by Jack Finney
I remembered what the major had said about experimenting and tried easing back on the lever, and the flying machine sort of leveled out, and there we were, chugging along faster than I'd ever gone in my life. It was wonderful fun, and I glanced down and there was Washington spread out below, a lot bigger than I'd thought it was and with more lights than I'd known there were in the world. They were bright, too; didn't look like candles and kerosene lamps at all. Way off, toward the center of town, some of the lights were red and green, and so bright they lighted up the sky.
Watch out! yelled the major, and just ahead, rushing straight at us, was a tremendous monument or something, a big tall stone needle.
I don't know why, but I twisted hard to the left in the little saddle and yanked back on the lever, and the wing heaved up and the flying machine shot off to one side, the wing tip nearly grazing the monument. Then I lay straight again, holding the lever steady. The machine leveled off, and it was like the first time I drove a team. I could feel in my bones that I was a natural-born flying-machine driver.
Back to headquarters, said the major. Can you find the way?
Yessir, I said, and headed south.
The major fiddled with the dial in his black box and pressed the button, and down below now, in the moonlight, I could see the dirt road leading out of Washington back to headquarters. I turned for a last look at the city, but there were only a few lights now, not looking nearly as bright as before; the red and green lights were gone.
But the road was bright in the moonlight, and we tore along over it when it went straight, cut across bends when it curved, flying it must have been close to forty miles an hour. The wind streamed back cold, and I pulled out the white knit muffler my grandma gave me and looped it around my throat. One end streamed back, flapping and waving in the wind. I thought my forage cap might blow off, so I reversed it on my head, the peak at the back, and I felt that now I looked the way a flying-machine driver ought to, and wished the girls back home could have seen me.
For a while I practiced with the lever and hip saddle, soaring up till the engine started coughing, and turning and dipping down, seeing how close I could shave the road. But finally the major yelled and made me quit. Every now and then we'd see a light flare up in a farmhouse, and when we'd look back we'd see the light wobbling across the yard and know some farmer was out there with his lamp, staring up at the noise in the sky.
Several times, on the way, we had to fill the tank again, and pretty soon, maybe less than two hours, campfires began sliding under our wings, and the major was leaning from side to side, looking down at the ground. Then he pointed ahead. That field down there, boy; can you land this thing with the engine off?
Yessir, I said, and I stopped the engine, and the machine began sliding down like a toboggan, and I kept easing the lever back and forth, watching the field come up to meet us, growing bigger and bigger every second. We didn't make a sound now, except for the wind sighing through the wires, and we came in like a ghost, the moonlight white on our wings. Our downward path and the edge of the field met exactly, and the instant before we hit, my arm eased the lever back, and the skids touched the grass like a whisper. Then we bumped a little, stopped, and sat there a moment not saying a word. Off in the weeds the crickets began chirping again.
The major said there was a cliff at the side of the field and we found it, and slid the machine over to the edge of it, and then we started walking around the field in opposite directions, looking for a path or sentry. I found the sentry right away, guarding the path lying down with his eyes closed. My applejack was gone, so I shook him awake and explained my problem.
How much you got? he said; I told him a dollar, and he went off into the woods and came back with a jug. Good whisky, he said, the best. And exactly a dollar's worth; the jug's nearly full. So I tasted the whisky — it was good — paid him, took the jug back and tied it down in the machine. Then I went back to the path and called the major, and he came over, cutting across the field. Then the sentry led us down the path toward the general's tent.
It was a square tent with a gabled roof, a lantern burning inside, and the front flap open. The sentry saluted. Major of Cavalry here, sir. He pronounced the word like an ignorant infantryman. Says it's secret and urgent.
Send the calvary in, said a voice, pronouncing it just that way, and I knew the general was a horse soldier at heart.
We stepped forward, saluting. The general was sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet, in old army shoes with the laces untied, propped on a big wooden keg with a spigot. He wore a black slouch hat, his vest and uniform blouse were unbuttoned, and I saw three silver stars embroidered on a shoulder strap. The general's eyes were blue, hard and tough, and he wore a full beard. At ease, he said. Well?
Sir, said the major, we have a flying machine and propose, with your permission, to use it against the rebs.
Well, said the general, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair, you've come in the nick of time. Lee's men are massed at Cold Harbor, and I've been sitting here all night dri— thinking. They've got to be crushed before — A flying machine, did you say?
Yessir, said the major.
H'mm, said the general. Where'd you get it?
Well, sir, that's a long story.
I'll bet it is, said the general. He picked up a stub of cigar from the table beside him and chewed it thoughtfully. If I hadn't been thinking hard and steadily all night, I wouldn't believe a word of this. What do you propose to do with your flying machine?
Load it with grenades! The major's eyes began to sparkle. Drop them spang on rebel headquarters! Force immediate surrend—
The general shook his head. No, he said, I don't think so. Air power isn't enough, son, and will never replace the foot soldier, mark my words. Has its place, though, and you've done good work. He glanced at me. You the driver, son?
Yessir.
