once because I was so heavy and because I was falling so fast, and once I caught a thick branch with both hands and the tree leaned forward and I heard the snapping of the roots one by one until it came away from the cliff and I went on falling. Then it became darker because the sun and the day were in the fields far away at the top of the cliff, and as I fell I kept my eyes open and watched the darkness turn from grey-black to black, from black to jet black and from jet black to pure liquid blackness which I could touch with my hands but which I could not see. But I went on falling, and it was so black that there was nothing anywhere and it was not any use doing anything or caring or thinking because of the blackness and because of the falling. It was not any use.
'You're better this morning. You're much better.' It was the woman's voice again.
'Hallo.'
'Hallo; we thought you were never going to get conscious.'
'Where am I?'
'In Alexandria; in hospital.'
'How long have I been here?'
'Four days.'
'9XThat time is it?'
'Seven o'clock in the morning.'
'Why can't I see?'
I heard her walking a little closer.
'Oh, we've just put a bandage around your eyes for a bit.'
'How long for?'
'Just for a while. Don't worry. You're fine. You were very lucky, you know.'
I was feeling my face with my fingers but I couldn't feel it; I could only feel something else.
'What's wrong with my face?'
I heard her coming up to the side of my bed and I felt her hand touching my shoulder.
'You mustn't talk any more. You're not allowed to talk. It's bad for you. Just lie still and don't worry. You're fine.'
I heard the sound of her footsteps as she walked across the floor and I heard her open the door and shut it again.
'Nurse,' I said. 'Nurse.'
But she was gone.
Madame Rosette
'OH Jesus, this is wonderful,' said the Stag.
He was lying back in the bath with a Scotch and soda in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The water was right up to the brim and he was keeping it warm by turning the tap with his toes.
He raised his head and took a little sip of his whisky, then he lay back and closed his eyes.
'For God's sake, get out,' said a voice from the next room. 'Come on, Stag, you've had over an hour.' Stuffy was sitting on the edge of the bed with no clothes on, drinking slowly and waiting his turn.
The Stag said, 'All right. I'm letting the water out now,' and he stretched out a leg and flipped up the plug with his toes.
Stuffy stood up and wandered into the bathroom holding his drink in his hand. The Stag lay in the bath for a few moments more, then, balancing his glass carefully on the soap rack, he stood up and reached for a towel. His body was short and square, with strong thick legs and exaggerated calf muscles. He had coarse curly ginger hair and a thin, rather pointed face covered with freckles. There was a layer of pale ginger hair on his chest.
'Jesus,' he said, looking down into the bathtub, 'I've brought half the desert with me.'
Stuffy said, 'Wash it out and let me get in. I haven't had a bath for five months.'
This was back in the early days when we were fighting the Italians in Libya. One flew very hard in those days because there were not many pilots. They certainly could not send any out from England because there they were fighting the Battle of Britain. So one remained for long periods out in the desert, living the strange unnatural life of the desert, living in the same dirty little tent, washing and shaving every day in a mug full of one's own spat-out tooth water, all the time picking flies out of one's tea and out of one's food, having sandstorms which were as much in the tents as outside them so that placid men became bloody-minded and lost their tempers with their friends and with themselves; having dysentery and gippy tummy and mastoid and desert sores, having some bombs from the Italian S-79s, having no water and no women, having no flowers growing out of the ground; having very little except sand sand sand. One flew old Gloster Gladiators against the Italian CR42s, and when one was not flying, it was difficult to know what to do.
Occasionally one would catch scorpions, put them in empty petrol cans and match them against each other in fierce mortal combat. Always there would be a champion scorpion in the squadron, a sort of Joe Louis who was invincible and won all his fights. He would have a name; he would become famous and his training diet would be a great secret known only to the owner. Training diet was considered very important with scorpions. Some were trained on corned beef, some on a thing called Machonachies, which is an unpleasant canned meat stew, some on live beetles and there were others who were persuaded to take a little beer just before the fight, on the premise that it made the scorpion happy and gave him confidence. These last ones always lost. But there were great battles and great champions, and in the afternoons when the flying was over, one could often see a group of pilots and airmen standing around in a circle on the sand, bending over with their hands on their knees, watching the fight, exhorting the scorpions and shouting at them as people shout at boxers or wrestlers in a ring. Then there would be a victory, and the man who owned the winner would become excited. He would dance around in the sand yelling, waving his arms in the air and extolling in a loud voice the virtues of the victorious animal. The greatest scorpion of all was owned by a sergeant called Wishful who fed him only on marmalade. The animal had an unmentionable name, but he won forty-two consecutive fights and then died quietly in training just when Wishful was considering the problem of retiring him to stud.
So you can see that because there were no great pleasures while living in the desert, the small pleasures became great pleasures and the pleasures of children became the pleasures of grown men. That was true for everyone; for the pilots, the fitters, the riggers, the corporals who cooked the food, and the men who kept the stores. It was true for the Stag and for Stuffy, so true that when the two of them wangled a fortyeight hour pass and a lift by air into Cairo, and when they got to the hotel, they were feeling about having a bath rather as you would feel on the first night of your honeymoon.
The Stag had dried himself and was lying on the bed with a towel round his waist, with his hands up behind his head, and Stuffy was in the bath, lying with his head against the back of the bath, groaning and sighing with ecstasy.
The Stag said, 'Stuffy.'
'Yes.'
'What are we going to do now?'
'Women,' said Stuffy. 'We must find some women to take out to supper.'
The Stag said, 'Later. That can wait till later.' It was early afternoon.
'I don't think it can wait,' said Stuffy.
'Yes,' said the Stag, 'it can wait.'
The Stag was very old and wise; he never rushed any fences. He was twenty-seven, much older than anyone else in the squadron, including the GO, and his judgement was much respected by the others.
'Let's do a little shopping first,' he said.
'Then what?' said the voice from the bathroom.
'Then we can consider the other situation.'
There was a pause.
'Stag?'
'Yes.'
'Do you know any women here?'
