James Aldridge

THE LAST INCH

1
At forty you were lucky if you still enjoyed flying after twenty years of it, and you
were lucky if you could still feel that artistic pleasure of a beginner when you put
one down right on: a little wheel grip, a puff of dust, and the smooth conquest of
that last inch above the ground. Particularly in the snow, because the snow made
a good pad under the wheels. A good touchdown in snow was as good as walking
barefoot on a thick hotel carpet.
Bush piloting and whipping the old DC3s into any weather and over any landscape
were things of the past. Canada had been good flying country for his sort of fly-
ing; so it seemed all right that he should end up flying a Fairchild over the Red
Sea deserts for Tex-Egypto Oil Exploration Inc., which had exploration rights all
down the Egyptian Red Sea coast. He had flown the Fairchild over these deserts
until it had flown itself out. There were no landing fields. He put it down where the
geologists and the hydrologists wanted to get down; and that meant anywhere on
sand, scrub, stone-bedded wadis, and the long white streams of the Red Sea shore.
The shore lines were the worst, be-
cause the smooth-looking sands were
always undermined with large lumps
of raw white coral as sharp as razors,
and if it hadnt been for the dumpy
low-gravity weight of the Fairch-ild
he would have been over a dozen
times after many a tyre had burst.
That was all finished now. The Tex-
Egypto Co. had given up its expen-
sive efforts to find one big dome of
oil that would pay off as Saudi Ara-
bia did for Aramco; and the Fairchild
was a sick-looking wreck in one of
the Egyptian hangers, stained thick
with every colour of dust, ripped gaudily on its undersides with long thin gashes,
control wires worn to threads, the engine a mockery, and the instruments gutted
for spares.
It was all gone; and he was forty-three and his wife had gone back to Linnean
Street, Cambridge, Mass., and was leading the life she liked to lead, getting the
streetcar to Harvard Square, shopping at the market, living in her old mans decent
old frame house which made a decent life for a decent woman.
He had promised to join her before the summer, but he knew he would never do
it, nor would he ever get another flying job at his age, not for his kind of flying,
even in Canada. Up there the supply was greater than the demand, even for the old
hands, and the Saskatchewan farmers were learning to fly their own Piper Cubs

2
and Austers, and back-yard flying was doing away with too many of the old pilots.
They ended up flying for the mining companies or the Government, but that was
all too respectable and well ordered to take him in at this late stage.
That left him with an apathetic wife who didnt want him, and a ten-year-old boy
who had come too late and was, Ben knew in his heart, not part of either of them: a
very lonely boy lost between them, and aware, at ten, that his mother had no inter-
est in him, and that his father was a stranger who couldnt talk to him and was too
brief and sharp with him in the rare moments when they were together.
This particular moment was no better than the others. Ben had the boy with him in
an Auster bumping violently down the 2,000 feet corridor over the Red Sea coast,
waiting for the boy to be airsick.
If you want to be sick, he said to the boy, uput your head well down on the floor
so that you dont mess up the plane.
Yes, the boy said miserably.
Are you afraid?
The little Auster was lurching about
unmercifully in the hot air, but the
boy seemed to have his frightened
wits about him, and though he was
sucking frantically on a sweet he
was watching the instruments, the
compass, the leaping gyro-horizon.
A little, the boy answered: a rather
pale, shy and serious voice for what
should have been a rough-edged
North-American boy. Can these
bumps smash the plane?
Ben had no way of comforting him, excepting the truth. Only if the plane has not
been looked after and periodically checked.
Is this... the boy began, but he was too sick to go on.
Its all right, his father said irritably. Its a good enough plane.
The boy had his head down and was beginning to cry quietly.
Ben was sorry then that he had brought his son. These generous gestures always failed
because there was not much generosity left in any of them. At least not in his dry, re-
gretful, suburban mother, and his short inexplicable father. Ben had tried once before,
in one of these rare fits of generosity, to show the boy how to fly a plane, but though he
had taken quickly to it, and understood its crude principles well enough, every loud and
shouted correction in the Auster had sent the boy into tears.