He turned to the major again. I want you to go up with a map. Locate Lee's positions. Mark them on the map and return. Do that, major, and tomorrow, June third, after the Battle of Cold Harbor, I'll personally pin silver leaves on your straps. Because I'm going to take Richmond like — well, I don't know what. As for you, son — he glanced at my stripe — you'll make corporal. Might even design new badges for you; pair of wings on the chest or something like that.
Yessir, I said.
Where's the machine? said the general. Believe I'll walk down and look at it. Lead the way. The major and me saluted, turned and walked out, and the general said, Go ahead; I'll catch up.
At the field the general caught up, shoving something into his hip pocket — a handkerchief, maybe. Here's your map, he said, and he handed a folded paper to the major.
The major took it, saluted and said, For the Union, sir! For the cause of —
Save the speeches, said the general, till you're running for office.
Yessir, said the major, and he turned to me. Fill her up!
I filled the tank, we spun the propellers, and this time the engine started right up. We climbed in, and I reversed my forage cap and tied on my scarf.
Good, said the general approvingly. Style; real calvary style.
We shoved off and dropped over the cliff like a dead weight, the ground rushing up fast. Then the wings bit into the air, I pulled back my lever, and we shot up, the engine snorting, fighting for altitude, and I swung out wide and circled the field, once at fifty feet, then at a hundred. The first time, the general just stood there, head back, mouth open, staring up at us, and I could see his brass buttons gleam in the moonlight. The second time around he still had his head back, but I don't think he was looking at us. He had a hand to his mouth, and he was drinking a glass of water — I could tell because just as we straightened and headed south, he threw it off into the bushes hard as he could, and I could see the glass flash in the moonlight. Then he started back to headquarters at a dead run, in a hurry, I guess, to get back to his thinking.
The machine was snorting at the front
end, kicking up at the hindquarters, high-spirited, and I had all I could do to keep her from shying, and I wished she'd had reins. Down below, cold and sparkly in the moonlight, I could see the James River, stretching east and west, and the lights of Richmond, but it was no time for sight-seeing. The machine was frisky, trembling in the flanks, and before I knew it she took the bit in her mouth and headed straight down, the wind screaming through her wires, the ripples on the water rushing up at us.
But I'd handled runaways before, and I heaved back on the lever, forcing her head up, and she curved back into the air fast as a calvary mount at a barrier. But this time she didn't cough at the top of the curve. She snorted through her nostrils, wild with power, and I barely had time to yell, Hang on! to the major before she went clear over on her back and shot down toward the river again. The major yelled, but the applejack was bubbling inside me and I'd never had such a thrill, and I yelled, too, laughing and screaming. Then I pulled back hard, yelling, Whoa! but up and over we went again, the wings creaking like saddle leather on a galloping horse. At the top of the climb, I leaned hard to the left, and we shot off in a wide, beautiful curve, and I never had such fun in my life.
Then she quieted down a little. She wasn't broken, I knew, but she could feel a real rider in the saddle, so she waited, figuring out what to try next. The major got his breath and used it for cursing. He didn't call me anything I'd ever heard before, and I'd been in the calvary since I joined the Army. It was a beautiful job and I admired it. Yessir, I said when his breath ran out again.
He still had plenty to say, I think, but campfires were sliding under our wings, and he had to get out his map and go to work. We flew back and forth, parallel with the river, the major busy with his pencil and map. It was dull and monotonous for both me and the machine, and I kept wondering if the rebs could see or hear us. So I kept sneaking closer and closer to the ground, and pretty soon, directly ahead in a clearing, I saw a campfire with men around it. I don't rightly know if it was me or the machine had the idea, but I barely touched the lever and she dipped her nose and shot right down, aiming smack at the fire.
They saw us then, all right, and heard us, too. They scattered, yelling and cursing, with me leaning over screaming at them and laughing like mad. I hauled back on the lever maybe five feet from the ground, and the fire singed our tail as we curved back up. But this time, at the top of the climb, the engine got the hiccups, and I had to turn and come down in a slow glide to ease the strain off the engine till she got her breath, and now the men below had muskets out, and they were mad. They fired kneeling, following up with their sights the way you lead ducks, the musket balls whistling past us.
Come on! I yelled. I slapped the flying machine on her side, unslung my trumpet, and blew charge. Down we went, the engine neighing and whinnying like crazy, and the men tossed their muskets aside and dived in all directions, and we fanned the flames with our wings and went up like a bullet, the engine screaming in triumph. At the top of the curve I turned, and we shot off over the treetops, the wing tip pointing straight at the moon. Sorry, sir, I said, before the major could get his breath. She's wild — feeling her oats. But I think I've got her under control.
Then get back to headquarters before you kill us, he said coldly. We'll discuss this later.
Yessir, I said. I spotted the river off to one side and flew over it, and when the major got us oriented he navigated us back to the field.
Wait here, he said when we landed, and he trotted down the path toward the general's tent. I was just as glad; I felt like a drink, and besides I loved that machine now and wanted to take care of her. I wiped her down with my muffler, and wished I could feed her something.
