By-Line Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

  When in the aircraft, Captain Cartwright got into what we refer to as the driver’s seat, Roy Marsh into the starboard seat, myself in the second port seat to balance the weight of Captain Cartwright who wished us to be well forward and had given an order that we should be. When we were one third of the way down the alleged airstrip, I was convinced that we would not be airborne successfully. However, we continued at the maximum rate of progress of the aircraft which was leaping from crag to crag and precipice to precipice in the manner of the wild goat. Suddenly, this object which was still described as an aircraft became violently air-borne through no fault of its own. This condition existed only for a matter of seconds after which the aircraft became violently de-air-borne and there was the usual sound, with which we were all by now familiar, of rending metal.

  Unfortunately, on this second occasion flames were observed coming from the starboard engine which was burning. The right-wing tank, which was fully loaded for the considerable flight to Entebbe, had also caught fire and due to the wind these flames were coming toward the rear of the aircraft. There is very little in an aircraft which is inflammable, but as the gasoline comes out of the tank it bathes the side of the aircraft and it burns in the direction in which the wind is blowing.

  At this moment when the crash of the aircraft had gone into Technicolor, I remembered the old rule that in a twin-engined aircraft you get out the same way you came in. I therefore went to the door through which we entered and found it jammed by the bending of the material of which the aircraft was constructed. I got the door open and called out to Roy Marsh, “I have it open here. Miss Mary okay?” Roy responded, “Okay, Papa, going out the front way.”

  I opened the door by pressure exerted by my head and left shoulder. Once the door was open I mounted the left wing of the aircraft which wing had not yet taken fire and counted Miss Mary, Roy and the pilot who had left the aircraft through an aperture through which I myself could not have emerged.

  I spoke to them and they said they were okay and we all formationed well forward of the aircraft. Some people are under the impression that the aircraft burned in a sudden burst but I can testify honestly that I have never seen a kite burn more slowly. It must be a very rugged species of aircraft and she did not ignite completely until everyone was at a reasonable distance.

  Roy explained to me that he had taken Miss Mary out of the aircraft by kicking out a window. He and Miss Mary are more or less of the same dimensions. Roy went first to ensure Miss Mary’s exit. He then helped her out in the best traditions of any airline stewardness. I was acting as an airline stewardness at the normal exit but I had no customers. Reggie made it through a window when there was no one else in the aircraft and that is the way a Ndege character should comport himself.

  This business of Ndege characters is probably quite incomprehensible to those who are not members of this outfit. Ndege means bird and is the African name for an aircraft. People who have to do intimately with the aircraft have certain secret feelings and much undeclared knowledge. They also have a set of ethics which are not publicly declared. If you are one, you are one. If you are not, you will be detected and exposed. The worst thing anyone can do except for stepping on an eight-foot cobra is to pretend that one is a Ndege character if one is not. It will, in a country where the Ndege is the normal form of transportation, be detected sooner or later. I could write about that, but as a much better writer than I am, the late Rudyard Kipling, said, that is another story.

  Various people and several periodicals have asked me what one thinks at the hour of one’s death, a rather exaggerated phrase, and what it feels like to read one’s obituaries. Being a Ndege character, I can answer truthfully that at the moment of an aircraft crashing and/or burning, your only thoughts are of technical problems. Your past life does not rush through your brain like a cinema film and your thoughts are purely technical. Perhaps there are people whose past lives rush through their brains, but so far in my life I have never experienced this sensation.

  After you have crashed and/or burned in a plane, you are usually in a state of what is loosely described as shock. On a crash-landing where the aircraft has been set down comparatively softly there is not much shock but I believe there is always some. However, if you are conditioned to this by the practice of more or less contact sports, you are familiar with the sensations and can sort them out.