3
Dont cry! Ben ordered him now. Theres no need to cry. Get your head up,
Davy! Get it up!
Davy kept his head down, and Ben regretted this more and more and watched the
Red Sea coast unpeel-ing its vast, wasteful emptiness, this unbroken line a thou-
sand miles long that divided the pastel-fused deserts from the green-fused seas. It
was lifeless and dead. The sun baked the life out of it, and in the spring the winds
lifted up a thousand square miles of sand en masse and dumped it across the Indian
ocean where it was lost forever desert into sea floor.
Sit up, he told Davy, if you want to see how to approach.
He knew how sharp his own voice could be; but it surprised him that he hardly
knew how else to speak to the boy. Davys head came up. He gripped the instru-
ment panel in front of him and leaned forward. Ben eased off the throttle, waited for
the air speed to drop, and then dragged down the flap-lever, which was awkwardly
placed on these little English planes,
up on the left side, almost above your
head. The sudden lurch as the flaps
slid out sent the boys head down
for a moment, but he came up and
looked over the sinking nose as his
father made a dead straight approach
to a narrow strip of white sand just
above a kidney-shaped bay in this
coastal wasteland.
How do you know where the wind
is? the boy asked.
The waves, the odd cloud, the feel,
Ben shouted back.
But he was hardly aware any longer
what directed his flying. Without thinking about it he knew to a foot where he
would put the plane down. He had to know here, because there werent any feet
to spare on this barren strip of natural sand,which was impossible to approach in
anything but a small plane. It was a hundred miles from the nearest native village.
It was dead desert country this.
This is what counts, Ben said. When you level off its got to be six inches. Not
one foot, or three feet. Six inches! If its too high and you come down hard, youll
wreck the plane. If its too low you hit a bump and go over. Its the last inch that
counts.
Davy nodded. He knew. He had seen an Auster like this one go over at Embaba
where they hired it from. The student flying it had been killed.

4
See! his father shouted. Six inches. When she begins to sink, I ease back the
stick. I ease it back. Now! he said and the plane touched down like a snow-flake.
The last inch! He cut off the engine instantly and put on the heel brakes which
almost tipped up the nose, but it stopped them short of the sudden drop into the
water by six or seven feet.
The two airline pilots who had discovered this bay had called it Shark Bay, not for
its shape but for its population. It was always well filled with good-sized Red Sea
sharks who came into it after the big shoals of herring and mullet which sought
protection in here from time to time. It was sharks Ben was here for; and now that
he was here he forgot the boy, except to instruct him how to help unload, how to
pack the food bag in wet sand, how to keep the sand wet with buckets of sea water,
and to bring the tools and the small items needed for his aqualung and cameras.
Does anybody ever come here? Davy asked him.
Ben was too busy to hear him now,
but it registered briefly and he shook
his head. Nobody! Nobody could
get here, except in a light plane.
Bring me the two green bags from
the floor, he said, and keep your
head covered against the sun. I dont
want you getting sunstroke on me.
It was Davys last question. He had
asked his questions querulously but
sternly; that way trying to undo his
fathers hard response. But he gave
up the attempt and simply did as
he was told. He watched carefully
while his father prepared his aqua-
lung equipment and underwater cameras to go into the perfect, clear coral water
to film sharks.
Dont you go near the water! his father ordered.
Davy said nothing.
These sharks, his father warned, are just as likely to take a bite at you as not,
particularly on the surface; so dont even put your feet in.
Davy shook his head.
Ben wished he could do more for the boy, but it was too late by many years. When
he was away flying (which had been most of the time since Davy was born and
since he was an infant, and now when he was growing into his teens) he had never
had contact with him. In Colorado, in Florida, in Canada, in Iraq, in Bahrein, and

5
here in Egypt: it should have been his wifes work, Joannies work, to keep the boy
alert and happy.
In the early days he had tried himself to pick up the boys responses. But what was
the use of the odd week at home, and what was the use of home in some outlandish
place of Arabia which. Joannie had hated and had turned every time into a bitter regret-
ful alienation from the limpid summer evenings and cold sparkling winters and quiet
college streets of that New England town. She had found nothing in the mud houses of
Bahrein at 110 degrees with 100 degrees humidity; nor in the corrugated-iron encamp-
ments of oilfields, nor even in the dusty, reckless streets of Cairo. But all that sort of
apathy, (which had increased until it had licked her) should be disappearing, now that
she was home. He would take the boy back to her, and hope that she would work up
some interest in him now that she was where she wanted to be. But she hadnt shown
much interest yet, and shed been gone three months.
Hitch that strap between my legs,
he told Davy.
He had the heavy aqualung on his
back. Its two cylinders of compressed
air, 56 lbs. in weight, would give him
over an hour at thirty feet down. No
need to go deeper. The sharks didnt.
And dont throw any stones in the
water, his father said, picking up
the cylindrical watertight camera
box and wiping sand from its pistol
grip. It frightens everything in sight.
Even the sharks. Give me the mask.
Davy handed him the glass-fronted
mask for his face.
Ill be about twenty minutes, Ben told him. Then Ill come up and have lunch
because the suns already too high. You can pack some stones each side of the
planes wheels, and then sit under the wing out of the sun. Do you get that?
Yes, Davy said.
Ben suddenly realised that he talked to the boy as he had been forced to talk to his
wife, whose disinterest had required the most sharp, directional sort of conversa-
tion. No wonder the poor little devil was cut off from both of them.
And dont worry about me, he ordered the boy and backed into the water. He
disappeared under it as he put his mouthpiece in his mouth, and he held his camera
down to keep all the weight low.
Davy watched the last gulp of sea swallow his father and sat down to watch for a

