Joan’s mind was full of love and life and the fear of losing them, but Peter was thinking but little of love and life; he 499was secretly preoccupied1 with the thought, the forbidden thought, of death, and with the strangeness of war and of this earth seen from an aeroplane ten thousand feet or so above the old battlefields of mankind. He was seeing the world in plan, and realizing what a flat and shallow thing it was. On clear days the circuit of the world he saw had a circumference2 of hundreds of miles, night flying was a journey amidst the stars with the little black planet far away; there was no former achievement of the race that did not seem to him now like a miniature toy set out upon the floor of an untidy nursery. He had beaten up towards the very limits of life and air, to the clear thin air of twenty-two or twenty-three thousand feet; he had been in the blinding sunlight when everything below was still asleep in the blue of dawn.
And the world of history and romance, the world in which he and all his ancestors had believed, a world seen in elevation3, of towering frontages, high portals, inaccessible4 dignities, giddy pinnacles5 and frowning reputations, had now fallen as flat, it seemed, as the façade of the Cloth Hall at Ypres. (He had seen that one day from above, spread out upon the ground.) He was convinced that high above the things of the past he droned his liquid way towards a new sort of life altogether, towards a greater civilization, a world-wide life for men with no boundaries in it at all except the emptiness of outer space, a life of freedom and exaltation and tremendous achievement. But meanwhile the old things of the world were trying most desperately6 to kill him. Every day the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns seemed to grow more accurate; and high above the little fleecy clouds lurked7 the braggart8 Markheimer and the gallant9 von Papen and suchlike German champions, with their decoys below, ready to swoop10 and strike. Never before had the world promised Peter so tremendous a spectacle as it seemed to promise now, and never before had his hope of living to see it been so insecure.
When he had enlisted11, and even after he had been transferred to the Flying Corps12, Peter had thought very little of death. The thought of death only became prevalent in English minds towards the second year of the war. It is a 500hateful and unnatural13 thought in youth, easily dismissed altogether unless circumstances press it incessantly14 upon the attention. But even before Peter went to France two of his set had been killed under his eyes in a collision as they came down into the aerodrome, and a third he had seen two miles away get into a spiral nose dive, struggle out of it again, and then go down to be utterly15 smashed to pieces. In one day on Salisbury Plain he had seen three accidents, and two, he knew, had been fatal and one had left a legless thing to crawl through life. The messes in France seemed populous16 with young ghosts; reminiscences of sprees, talk of flying adventures were laced with, “dear old boy! he went west last May.” “Went west” was the common phrase. They never said “killed.” They hated the very name of death. They did their best, these dear gallant boys, to make the end seem an easy and familiar part of life, of life with which they were so joyously17 in love. They all knew that the dice18 was loaded against them, and that as the war went on the chances against them grew. The first day Peter was out in France he saw a man hit and brought down by a German Archie. Two days after, he found himself the centre of a sudden constellation19 of whoofing shells that left inky cloudbursts over him and under him and round about him; he saw the fabric20 of his wing jump and quiver, and dropped six hundred feet or so to shake the gunner off. But whuff ... whuff ... whuff, like the bark of a monstrous21 dog ... the beast was on him again within a minute, and Peter did two or three loops and came about and got away with almost indecent haste. He was trembling; he hated it. And he hated to tremble.
In the mess that evening the talk ran on the “Pigeon shooter.” It seemed that there was this one German gunner far quicker and more deadly than any of his fellows. He had a knack22 of divining what an airman was going to do. Peter admitted his near escape and sought counsel.
Peter’s colleagues watched him narrowly and unostentatiously when they advised him. Their faces were masks and his face was a mask, and they were keen for the faintest intonation23 of what was behind it. They all hated death, they all tried not to think of death; they all believed that there 501were Paladins, other fellows, who never thought of death at all. When the tension got too great they ragged24; they smashed great quantities of furniture and made incredible volumes of noise. Twice Peter got away from the aerodrome to let things rip in Amiens. But such outbreaks were usually followed by a deep depression of spirit. In the night Peter would wake up and find the thought of death sitting by his bedside.
