been standing there for quite a long time.

  Yesterday was Beautiful

  HE bent down and rubbed his ankle where it had been sprained with the walking so that he couldn't see the ankle bone. Then he straightened up and looked around him. He felt in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and he stood in the middle of the street looking around him.

  "Dammit, there must be someone here," he said aloud, and he felt better when he heard the sound of his voice.

  He walked on, limping, walking on the toe of his injured foot, and when he turned the next corner he saw the sea and the way the road curved around between the ruined houses and went on down the hill to the edge of the water. The sea was calm and black. He could clearly make out the line of hills on the mainland in the distance and he estimated that it was about eight miles away. He bent down again to rub his ankle. "God dammit," he said. "There must be some of them still alive." But there was no noise anywhere, and there was a stillness about the buildings and about the whole village which made it seem as though the place had been dead for a thousand years.

  Suddenly he heard a little noise as though someone had moved his feet on the gravel and when he looked around he saw the old man. He was sitting in the shade on a stone beside a water trough, and it seemed strange that he hadn't seen him before.

  "Health to you," said the
pilot. "Ghia son."

  He had learned Greek from the people up around Larissa and Yanina.

  The old man looked up slowly, turning his head but not moving his shoulders. He had a greyishwhite beard. He had a cloth cap on his head and he wore a shirt which had no collar. It was a grey shin with thin black stripes. He looked at the pilot and he was like a blind man who looks towards something but does not see.

  "Old man, I am glad to see you. Are there no other people in the village?"

  There was no answer.

  The pilot sat down on the edge of the water trough to rest his ankle.

  "I am Inglese," he said. "I am an aviator who has been shot down and jumped out by the parachute. I am Inglese."

  The old man moved his head slowly up and down. "Inglesus," he said quietly. "You are Inglesus."

  "Yes, I am looking for someone who has a boat. I wish to go back to the mainland."

  There was a pause, and when he spoke, the old man seemed to be talking in his sleep. "They come over all the time," he said. "The Germanoi they come over all the time." The voice had no expression. He looked up into the sky, then he turned and looked behind him in the sky. "They will come again today, Inglese. They will come again soon." There was no anxiety in his voice. There was no expression whatsoever. "I do not understand why they come to us," he added.

  The pilot said, "Perhaps not today. It is late now. I think they have finished for today."

  "I do not understand why they come to us, Inglese. There is no one here."

  The pilot said, "I am looking for a man who has a boat who can take me across to the mainland. Is there a boat owner now in the village?"

  "A boat?"

  "Yes." There was a pause while the question was considered.

  "There is such a man."

  "Could I find him? Where does he live?"

  "There is a man in the village who owns a boat."

  "Please tell me what is his name?"

  The old man looked up again at the sky. "Joannis is the one here who has a boat."

  "Joannis who?"

  "Joannis Spirakis," and he smiled. The name seemed to have a significance for the old man and he smiled.

  "Where does he live?" the pilot said. "I am sorry to be giving you this trouble."

  "Where he lives?"

  "Yes."

  The old man considered this too. Then he turned and looked down the street towards the sea." Joannis was living in the house nearest to the water. But his house isn't any more. The Germans hit it this morning. It was early and it was still dark. You can see the house isn't any more. It isn't any more."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He is living in the house of Antonina Angelou. That house there with the red colour on the window." He pointed down the street.

  "Thank you very much. I will go and call on the boat owner."

  "Ever since he was a boy," the old man went on, "Joannis has had a boat. His boat is white with a blue line around the top," and he smiled again. "But at the moment I do not think he will be in the house. His wife will be there. Anna will be there, with Antonina Angelou. They will be home."

  "Thank you again. I will go and speak to his wife."

  The pilot got up and started to go down the street, but almost at once the man called after him, "Inglese."

  The pilot turned.

  "When you speak to the wife of Joannis-when you speak to Anna…you should remember something." He paused, searching for words. His voice wasn't expressionless any longer and he was looking up at the pilot.

  "Her daughter was in the house when the Germanoi came. It is just something that you should remember."

  The pilot stood on the road waiting.

  "Maria. Her name was Maria."

  "I will remember," answered the pilot. "I am sorry.,, He turned away and walked down the hill to the house with the red windows. He knocked and waited. He knocked again louder and waited. There was the noise of footsteps and the door opened.

  It was dark in the house and all he could see was that the woman had black hair and that her eyes were black like her hair. She looked at the pilot who was standing out in the sunshine.

  "Health to you," he said. "I am Inglese."

  She did not move.

  "I am looking for Joannis Spirakis. They say that he owns a boat."

  Still she did not move.

  "Is he in the house?"

  "No "Perhaps his wife is here. She could know where he is."

  At first there was no answer. Then the woman stepped back and held open the door. "Come in, Inglesus," she said.