6
moment, as if there might be something to see. There was nothing at all, except the
occasional air-bubble breaking the surface.
There was nothing on the surface of the sea, which disappeared into the far hori-
zon; there was nothing along the infinite distance of bleached shoreline; and when
he struggled up the hot sand-hill to the highest side of the sand bay, he could see
nothing but the bare desert behind him shining flat and rippling to some far-off
purplish hills that were as barren as the rest of the country, and faded over with a
heat haze.
Below, there was only the aeroplane, the little silver Auster, still cracking as its
engine cooled down. He felt free enough now, with no one in sight for a hundred
miles, to sit inside the plane and study it. But the smell of it began to make him
sick again, so he got out and poured a bucket of water around the sand where the
lunch was, and then sat down to see if he could watch the sharks his father was
photographing. He could see noth-
ing below surface at all; and in the
hot silence, in the loneliness which
he did not mind but which he was
suddenly conscious of, he wondered
what would happen if his father
didnt come up again.
Ben, with his back well into the
coral, was having trouble with the
valve that supplied the right amount
of air. He wasnt deep, only twenty
feet, but the valve stuttered irregu-
larly and he had to draw too hard for
his air. That could be very exhaust-
ing and dangerous.
The sharks were there, but keeping their distance. They always did, just out of
effective camera range. He would have to entice them in close after lunch with
half-a-leg of horsemeat which he had brought for that purpose, wrapped in plastic
and packed in the sand.
This time, he told himself in a grumble of air bubbles, Im going to get three
thousand bucks worth.
He was paid by the Commercial Television Stock Company; a thousand dollars for
every five hundred feet of shark film, and a special thousand dollars for any shot of
a hammerhead. There were no hammerhead sharks here. There were two or three
basking sharks and a decent-sized tiger wandering around near the silver bottom,
well away from the coral bank. He knew he was feeling and emanating too much
aggression to attract them now, but he was after a big grouper who lived under a
7
shelf of brain coral, and that was worth five-hundred dollars also. They wanted a
shot of a grouper with good background. This teeming perfection of coral with a
thousand fish to every ten yards was good background, and the grouper lay there
in his coral cave.
So youre still here! he said gently to the grouper.
He was four feet long and God knows how heavy, and he was peering out of his
hole as he had been the last time a week ago. He had probably lived here a hun-
dred years. By kicking his flippers in the groupers face, Ben forced him to back
out, and he got a good long gliding shot of him as he headed down to the bottom,
slowly and angrily.
That was all he wanted for the time being. The sharks would still be there in the
afternoon. He had to save his air, because there was no way of re-filling his air
bottles on the spot. As he turned around, he felt the swish of one of the sharks going
by his legs. While he had been busy
with the grouper they had moved in
on his back.
Get the hell out of it, he bellowed
in great blobs of air.
They had already gone, the noisy
bubbles had worried them. The sand
sharks went low, but the tiger cruised
off at eye-level just out of range,
watching Ben carefully. This fellow
would not be afraid of shouts. Ben
kept his back well into the coral,
feeling the sudden terrible sting of a
ridge of fire coral along one arm. But
he kept his eye on the tiger until he
broke surface. Even then he kept his mask under to watch the tiger, who had moved
towards him a little. Ben fell back clumsily on to the two-inch coral edge of the
water-line, and he rolled out the last inch in safety.
I dont like that character at all! he said aloud when he spat out the loose water
from his mouth.
He saw the boy watching him then, standing over him. He had forgotten his exis-
tence, and he did not explain his remark.
Get the lunch out of the wet sand, he told Davy, and set it out under the shade of
the wing on that piece of loose canvas. And throw me the big towel.
Davy gave him the towel, and Ben faced the reality of this dry hot world, with his son
and himself in it. He felt foolish now to be doing this sort of thing. He was a good