So far Peter had never had a fight. He had gone over the enemy lines five times, he had bombed a troop train in a station and a regiment25 resting in a village, he believed he had killed a score or more of Germans on each occasion and he felt not the slightest compunction, but he had not yet come across a fighting Hun plane. He had very grave doubts about the issue of such a fight, a fight that was bound to come sooner or later. He knew he was not such a quick pilot as he would like to be. He thought quickly, but he thought rather too much for rapid, steady decisions. He had the balancing, scientific mind. He knew that none of his flights were perfect. Always there was a conflict of intention at some point, a hesitation26. He believed he might last for weeks or months, but he knew that somewhen he would be found wanting—just for a second perhaps, just in the turn of the fight. Then he would be killed. He hid quite successfully from all his companions, and particularly from his squadron commander, this conviction, just as he had previously27 hidden the vague funk that had invariably invaded his being whenever he walked across the grounds towards the machine during his days of instruction, but at the back of his mind the thought that his time was limited was always present. He believed that he had to die; it might be tomorrow or next week or next month, but somewhen within the year.
When these convictions became uppermost in Peter’s mind a black discontent possessed28 him. There are no such bitter critics of life as the young; theirs is a magnificent greed for the splendour of life. They have no patience with delays; their blunders and failures are intolerable. Peter reviewed his two-and-twenty years—it was now nearly three-and-twenty—with an intense dissatisfaction. He had wasted his 502time, and now he had got into a narrow way that led down and down pitilessly to where there would be no more time to waste. He had been aimless and the world had been aimless, and then it had suddenly turned upon him and caught him in this lobster-trap. He had wasted all his chances of great experience. He had never loved a woman or had been well loved because he had frittered away that possibility in a hateful sex excitement with Hetty—who did not even pretend to be faithful to him. And now things had got into this spin to death. It was exactly like a spin—like a spinning nose dive—the whole affair, his life, this war....
He would lie and fret29 in his bed, and fret all the more because he knew his wakefulness wasted the precious nervous vigour30 that might save his life next day.
After a black draught31 of such thoughts Peter would become excessively noisy and facetious32 in the mess tent. He was recognized and applauded as a wit and as a devil. He was really very good at Limericks, delicately indelicate, upon the names of his fellow officers and of the villages along the front—that was no doubt heredity, the gift of his Aunt Phyllis—and his caricatures adorned33 the mess. It was also understood that he was a rake....
Peter’s evil anticipations34 were only too well justified35. He was put down in his very first fight, which happened over Dompierre. He had bad luck; he was struck by von Papen, one of the crack German fliers on that part of the front. He was up at ten thousand feet or so, more or less covering a low-flying photographer, when he saw a German machine coming over half a mile perhaps or more away as though it was looking for trouble. Peter knew he might funk a fight, and to escape that moral disaster, headed straight down for the German, who dropped and made off southward. Peter rejoicing at this flight, pursued, his eyes upon the quarry36. Then from out of the sun came von Papen, swiftly and unsuspected, upon Peter’s tail, and announced his presence by a whiff of bullets. Peter glanced over his shoulder to discover that he was caught.
“Oh damn!” cried Peter, and ducked his head, and felt himself stung at the shoulder and wrist. Splinters were flying about him.
503He tried a side-slip, and as he did so he had an instant’s vision of yet another machine, a Frenchman this time, falling like a bolt out of the blue upon his assailant. The biter was bit.
Peter tried to come round and help, but he turned right over sideways and dropped, and suddenly found himself with the second Hun plane coming up right ahead of him. Peter blazed away, but God! how his wrist hurt him! He cursed life and death. He blazed away with his machine going over more and more, and the landscape rushing up over his head and then getting in front of him and circling round. For some seconds he did not know what was up and what was down. He continued to fire, firing earthward for a long second or so after his second enemy had disappeared from his vision.