  In the case of an aircraft burning on takeoff, the shock is considerably greater and you cannot sort it out much at the time and so attempt to behave in a completely normal manner. This is quite easy to do and fools most people completely. For example, when an aircraft has crashed and burned, you first, automatically, listen for the ammo to go. You check with yourself as to whether she is carrying bombs, standing at a reasonable distance from the aircraft and listening for the ammo to go. At this moment, standing in such a fashion and receiving the congratulations of various over-excited Africans who were vigorously pumping my right arm which had been dislocated, I heard what there was of ammo go.

  There were four small pops representing the explosion of the bottles of Carlsberg beer which had constituted our reserve. This was followed by a slightly louder pop which represented the bottle of the Grand MacNish. After this, I clearly heard a louder but still not intense explosion which I knew signified the unopened bottle of Gordon’s gin. This is sealed by a metal cap and therefore gives an explosion of greater power than that of the Grand MacNish which is only sealed by a cork and, in any event, had been half consumed. I listened for further explosions but there were none.

  We then left the scene of the crash in the motor vehicle of a young policeman who had kindly consented to take us to Masindi. In this vehicle was the charming wife of this police officer and Miss Mary and myself, adjusting ourselves to the 53-mile ride which was accomplished on no liquor or any other beverage. This was the longest ride of my life and I am sure it did not seem short to Miss Mary. At one time I remarked to her, “Miss Mary, can you make it okay without our stopping at any friendly place or dukka for a small quick one?” It is customary to administer to Ndege characters one or two ounces of, preferably, bourbon, after the crash and burning of an aircraft if it has crashed or burned on what is considered a friendly airfield.

  “Papa,” Miss Mary replied, “I can make it if you can, but it is the hard way.”

  We held hands with our good hands and rode it out.

  II

  There had been what we describe in the parlance of the R.A.F. as the meat wagon present at the scene of our second crash. It was in charge of an African practitioner who was extremely cordial, deeply moved, but so excited that he forgot he was to administer certain first-aid treatment. After we completed our journey to Masindi and had the usual reception by former mourners and enthusiasts who had seen a kite burn for the first time in their lives, we finally went to bed.

  During the night, I heard a hyena howl repeatedly and I wondered whether it was attracted by the odor of burnt flesh and hair which I could clearly smell. I checked the entrances and exits of our hotel room in a more or less mechanical manner and decided that if this more or less blessed animal wished to howl he might continue the exercise.

  Miss Mary was in great pain from the broken ribs and did not sleep well. However, the howling of the beast reassured her and made her feel that she was back in the dear old days of the Kimana Swamp before she had accepted the Christmas present of this trip in the Ndege.

  In the morning, we met the African practitioner who had been so overjoyed at our miraculous escape from the consumed Ndege, and he applied what I should, perhaps, out of racial understanding and friendship, not describe as home remedies. He wished to strap Miss Mary up and care for her ribs. This would doubtless have been an interesting experience for this noble practitioner but I did not approve of the action.

  There is nothing you can do about broken ribs anyway, except to hope you receive them in the ninth round of a ten-round fight rather than in the first. Strapping them up only mean
s that the plaster must be removed and even for a girl whose body is less hirsute than that of a man, the removal of plaster may be extremely painful. As an offer to science, I would like to say that the damage inflicted on the skin when the ribs are encased in plaster is, in my mature consideration, much greater than the good which is obtained by this rather questionable practice.

  This rather noble African, for whom I incidentally formed a perhaps lasting affection, then clipped my skull in a most skillful manner with a pair of scissors. I do not know whether he cut tribal patterns or whether the clipping was a purely functional one. In any event, it was both effective and spectacular. He applied some form of antiseptic and a dressing which consisted of various strips of plaster which could be described as moderately sensational.

  He dressed the left leg, which by this time was suppurating. He checked the amount of what we in Africa refer to as damu, or blood, which was flowing from all of the five classic orifices of the human body, and very kindly announced that we were fit to proceed to Entebbe. This was our objective since Miss Mary had expressed a wish to remain several weeks there in order to recuperate. We also wished to rejoin any articles of clothing or articles of value which we might have left at the hotel since I did not know if the old R.A.F. custom still existed of sacking up the kit or gear of any Ndege character who did not return promptly to the field where his squadron was stationed after being presumably down in enemy terrain or in what we still in our primitive ignorance continue to refer to as the drink.