8
rough-country pilot, not an adventurer to enjoy any pleasures in shark chasing with an
undersea camera. Even so, it was a lucky chance that he could do it. Two flight engi-
neers of the American Eastern Airlines, stationed in Cairo, had started this business of
supplying the film companies with underwater background shots from the Red Sea.
They had both been transferred to Paris; so they had handed it on to him. He had origi-
nally done them a favour when they came to ask him expert advice on desert flying
in small planes. When they had left they had returned the favour by telling the C.T.S.
Co. in New York about him, and he had been loaned the companys equipment and he
had hired this little Auster from the Egyptian Flying School. He wanted some quick
stake money, and this would get it for him. When the Tex-Egypto oil exploration had
folded, his flying job had gone with it. The fairly careful savings he had accumulated in
two years of pretty hot desert flying was now keeping his wife in Cambridge decency.
The little left over kept himself, and kept the boy and the French-Syrian woman who
looked after the boy, and kept the small flat they lived in in Cairo. But this was the
last time. The C.T.S. Co. had accumu-
lated enough film stock to last them
for a very long time, they said, so this
sideline effort would also fold, and he
would have no more reason for stay-
ing in this country. He would definite-
ly take the boy back to his mother, and
then see what he could get in Canada,
where there might be something left
if he could only find it or hide his
age.
While they ate their silent lunch he
changed the film in the French cam-
era and fixed the valve of his aqua-
lung, and it was only when he came
to open one of the bottles of lager that he thought of the boy.
Did you find something to drink? he asked Davy.
No, Davy told him reluctantly. There is no water...
Ben had forgotten the boy. He usually brought a dozen bottles of lager with him
from Cairo; it was cleaner and safer than water. He should have brought something
lighter for his son.
Youll have to drink some of this, he told Davy. Open a bottle and try it, but
dont drink too much of it.
He did not like the idea of a ten-year-old drinking beer, but there was no choice.
Davy opened a bottle, took a quick drink of the coolish,bitter liquid,but swallowed
it with difficulty. He shook his head and gave the bottle back to his father.
9
It doesnt matter, he said to his father.
Youd better open a can of peaches.
A can of peaches would not quench anyones thirst in this dry and salty noonday
heat, but he could do little else for him. Ben lay back when he had finished eating,
covered the equipment carefully with his damp towel, took a quick look to see that
Davy was not ill or in the sun, and went to sleep.
Does anyone know we are here? Davy was asking him when he was getting
himself into the water again after his sweaty siesta.
Why do you ask that? Whats the matter?
I dont know. I just thought...
Nobody knows were here, Ben said. We get permission from the Egyptians
to fly to Hurgada; but they dont know that we come down this far. Theyre not
supposed to know either. Remember
that!
Could they find us?
Ben thought the boy was afraid they
would be caught doing something
wrong. Thats what kids were always
scared of: being caught. No, the fron-
tier force couldnt even reach us. Even
from a plane its unlikely they would
see our plane. No one could get to this
place overland even in a jeep. He
pointed to the sea. And they cant get
in that way because of the reefs...
Doesnt anyone know? the boy
asked, still worried.
I told you, Ben said irritably. But he realised suddenly and too late that it wasnt
fear of being caught that worried Davy, but fear of being left alone. Dont worry
about it, Ben said gruffly. Youll be all right.
Its getting windy, Davy said in his quiet, solemn way.
I know that. Ill be under water about half an hour. Then Ill come up and put in
a new film and go down for another ten minutes. So find something to amuse you
while Im gone. You should have brought a fishing line along.
/ should have told him to, Ben thought as he went under with his bait of horsemeat,
which he took straight down to a lump of tree coral where the light was good. He
rested the camera on a ledge and wound the telephone wire good and tight around
the meat and the coral so that the sharks couldnt rip it off too easily.

