Over to You

by Roald Dahl

  ‘Hop skip jump,’ I said, ‘Hop skip jump,’ and we danced along.

  The painter on the first aeroplane had a straw hat on his head and a sad face. He was copying the drawing out of a magazine, and when Peter saw it he said, ‘Boy oh boy look at that picture,’ and he began to laugh. His laugh began with a rumble and grew quickly into a belly-roar and he slapped his thighs with his hands both at the same time and went on laughing with his body doubled up and his mouth wide open and his eyes shut. His silk top hat fell off his head on to the sand.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ I said.

  ‘Not funny!’ he cried. ‘What d’you mean “not funny”? Look at me. Look at me laughing. Laughing like this I couldn’t hit anything. I couldn’t hit a hay wagon or a house or a louse.’ And he capered about on the sand, gurgling and shaking with laughter. Then he seized me by the arm and we danced over to the next aeroplane. ‘Hop skip jump,’ he said. ‘Hop skip jump.’

  There was a small man with a crumpled face writing a long story on the fuselage with a red crayon. His straw hat was perched right on the back of his head and his face was shiny with sweat.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Good morning, good morning,’ and he swept his hat off his head in a very elegant way.

  Peter said, ‘Shut up,’ and bent down and began to read what the little man had been writing. All the time Peter was spluttering and rumbling with laughter, and as he read he began to laugh afresh. He rocked from one side to the other and danced around on the sand slapping his thighs with his hands and bending his body. ‘Oh my, what a story, what a story, what a story. Look at me. Look at me laughing,’ and he hopped about on his toes, shaking his head and chortling like a madman. Then suddenly I saw the joke and I began to laugh with him. I laughed so much that my stomach hurt and I fell down and rolled around on the sand and roared and roared because it was so funny that there was nothing else I could do.

  ‘Peter, you’re marvellous,’ I shouted. ‘But can all those German pilots read English?’

  ‘Oh hell,’ he said. ‘Oh hell. Stop,’ he shouted. ‘Stop your work,’ and the painters all stopped their painting and turned round slowly and looked at Peter. They did a little caper on their toes and began to chant in unison. ‘Rubbishy things — on all the wings, on all the wings, on all the wings,’ they chanted.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Peter. ‘We’re in a jam. We must keep calm. Where’s my top hat?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You can speak German,’ he said. ‘You must translate for us. He will translate for you,’ he shouted to the painters. ‘He will translate.’

  Then I saw his black top hat lying in the sand. I looked away, then I looked around and saw it again. It was a silk opera hat and it was lying there on its side in the sand.

  ‘You’re mad,’ I shouted. ‘You’re madder than hell. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll get us all killed. You’re absolutely plumb crazy, do you know that? You’re crazier than hell. My God, you’re crazy.’

  ‘Goodness, what a noise you’re making. You mustn’t shout like that; it’s not good for you.’ This was a woman’s voice. ‘You’ve made yourself all hot,’ she said, and I felt someone wiping my forehead with a handkerchief. ‘You mustn’t work yourself up like that.’

  Then she was gone and I saw only the sky, which was pale blue. There were no clouds and all around were the German fighters. They were above, below and on every side and there was no way I could go; there was nothing I could do. They took it in turns to come in to attack and they flew their aircraft carelessly, banking and looping and dancing in the air. But I was not frightened, because of the funny pictures on my wings. I was confident and I thought, ‘I am going to fight a hundred of them alone and I’ll shoot them all down. I’ll shoot them while they are laughing; that’s what I’ll do.’

  Then they flew closer. The whole sky was full of them. There were so many that I did not know which ones to watch and which ones to attack. There were so many that they made a black curtain over the sky and only here and there could I see a little of the blue showing through. But there was enough to patch a Dutchman’s trousers, which was all that mattered. So long as there was enough to do that, then everything was all right.

  Still they flew closer. They came nearer and nearer, right up in front of my face so that I saw only the black crosses which stood out brightly against the colour of the Messerschmitts and against the blue of the sky; and as I turned my head quickly from one side to the other I saw more aircraft and more crosses and then I saw nothing but the arms of the crosses and the blue of the sky. The arms had hands and they joined together and made a circle and danced around my Gladiator, while the engines of the Messerschmitts sang joyfully in a deep voice. They were playing Oranges and Lemons and every now and then two would detach themselves and come out into the middle of the floor and make an attack and I knew then that it was Oranges and Lemons. They banked and swerved and danced upon their toes and they leant against the air first to one side, then to the other. ‘Oranges and Lemons said the bells of St Clements,’ sang the engines.

  But I was still confident. I could dance better than they and I had a better partner. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. I looked down and saw the curve of her neck and the gentle slope of her pale shoulders and I saw her slender arms, eager and outstretched.

  Suddenly I saw some bullet holes in my starboard wing and I got angry and scared both at the same time; but mostly I got angry. Then I got confident and I said, ‘The German who did that had no sense of humour. There’s always one man in a party who has no sense of humour. But there’s nothing to worry about; there’s nothing at all to worry about.’