  Actually, the drink at this time was Gordon’s gin, of which we had been able to obtain a supply in Masindi. I do not work for the Gordon’s people and this is a testimonial which I offer freely and in what I hope is my right mind. This beverage is one of the sovereign antiseptics of our time. Penicillin enjoys a temporary popularity and there are some people who use sulpha. There are various other antibiotics. However, these products may prove to be only of passing worth. Gordon’s product is of approved merit and can be counted on to fortify, mollify and cauterize practically all internal or external injuries. Nevertheless, what we refer to in Wakamba as Nanyake—members of the tribe who are not yet allowed to drink beer—should never be encouraged to employ this magic beverage since their judgment might be insecure; it might lead them into grave errors and perhaps to the commission of crimes of violence and sexual depravity which we all deplore. In other words, do not let children drink gin.

  • • •

  After we had been treated, we traveled by motor car from Masindi to Entebbe. This is a rather dull and dusty drive—result of the continued failure of the rains in the north—and there is not much to see until you hit Kampala, the City of the Seven Hills, which is an exceedingly charming town. The journey is, however, one of some 135 miles and it affords ample time for thought and reflection.

  This thought is conditioned by the fact that the so-called thinker has suffered a major concussion and therefore is not responsible for his thoughts. This type of concussion induces the type of thinking which sometimes tends toward violence. I believe this violence is a phenomenon of concussion due to the violent demise of the aircraft. In any event, it is to be deplored and I hereby disavow any responsibility for the thoughts which passed through my head, but here is what some of them were.

  First, I wished that Sen. Joseph McCarthy (Republican) of Wisconsin had been with us at the crash of both aircraft. I have always had a certain curiosity, as one has about all public figures, as to how Senator McCarthy would behave in what we call the clutch. Doubtless he would be admirable but I have always had this fleeting curiosity. I wondered if without his senatorial immunity he would be vulnerable to the various beasts with whom we had been keeping company. This thought held my disordered mind for some 10 or 12 miles, I must admit with a certain degree of enjoyment.

  Then with my disordered mind pursuing the same train, if it could be called a train, of thought, I wondered if there was anything wrong, if there should be anything wrong with Sen. Joseph McCarthy (Republican) of Wisconsin which a .577 solid would not cure.

  Then I remembered Mr. Leonard Lyons, my very old friend, and his experience with the .577 when we tried out 20 rounds of ammunition in the proving booth in the basement of Abercrombie & Fitch in New York. It was old ammo and it was necessary to determine if it was still reliable. Mr. Lyons, who is extremely gallant, well built but a little short on weight, fired the .577 and the recoil lifted him from his feet and laid him against an iron doorway at the back of the proving ground. He dropped the .577 but it was uninjured, and for some miles I pondered happily on this incident and on other incidents that happened to me with Mr. Leonard Lyons. Mr. Lyons will probably recall them. They were all pleasant.

  I then commenced to ponder, in my still disordered condition, on Mr. Toots Shor. Pondering on Mr. Shor, you may pass many miles quite happily. I remembered Mr. Shor’s unfailing courtesy. Mr. Shor is supposed to be extremely rude to everyone but I doubt if we have ever exchanged an impolite phrase. I was able to reconstruct Mr. Shor’s countenance in my mind, which is a considerable feat under the circumstances. Mr. Shor’s countenance resembles much of the broken country unsuitable for farming that we were passing through.

  At this point, I reluctantly abandoned the thought of Mr. Shor, whose place seemed far distant, and started to remember another friend of mine, Mr. Joe Russell, popularly known as Sloppy Joe, who ran a saloon which was the counterpart in Key West of the saloon and restaurant run by Mr. Shor. Mr. Joe Russell was my partner and friend for many years in many ventures. I then spent several miles remembering the manner of his death.