10
Then he backed up into a little coral hollow, no more than ten feet from it, so that
his rear was protected. He knew he would not have long to wait.
There were five of them now in the silver space where the coral joined the sand.
He was right. They came in almost immediately, smelling the blood of the meat,
or sensing it somehow. He kept very still, and when he breathed out he kept the
valve well into the coral behind him so that the air bubbles broke up and did not
frighten them off.
Come on! Come on! he encouraged them quietly.
They did not need encouragement.
They came straight for the morsel of horsemeat, first the familiar tiger and then two
or three smaller versions of the same shape. They did not swim nor even propel
their bodies. They simply moved forward like grey, rippling rockets. As they came
to the meat they swung over a little on one side and took passing gulps at it.
He got it all: the approach, the stiff
sort of opening of their jaws as if
they had tooth-ache, and the grab-
bing, messy bites that were as ugly a
sight as he had seen in his life.
You bastards, he said under his
breath.
Like every underwater man, he hat-
ed and admired them on sight and
feared them.
They came back again, and his
hundred feet pack of film was near
enough finished, which meant that
he would have to leave all this, go
up, reload, and get back as quickly as he could. He looked down at the footage dial
on the camera-case, and he was amazed to see that all the film had gone already.
When he looked up again he saw the unfriendly tiger coming at him.
Git! Git! Git! he bellowed through his mouthpiece.
The tiger simply rolled over in his approach, and Ben knew that he was being at-
tacked. Then suddenly he saw his own arms and chest. They were covered with the
blood of the meat he had carried, and he cursed his stupidity. That was a last and
hopeless reprimand and then he wielded his camera as a club, as hard as he could.
The tiger had the momentum, and the camera hardly touched him. But the side-
gashing teeth caught Bens right arm in one sweep, missed his chest, and passed
across the other arm like a razor. Ben felt the left arm go completely, instantly, as
if it had been cut off. He panicked, and as he threshed about in pain his blood had
11
already obscured, in ten seconds, his view through the water, and he sensed rather
than saw the next attack as he backed up, thrashing with his legs. He felt it hit him
along the legs, but by now his frantic, rising violence had tangled him in the coral
and he was holding his mouthpiece in with his good right hand, afraid of losing it.
And even as he saw one of the smaller ones come at him, he kicked out at it and
rolled over backwards.
He had hit the surface ledge.
He rolled out of the water in a filthy, bleeding mess.
When he came to he was quite aware of what had happened, and he wondered how
long he had been out and what happened next, because the whole thing seemed to
be out of his hands.
Davy! he shouted.
He could hear his sons muffled voice coming down to him, but he could hardly
see. He knew the physical shock had
taken hold of him. But he saw the boy
then, his horrified face peering down
at him, and he realised he had only
been out for a second, but he could
hardly move.
What shall I do? Davy was crying.
Look what happened to you!
Ben closed his eyes to think clearly
for a moment. He knew he would
never fly that plane; his arms were
like fire and lead, and his legs were
stiff, and his faint consciousness
wasnt enough.
Davy, he said carefully with his eyes closed. How are my legs?
Its not your legs, he heard from Davys sick-sounding voice. Its your arms.
Theyre all cut up, theyre horrible.
I know that, he said angrily through his teeth. What about my legs?
Theyre covered in blood and theyre cut up too.
Badly?
Yes, but not like your arms. What do I do?
Ben looked at his arm then, and saw that the right one seemed almost severed,
and he could see muscle and sinew and not much blood. The left one looked like a
chewed-up piece of meat and it was bleeding profusely, and he bent it up, wrist to
shoulder, to stop the flow and groaned with the pain of it.
12
He knew there wasnt much hope.
But then he knew there had to be; because if he went out now the boy would be left
here and that was a pretty grim prospect. That was a worse prospect than his own
condition. They would never find the boy in time, not in this scorched country if
they could, in fact, find him at all.
Davy, he said as urgently as his heavy brain would allow. Listen to me. Get my
shirt and tear it up and wrap up my right arm. Are you listening?
Yes.
Tie up my left arm tight above all those cuts to stop the blood. Then tie my wrist
up to my shoulder somehow, as hard as you can. Do you get that? Tie up both my
arms.
Yes, I get it.
Tie them tight. Do my right arm
first, but close up the wound. Do
you get that? Do you get it...
Ben did not hear the answer because
he felt himself fading out again, and
this time it was longer, and he came
to with the boy working on his left
arm with his serious, intent, pallid
face tied into knots of fear and ter-
ror, and yet desperate in his applica-
tion.
Is that you, Davy? Ben said, and
heard his own slurred speech, and
went on deliberately. Listen, boy,
he said with an effort. Im going to
tell it all to you, in case I go out again. Get my arms bandaged, so that I dont lose more
blood. Get my legs fixed, and then get me out of this aqualung. Its killing me.
Ive tried to get you out of it, Davy said in his hopeless voice. But I cant. I
dont know how to get you out.
Youll have to get me out! Ben said sharply in his old way, but he knew then that
the only hope he had for the boy, as well as for himself, was to get Davy thinking
for himself, with confidence enough to do what he had to do. He had to get to the
boy somehow.
Im going to tell it to you Davy so that you understand. Do you hear me? Ben
could hardly hear himself and he wasnt aware of the pain for a moment. Youre
going to have to do all this, Im sorry, but youll have to do it. Dont be upset if I
shout at you. Thats not what counts. That never counts. Do you get that?
13
Yes. He was tying up the left arm and he wasnt listening.
Good boy! Ben could get a shadow of encouragement into that, but not much,
and it sounded confused. He did did not know yet how to get to the boy, but he
would find the way somehow. This ten-year-old boy had a superhuman perfor-
mance ahead of him if he was to survive this. But first things had to be first.
Get my knife out of my belt, Ben said, and cut off all the straps of the aqua-
lung. That was the knife he had had no time to use. Use the fine saw edge, thats
quicker. Dont cut yourself.
Ill be all right, Davy said, standing up and looking sick at the sight of his own
bloody hands. If you could lift your head a little I could pull one of the straps off,
the one I undid.
All right. Ill lift my head.
Ben lifted his head and wondered why he felt so paralysed. With this effort from
his neck he passed out again, and this
time into the furious black pain that
seemed to last too long, although he
remained half aware of it. He came
to slowly and felt relaxed and not so
thoroughly paralysed.
Hello, Davy, he said from his far
distance.
I got you off the aqualung, he
heard the boys querulous voice
say. Youre still bleeding down the
legs...
Never mind my legs, he said and
opened his eyes and leaned up to see
what shape he was in, but he was afraid of passing out, and he knew he could not
sit up nor ever stand up; and now that the boy had tied his arms back he was help-
less from the waist up. The worst was yet to come, and he had to think about it for
a moment.
The only chance for the boy now was the plane, and Davy would have to fly it.
There was no other chance, no other way. But now he had to think. He must not
frighten the boy off. If he told Davy he would have to fly the plane, it would
scare him. He had to think carefully of how to do this; of how to get this to
the boy; how to think it into him and persuade him to do it without knowing
it. He had to feel his way into his sons frightened, immature mind. He looked
closely at Davy then and he realised that it was a long time since he had really
seen the boy.