  He followed her down the passage and into a back room. The room was dark because there was no glass in the windows-only patches of cardboard. But he could see the old woman who was sitting on the bench with her arms resting on the table. She was tiny. She was small like a child and her face was like a little screwed-up ball of brown paper.

  "Who is it?" she said in a high voice.

  The first woman said, "This is an Inglesus. He is looking for your husband because he requires a boat."

  "Health to you, Inglesus," the old woman said.

  The pilot stood by the door, just inside the room. The first woman stood by the window and her arms hung down by her sides.

  The old woman said, "Where are the Germanoi?" Her voice seemed bigger than her body.

  "Now they are around Lamia."

  " Lamia." She nodded. "Soon they will be here. Perhaps tomorrow they will be here. But I do not care. Do you hear me, Inglesus, I do not care." She was leaning forward a little in her chair and the pitch of her voice was becoming higher. "When they come it will be nothing new. They have already been here. Every day they have been here. Every day they come over and they bom bom bom and you shut your eyes and you open them again and you get up and you go outside and the houses are just dust and the people." Her voice rose and fell.

  She paused, breathing quickly, then she spoke more quietly. "How many have you killed, Inglesus?"

  The pilot put out a hand and leaned against the door to rest his ankle.

  "I have killed some," he said quietly.

  "How many?"

  "As many as I could, old woman. We cannot count the number of men."

  "Kill them all," she said softly. "Go and kill every man and every woman and baby. Do you hear me, Inglesus? You must kill them all." The little brown ball of paper became smaller and more screwed up. "The first one I see I shall kill." She paused. "And then, Inglesus, and then later, his family will hear that he is dead."

  The pilot did not say anything. She looked up at him and her voice was different. "What is it you want, Inglesus?"

  He said, "About the Germanoi, I am sorry. But there is not much we can do."

  "No," she answered, "there is nothing. And you?"

  "I am looking for Joannis. I wish to use his boat."

  "Joannis," she said quietly, "he is not here. He is out."

  Suddenly she pushed back the bench, got to her feet and went out of the room. "Come," she said. He followed her down the passage towards the front door. She looked even smaller when she was standing than when she was sitting down and she walked quickly down the passage towards the door and opened it. She stepped out into the sunshine and for the first time he saw how very old she was.

  She had no lips. Her mouth was just wrinkled skin like the rest of her face and she screwed up her eyes at the sun and looked up the road.

  "There he is," she said. "That's him." She pointed at the old man who was sitting beside the drinking trough.

  The pilot looked at the man. Then he turned to speak to the old woman, but she had disappeared into the house.

  They Shall Not Grow Old

  THE two of us sat outside the hangar on wooden boxes.

  It was noon. The sun was high and the heat of the sun was like a close fire. It was hotter than hell out there by the hangar. We could feel the hot air touching the inside of our lungs when we breathed and we found it better if we almost closed our lips and breathed
in quickly; it was cooler that way. The sun was upon our shoulders and upon our backs, and all the time the sweat seeped out from our skin, trickled down our necks, over our chests and down our stomachs. It collected just where our belts were tight around the tops of our trousers and it filtered under the tightness of our belts where the wet was very uncomfortable and made prickly heat on the skin.

  Our two Hurricanes were standing a few yards away, each with that patient, smug look which fighter planes have when the engine is not turning, and beyond them the thin black strip of the runway sloped down towards the beaches and towards the sea. The black surface of the runway and the white grassy sand on the sides of the runway shimmered and shimmered in the sun. The heat haze hung like a vapour over the aerodrome.

  The Stag looked at his watch.

  "He ought to be back," he said.

  The two of us were on readiness, sitting there for orders to take off. The Stag moved his feet on the hot ground.

  "He ought to be back," he said.

  It was two and a half hours since Fin had gone and he certainly should have come back by now. I looked up into the sky and listened. There was the noise of airmen talking beside the petrol wagon and there was the faint pounding of the sea upon the beaches; but there was no sign of an aeroplane. We sat a little while longer without speaking.

  "It looks as though he's had it," I said.

  "Yep," said the Stag. "It looks like it."

  The Stag got up and put his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. I got up too. We stood looking northwards into the clear sky, and we shifted our feet on the ground because of the softness of the tar and because of the heat.

  "What was the name of that girl?" said the Stag without turning his head.

  "Nikki," I answered.

  The Stag sat down again on his wooden box, still with his hands in his pockets and he looked down at the ground between his feet. The Stag was the oldest pilot in the squadron; he was twentyseven. He had a mass of coarse ginger hair which he never brushed. His face was pale, even after all this time in the sun, and covered with freckles. His mouth was wide and tight closed. He was not tall but his shoulders under his khaki shirt were broad and thick like those of a wrestler. He was a quiet person.