  I then recalled in succession the great privilege it had been to be associated with Mr. George Brown of 225 West 57th Street and the now-happy remnants of my brain recalled moments with Brown which could hardly be exceeded. Coming directly south from West 57th Street, as one has often done sitting backwards in the taxi in order not to catch cold after working out with Mr. Brown, I recalled with vast pleasure Mr. Sherman Billingsley. I thought of Mr. Billingsley with whom I have many things in common and for whom I hold a benevolent affection.

  Then, there being no order in which I thought of these gentlemen, due to having been hit too hard over the head, I thought of Mr. Bill Corum and what he must have looked like when he was the youngest major in the American Army. Then I thought of what Mr. Ben Finney must have looked like when he was in the Marines in the first war. I met Mr. Finney in his prime when he was the first man to run the Cresta at St. Moritz, Switzerland, the first time that he was ever in that strange vehicle which is employed in this descent. Thinking about Mr. Finney and his loyalty as a friend and how he cannot fight a lick but will always go made me very happy.

  I thought, since now my brain was somewhere round 52nd and 53rd Streets, of Mr. Earl Wilson and his gentle loyalty over a period of many years. I thought of Mr. Walter Winchell and how we used to sit up late together with Damon Runyon, when Mr. Runyon was still a living man and fine companion and not yet a Fund, and I hoped that Walter and Lenny Lyons would cease feuding.

  In this time, my brain had become benevolent and wished good will to all men. I thought of many other friends and of their great assets and their occasional defects. My brain refused to have anything to do with my past life, contrary to the usual reports, and continued about other people and about places and about food and good drink.

  We were equipped with the product of the Messrs. Gordon and I thought about this and the pleasure it had given me in life. This started my brain to think about my past life, but I was able to break the brain away from that subject, in which a certain amount of remorse is involved, and I began to consider economic and political problems which my brain resolutely refused to handle.

  At times such as this, you have certain phenomena which may be interesting. In place of one beautiful woman on the street, you see two beautiful women. Your brain seems to be something like your brother rather than a complete integrated organ. Your hearing comes and goes and sometimes you cann
ot hear the sound of your own voice and at other times noises become far too acute. There was a steady oozing between my skull and my left ear and I asked Miss Mary to look and see if she saw any exudence of gray matter. She said, “Papa, you know you have no brains and that must be some form of liquid that we are unfamiliar with.”

  Miss Mary can joke as roughly as anyone and sometimes much rougher. It is for this quality that she is considered so highly by the circle of Mr. Toots Shor. I think it would be no exaggeration to say that Miss Mary can do with a few words what Miss Maureen Connolly can do with her forehand. This in the language of our set is described as “She can murder you.” Bearing my wayward brain and Miss Mary with her broken ribs, her unquestioned valor and her lovely incisive speech, we arrived at Entebbe. Up to this time, neither of us had read our obituaries, which I understand had been published in considerable amount before our arrival.

  • • •

  At Entebbe, we met the journalists and the interrogators. Actually, it was in the opposite order. The British equivalent of our Civil Aeronautics Administration is extremely thorough since the loss of a Ndege involves loss to the insurance company or to the company owning the aircraft and in order to see if any negligence can be proved on the part of the pilot the interrogation is profound and exhaustive. I had hoped to be interrogated jointly with our pilot, Roy Marsh, so I could refresh my memory which was not in absolutely perfect condition. The interrogators, whom I referred to constantly in the course of our conversation as the inquisitors, were very able men. At once seeing that I was in the worst shape of the two and therefore might commit an indiscretion during an interrogation, they chose me first. Mr. Marsh and Captain Cartwright were to come later, in that order. An interrogation is not difficult when you have a true story to tell but you must be most careful about technical details.