14
He looks educated, Ben thought, and knew it was a queer conclusion. But this serious-
faced boy was not unlike himself: a stern surface over something harder and wilder with-
in. But the pale, rather square face did not look like a happy face, not now or ever, and
when Davy saw his father looking so closely at him he turned away and began to cry.
Never mind, kid, Ben said slowly. Never mind for now!
Are you going to die? Davy asked him.
Do I look that bad? Ben said without thinking about it.
Yes, Davy said into his tears.
Ben knew that he had made a mistake, and he must never speak to the boy again
without thinking carefully of what he was saying.
Im kidding, he said. Dont let all this blood and mess fool you. Your old mans
been smashed up like this before, two or three times. I dont suppose you remem-
ber when I was in hospital up in Sas-
katoon...
Davy nodded. I remember, but you
were in hospital.
Sure! Sure! Thats right, he was
puzzling and thinking on it and over-
coming his desire to faint off again.
Ill tell you what well do. You get
that big towel and put it near me and
Ill roll on it somehow, and between
us Ill get up to the plane. How about
that, eh?
I wont be able to pull you up, the
boy said, defeat setting in.
Ahhh, Ben said with a calculated
gentleness which seemed excruciating to him. You dont know what you can do
until you try, kid. I suppose youre thirsty. No water, eh?
No, Im not thirsty... Davy had gone off to get the towel, and Ben said into the
thin air with this deliberate care:
Next time well bring a dozen Coca-Cola. Ice too.
Davy had the towel beside him, and by a sideways lurch that seemed to tear his arm
and chest and legs apart he got his back on to the towel and felt his heels dig into
the sand, but he did not pass out.
Now get me up to the plane, Ben said faintly. You pull, and Ill push with my
heels. Never mind the bumps, just get me there!

15
How can you fly the plane? Davy asked from ahead of him.
Ben closed his eyes to think of how this boy felt, Ben was thinking, He must not
know he has to fly it. The thought will scare him stiff.
These little Austers fly themselves, he said. Just have to set the course, thats
easy...
But you cant use your arms and hands. And you dont open your eyes.
Dont give it a thought, Davy. I can fly blindfold with my knees. Lets get going.
Start pulling!
He was looking at the sky and realising it was going to be late, and the wind was
picking up, which would help the plane off if they could get far enough down wind.
But it was going to be a head wind all the way to Cairo, and there wasnt that much
gasoline to spare. He hoped, into the depths of hope, that a khamsin, that blinding
seasonal dust-storm of the desert, wasnt blowing up. He should have been more
careful to get a long-range weather
forecast when he left. But that was
what rough-flying did to you. You
were either good-and-careful, or
your were good-and-careless. This
time, which was rare with him, hed
been good-and-careless all round.
It took a long time to get up the slope,
with Davy pulling and Ben digging
his heels into the sand, passing out
quickly and coming to slowly. After
he had rolled down twice they made
the plane and he even managed to
sit up against the tail end and look
around. But sitting up was going to
be hell and passing out was going to be frequent. His whole body was on the rack
now.
Howre you doing? he said to the boy who was panting, exhausted with the ef-
fort. You look all in.
No Im not, Davy said fiercely. Im all right.
That surprised Ben because he had never heard the tang of revolt or ferocity in his
sons voice before, and yet it must be there with a face like that. He wondered how
a man could have lived so long with a son and never seen his face clearly. It could
get the better of you, this business of watching your own boy. He shook it off. He
felt very conscious now, but with stabbing spurts of pain. The shock was wearing
off. But he was physically too weak, and he could feel the blood oozing gently out