  Then I saw more bullet holes and I got scared. I slid back the hood of the cockpit and stood up and shouted, ‘You fools, look at the funny pictures. Look at the one on my tail; look at the story on my fuselage. Please look at the story on my fuselage.’

  But they kept on coming. They tripped into the middle of the floor in twos, shooting at me as they came. And the engines of the Messerschmitts sang loudly. ‘When will you pay me, said the bells of Old Bailey?’ sang the engines, and as they sang the black crosses danced and swayed to the rhythm of the music. There were more holes in my wings, in the engine cowling and in the cockpit.

  Then suddenly there were some in my body.

  But there was no pain, even when I went into a spin, when the wings of my plane went flip, flip, flip flip, faster and faster, when the blue sky and the black sea chased each other round and round until there was no longer any sky or sea but just the flashing of the sun as I turned. But the black crosses were following me down, still dancing and still holding hands and I could still hear the singing of their engines. ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head,’ sang the engines.

  Still the wings went flip flip, flip flip, and there was neither sky nor sea around me, but only the sun.

  Then there was only the sea. I could see it below me and I could see the white horses, and I said to myself, ‘Those are white horses riding a rough sea.’ I knew then that my brain was going well because of the white horses and because of the sea. I knew that there was not much time because the sea and the white horses were nearer, the white horses were bigger and the sea was like a sea and like water, not like a smooth plate. Then there was only one white horse, rushing forward madly with his bit in his teeth, foaming at the mouth, scattering the spray with his hooves and arching his neck as he ran. He galloped on madly over the sea, riderless and uncontrollable, and I could tell that we were going to crash.

  After that it was warmer, and there were no black crosses and there was no sky. But it was only warm because it was not hot and it was not cold. I was sitting in a great red chair made of velvet and it was evening. There was a wind blowing from behind.

  ‘Where am I?’ I said.

  ‘You are missing. You are missing, believed killed.’

  ‘Then I must tell my mother.’ />
  ‘You can’t. You can’t use that phone.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It goes only to God.’

  ‘What did you say I was?’

  ‘Missing, believed killed.’

  ‘That’s not true. It’s a lie. It’s a lousy lie because here I am and I’m not missing. You’re just trying to frighten me and you won’t succeed. You won’t succeed, I tell you, because I know it’s a lie and I’m going back to my squadron. You can’t stop me because I’ll just go. I’m going, you see, I’m going.’

  I got up from the red chair and began to run.

  ‘Let me see those X-rays again, nurse.’

  ‘They’re here, doctor.’ This was the woman’s voice again, and now it came closer. ‘You have been making a noise tonight, haven’t you? Let me straighten your pillow for you, you’re pushing it on to the floor.’ The voice was close and it was very soft and nice.

  ‘Am I missing?’

  ‘No, of course not. You’re fine.’

  ‘They said I was missing.’

  ‘Don’t be silly; you’re fine.’

  Oh everyone’s silly, silly, silly, but it was a lovely day, and I did not want to run but I couldn’t stop. I kept on running across the grass and I couldn’t stop because my legs were carrying me and I had no control over them. It was as if they did not belong to me, although when I looked down I saw that they were mine, that the shoes on the feet were mine and that the legs were joined to my body. But they would not do what I wanted; they just went on running across the field and I had to go with them. I ran and ran and ran, and although in some places the field was rough and bumpy, I never stumbled. I ran past trees and hedges and in one field there were some sheep which stopped their eating and scampered off as I ran past them. Once I saw my mother in a pale grey dress bending down picking mushrooms, and as I ran past she looked up and said, ‘My basket’s nearly full; shall we go home soon?’ but my legs wouldn’t stop and I had to go on.

  Then I saw the cliff ahead and I saw how dark it was beyond the cliff. There was this great cliff and beyond it there was nothing but darkness, although the sun was shining in the field where I was running. The light of the sun stopped dead at the edge of the cliff and there was only darkness beyond. ‘That must be where the night begins,’ I thought, and once more I tried to stop but it was not any good. My legs began to go faster towards the cliff and they began to take longer strides, and I reached down with my hand and tried to stop them by clutching the cloth of my trousers, but it did not work; then I tried to fall down. But my legs were nimble, and each time I threw myself I landed on my toes and went on running.

  Now the cliff and the darkness were much nearer and I could see that unless I stopped quickly I should go over the edge. Once more I tried to throw myself to the ground and once more I landed on my toes and went on running.

  I was going fast as I came to the edge and I went straight on over it into the darkness and began to fall.

  At first it was not quite dark. I could see little trees growing out of the face of the cliff, and I grabbed at them with my hands as I went down. Several times I managed to catch hold of a branch, but it always broke off at 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.’

  ‘What 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 C.R.42s, 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 ther
e 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 forty-eight 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.’