The world was spinning round faster and faster, and everything was moving away outward, faster and faster, as if it was all hastening to get out of his way....
This surely was a spinning nose dive, the spinning nose dive—from within. Round and round. Confusing and giddy! Just as he had seen poor old Gordon go down.... But one didn’t feel at all—as Peter had supposed one must feel—like an egg in an egg-whisk!...
Down spun37 the aeroplane, as a maple38 fruit in autumn spins to the ground. Then this still living thing that had been Peter, all bloody39 and broken, made a last supreme40 effort. And his luck seconded his effort. The spin grew slower and flatter. Control of this lurching, eddying41 aeroplane seemed to come back, escaped again, mocked him. The ground was very near. Now! The sky swung up over the whirling propeller42 again and stayed above it, and again the machine obeyed a reasonable soul.
He was out of it! Out of a nose dive! Yes. Steady! It is so easy when one’s head is whirling to get back into a spin again. Steady!...
He talked to himself. “Oh! good Peter! Good Peter! Clever Peter. Wonderful Mr. Toad43! Stick it! Stick it!” But what a queer right hand it was! It was covered with blood. And it crumpled44 up in the middle when he clenched45 it! Never mind!
504He was in the lowest storey of the air. The Hun and the Frenchman up there were in another world.
Down below, quite close—not five hundred feet now—were field-greys running and shooting at him. They were counting their chicken before he was hatched—no, smashed.... He wasn’t done yet! Not by any manner of means! A wave of great cheerfulness and confidence buoyed46 up Peter. He felt equal to any enterprise. Should he drop and let the bawling47 Boche have a round or so?
And there was a Hun machine smashed upside down on the ground. Was that the second fellow?
Flick48! a bullet!
Wiser counsels came to Peter. This was no place for a sick and giddy man with a smashed and bleeding wrist. He must get away.
Up! Which way was west? West? The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. But where had the sun got to? It was hidden by his wing. Shadows! The shadows would be pointing north-east, that was the tip.... Up! There were the Boche trenches49. No, Boche reserve trenches.... Going west, going west.... Rip! Snap! Bullet through the wing, and a wire flickering50 about. He ducked his head.... He put the machine up steeply to perhaps a thousand feet....
He had an extraordinary feeling that he and the machine were growing and swelling51, that they were getting bigger and bigger, and the sky and the world and everything else smaller. At last he was a monstrous man in a vast aeroplane in the tiniest of universes. He was as great as God.
That wrist! And this blood! Blood! And great, glowing spots of blood that made one’s sight indistinct....
He coughed, and felt his mouth full of blood, and spat52 it out and retched....
Then in an instant he was a little thing again, and the sky and the world were immense. He had a lucid53 interval54.
One ought to go up and help that Frenchman. Where were they fighting?... Up, anyhow!
This must be No Man’s Land. That crumpled little thing was a dead body surely. Barbed wire. More barbed wire.
505The engine was missing. Ugh! That fairly put the lid on!
Peter was already asleep and dreaming. The great blood spots had returned and increased, but now they were getting black, they were black, huge black blotches55; they blotted56 out the world!
Peter, Peter as we have known him, discontinued existence....
It was an automaton57, aided by good luck, that dropped his machine half a mile behind the French trenches....
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1
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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2
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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3
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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5
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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6
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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7
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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8
braggart
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| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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10
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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11
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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12
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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13
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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14
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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15
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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16
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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17
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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18
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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19
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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20
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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21
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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22
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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23
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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24
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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25
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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26
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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27
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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28
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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29
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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30
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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31
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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32
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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33
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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34
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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35
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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36
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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37
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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38
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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39
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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40
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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41
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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42
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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43
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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44
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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45
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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47
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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48
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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49
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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50
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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51
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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52
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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53
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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54
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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55
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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56
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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57
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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