Then I felt around inside the machine, and then I was cussing that sentry, beating the major's record, I think, because my whisky was gone, and I knew what that sentry had done: sneaked back to my machine and got it soon as he had me and the major in the general's tent, and now he was back at the guardhouse, probably, lapping it up and laughing at me.
The major came down the path fast. Back to Washington, and hurry, he said. Got to get this where it belongs before daylight or the space-time continuum will be broken and no telling what might happen then.
So we filled the tank and flew on back to Washington. I was tired and so was the flying machine, I guess, because now she just chugged along, heading for home and the stable.
We landed near the trees again, and climbed out, stiff and tired. And after creaking and sighing a little, the flying machine just sat there on the ground, dead tired, too. There were a couple of musket-ball holes in her wings and some soot on her tail, but otherwise she looked just the same.
Look alive, boy! the major said. You go hunt for the horses, and I'll get the machine back, and he got behind the flying machine and began pushing it along over the grass.
I found the horses grazing not far off, brought them back, and tethered them to the trees. When the major returned we started back, just as dawn was breaking.
Well, I never did get my promotion. Or my wings either. It got hot, and pretty soon I fell asleep.
After a while I heard the major call, Boy! Boy! and I woke up saying, Yessir! but he didn't mean me. A paper boy was running over with a newspaper, and when the major paid for it, I drew alongside and we both looked at it, sitting there in our saddles near the outskirts of Washington. BATTLE AT COLD HARBOR, it said, and underneath were a lot of smaller headlines one after the other. Disaster for Union Forces! Surprise Attack at Daybreak Fails! Repulsed in Eight Minutes! Knowledge of Rebel Positions Faulty! Confederate Losses Small, Ours Large, Grant Offers No Explanation; Inquiry Urged! There was a news story, too, but we didn't read it. The major flung the paper to the gutter and touched his spurs to his horse, and I followed.
By noon the next day we were back in our lines, but we didn't look for the general. We didn't feel any need to, because we felt sure he was looking for us. He never found us, though; possibly because I grew a beard, and the major shaved his off. And we never had told him our names. Well, Grant finally took Richmond — he was a great general — but he had to take it by siege.
I only saw him one more time, and that was years later when he wasn't a general any more. It was a New Year's Day, and I was in Washington and saw a long line of people waiting to get into the White House, and knew it must be the public reception the Presidents used to hold every New Year's. So I stood in line, and an hour later I reached the President. Remember me, General? I said.
He stared at me, narrowing his eyes; then his face got red and his eyes flashed. But he took a deep breath, remembering I was a voter, forced a smile, and nodded at a door behind him. Wait in there, he said.
Soon afterward the reception ended, and the general sat facing me, behind his big desk, biting the end off a short cigar. Well, he said, without any preliminaries, what went wrong?
So I told him; I'd figured it out long since, of course. I told him how the flying machine went crazy, looping till we could hardly see straight, so that we flew north again and mapped our own lines.
I found that out, said the general, immediately after ordering the attack. Then I told him about the sentry who'd sold me the whisky, and how I thought he'd stolen it back again, when he hadn't.
The general nodded. Poured that whisky into the machine, didn't you? Mistook it for a jug of gasoline.
Yessir, I said.
He nodded again. Naturally the flying machine went crazy. That was my own private brand of whisky, the same whisky Lincoln spoke of so highly. That damned sentry of mine was stealing it all through the war. He leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar. Well, he said, I guess it's just as well you didn't succeed; Lee thought so, too. We discussed it at Appomattox before the formal surrender, just the two of us chatting in the farmhouse. Never have told anyone what we talked about there, and everybody's been wondering and guessing ever since. Well, we talked about air power, son, and Lee was opposed to it, and so was I. Wars are meant for the ground,
boy, and if they ever take to the air they'll start dropping bombshells, mark my words, and if they ever do that, there'll be hell to pay. So Lee and I decided to keep our mouths shut about air power, and we have — you won't find a word about it in my memoirs or his. Anyway, son, as Billy Sherman said, war is hell, and there's no sense starting people thinking up ways to make it worse. So I want you to keep quiet about Cold Harbor. Don't say a word if you live to be a hundred.
Yessir, I said, and I never have. But I'm way past a hundred now, son, and if the general wanted me to keep quiet after that he'd have said so. Now, take those hands out of the air, boy! Wait'll the world's first pilot gets through talking!
Collier's, August 4, 1951, 128(5):18-19, 46-48
I'm Scared
I'm very badly scared, not so much for myself — I'm a gray-haired man of sixty-six, after all — but for you and everyone else who has not yet lived out his life. For I believe that certain dangerous things have recently begun to happen in the world. They are noticed here and there, idly discussed, then dismissed and forgotten. Yet I am convinced that unless these occurrences are recognized for what they are, the world will be plunged into a nightmare. Judge for yourself.
One evening last winter I came home from a chess club to which I belong. I'm a widower; I live alone in a small but comfortable three-room apartment overlooking lower Fifth Avenue. It was still fairly early, and I switched on a lamp beside my leather easy chair, picked up a murder mystery I'd been reading, and turned on the radio; I did not, I'm sorry to say, notice which station it was tuned to.