16
of his left arm, and he felt he couldnt lift a limb, even a finger (if he had one) to
help himself. Davy was going to have to get the plane off and fly it, and land it.
Next thing, he said with some effort around his dry tongue, is to build up some
rocks beside the door of the plane. He breathed a little and went on: If you build
them up high enough, you can bounce me up them somehow. Get the rocks from
the wheels.
Davy was already at work, putting lumps of coral under the left-side door the
pilots side of the plane.
Not that door, Ben said carefully. The other one. The controls will be in the way
if I get in this side.
The boy looked quickly at him, suspiciously, and then he began to work like a fiend
on the other side. When he tried to drag rocks that were too large, Ben told him
gently to take it easy.
The way to do anything, Davy, he
said with his weary voice, is to try
and do it without effort. No effort...
He couldnt remember giving him
that sort of advice ever before.
Wont it be dark soon? Davy
asked him when he had finished.
Dark? Ben opened his eyes. He
had been dozing off or fainting off,
he didnt know which. Thats not
dark. Thats the khamsin blowing up
the dust.
We cant fly, the boy said. You
cant fly. Dont lets do it.
Ach, Ben said in this calculated gentleness which made him look at the boy and
feel the real sorrow of this. Itll blow us home, Davy.
It might blow them anywhere but home, and if it blew up quickly enough and high
enough theyd never see airfields or landmarks nor anything else below it.
Lets go, he said to the boy again, and again they pulled and dragged until he was
at the rough step of coral rock near the door. This was going to be difficult, but he
knew they must not rest on it.
Get that towel around my chest and get in the plane and pull me up, and Ill push
with my legs.
If he wasnt so paralysed in the legs! Something must have happened to his spine,
and he was pretty sure that, in the long run, he wouldnt survive it. It would be just
17
sufficient in the way of survival if he could survive it to Cairo and until he talked
this boy down with the plane. That would be absolutely enough. That was the only
chance; the one long shot.
That was what got him into the plane; it got him into it half-crouched and half-
seated and half-conscious. Then he was trying to tell the boy what to do, but he
could not quite get it out. The boy was going to panic. Ben turned his head and felt
it, and he made the effort.
Did I bring up the camera, Davy? Or did I leave it on the bottom?
Its down near the water.
Go and get it. And bring that little bag with the film in it. He remembered then
that he had put the exposed film in the plane to keep it out of the sun. Never mind.
Just get the camera.
That seemed matter-of-fact enough, even to convince this terrified boy; and he
felt the plane lurch as Davy jumped
down and ran to get the camera. He
waited again, a long time, to get back
sufficient consciousness to think it
out. He had to know this ten-year-old
mind, he had to know and think about
his son to get this next stage going. It
had to be in-thinking into this white-
faced, silent, waiting, watchful and
too-obedient boy. If he knew him a
little better...
Strap yourself in tight, he told the
boy. Youre going to help me. Youll
remember it. Youll remember all I
say. Lock your door...
Im fading out again! he thought. He went into a rather pleasant, easy sleep for a
few minutes. But he did not let the last thread of his consciousness go. He held on
to it, because that was all he had left to rescue his son with.
It had been a long time since there had been tears on his eyes, but he felt them now,
for no reason. He wasnt going to give it up yet. Not yet.
Not much of an old man, am I? Ben said, and got a faint pleasure out of that self-
revelation. He was getting along. He was getting to the boy. Now listen...
Far, far off he went, and came back again.
Its going to be you, Davy. Youre going to have to do it. So listen. Are the wheels
clear?

18
Yes, I pulled all the stones away. Davy was sitting there with his teeth
clenched.
Whats that shaking us?
The wind.
He had forgotten that. Now this is what you do, Davy, he said, and thought it out
slowly. Give the throttle an inch, not too much. Do it now. Put your whole foot on
the brakes, Davy. Good! Youve done that! Now switch her on; the black switch
on my side. Thats fine, Davy. Now what you have to do is push the button; and
when she starts you open up the throttle a little. Wait! Wait! When youve got her
going, put your foot on the left brake and left rudder and open the throttle and get
her round and then get down wind somehow. Do you hear...
I can do it, the boy said, and Ben thought he heard the sharp impatient note of his
own voice in it, but not quite. Theres so much wind now, the boy said. Its too
strong and I dont like it.
Keep the stick well forward when
youre taxiing down wind. Go on!
Get her going.
He felt Davy lean across him and
push the starter and he heard the en-
gine cough, and he prayed that the
boy wouldnt open the throttle too
far until she kicked over properly.
And by God hes done it! he thought
as the engine took. He nodded his
head, sick with tension now,and he
heard the boy blipping the engine to
try and get the nose around, and he
faded out into the shaking painful
noise of it and stayed out in this terrifying space that was trying to engulf him. He
felt the bumps, he tried to lift his arms but he couldnt, and he came to with the
engine revving too high.
Cut the throttle, he shouted as loud as he could.
I cant! The wind wont let me turn.
Are we facing into wind, Davy? Did you get us down wind?
Yes, but the wind is going to blow us over.
He could feel the Auster rocking violently and he looked up with effort to see what
was around them, but he couldnt see out of the plane at this angle and he would
have to chance it and depend entirely on the boy.

19
Take off the hand brake, he said. He had forgotten that.
Its off, Davy said. I took it off...
Of course you did. Im a bloody fool, Davy, he said.
Then he remembered that he had to shout. Listen again. Its going to be easy. Just open
her up steady, and hold the stick in the middle. Just let her bump. You get that? When
she begins to bump, ease her off. And keep her straight. Keep her into wind and dont
pull the stick right back until I tell you. Go on. Dont be afraid of the wind...
He heard the steady increasing roar as Davy opened the throttle, and felt the bump-
ing lurch of the plane as it dug its way through the sand, and felt it slipping already,
yawing and crabbing, but he waited to feel the lighter bumps and he passed out
again.
Dont! he heard through the deep space.
He came out of it and they were just
off the ground and the boy was hold-
ing the stick obediently still without
jerking it back, and Ben was aware
that they were barely clearing the
dunes over the bay, and he knew it
had taken some courage for the boy
to keep the stick from going too far
back. The wind lifted the plane up
safely in a sharp gust but the sicken-
ing drop after it hurt him.
Get her up to three thousand feet,itll
be quieter there, he shouted.
He knew then that he should have
gone through the whole plan before
they took off, because Davy would never hear him properly. That was another
stupidity. He must keep his wits. No more stupidities.
Three thousand feet, he shouted. Three.
What direction do I go? Davy was asking.
Get her up first. Just get her up! Ben shouted, afraid lest the planes lurching in
the light wind scare the boy again. He could guess from the sound of it that the en-
gine was straining, and that the nose was a bit high; but the wind would give them
support, and that was enough to last him a few minutes and he went out into the
painful darkness again as he looked at the air speed, trying to think of it.
What awakened him was the engine coughing. It was calm, it was almost dead still, and
they were above the wind; but he could hear the engine sighing and trying to give up.

20
Somethings the matter! Davy was shouting. Please wake up! Whats the matter?
Push the mixture forward.
Davy couldnt possibly know about mixture, and Ben could not point to it in time,
so he put his head down awkwardly and got his cheek and jaw under the mixture
lever and eased it up an inch, and heard the engine cough and backfire and take
up again.
Whats the direction? Davy begged again. Youre not telling me how to get the
right direction.
There was no direct course with this uncertain wind, even though it was smooth
enough up here. It would have to be the coast as far as Suez.
Follow the coast. Keep it on your right. Can you see it?
Yes. But is it the right way?
The compass course ought to be
about three hundred and twenty, he
shouted, but it seemed too faint for
Davy to hear; but Davy heard. Good
boy. Ben thought. Hell hear me.
Its on three hundred and forty!
Davy told him. The compass was
roof-mounted, and the mirror reflec-
tor was only visible from the pilots
seat.
Ah, thats fine! Thats fine! Its all
right. Now follow the coastline and
stick to it. Dont for Gods sake do
anything else, Ben said and knew
he was mumbling to himself. Let
the plane look after you. Itll be all right, Davy...
He realised then that Davy must have remembered enough to level off and keep
the right R.P.M. and airspeed. He had remembered that. He was a good boy, this.
Hed be all right. Hell do it! He could see Davys sharply defined profile, his pale
face with dark eyes that hid his secrets and perhaps his whole life. His father had
just seen this face for the second time. Just for a moment. Nobody looked after the
boys teeth for him. Ben told himself, seeing the slight protrusion of Davys mouth
as he grinned painfully with the effort of trying to do what might be beyond him.
Hell do it, though, Ben decided wearily and happily.
That seemed to be enough conviction for a lifetime. Ben passed out into the depths
he had been trying to keep out of for the boys sake. And even as he went out, deep,

21
he thought he would be lucky this time if he came out of it at all. He was going too
far. And the boy would be lucky if he came out of it. That was all he could think
of before he lost contact with himself: that the khamsin was rising, the early night
was coming on, and that putting this plane down was nothing more to do with him;
and when he faded out his head turned towards the door.
At three thousand feet on his own Davy did not think he could cry again in his life-
time. He had dried himself out of tears. He had boasted only once in his ten years
that his father was a pilot. He had remembered everything his father had told him
about this plane, and he guessed a lot more which his father had not told him.
It was calm and almost white up here. The sea was green. The desert was very dirty-
looking with the high wind blowing a sheet of dust over it. In front the horizon was
not clear any more, and the dust was coming up higher, but he could see the sea very
clearly. He understood maps. They were not complicated. He knew where the chart
was and he pulled it out of the door
pocket and wondered what he must
do at Suez. He knew that too. There
was a road to Cairo which went west
across the desert. West would be easy.
The road would be easy to see, and he
would know Suez because that was
where the sea ended and the canal be-
gan. There, you turned left.
He was afraid of his father, or he had
been. But now he couldnt look at his
father because he was asleep with his
mouth open, and was horribly cov-
ered with blood and half-naked and
bound up. He did not want his father
to die; and he did not want his mother
to die; or anyone; and yet that was what happened. People did die.
He did not like being so high. It was unbalancing, and the plane moved so slowly
over the earth. He had noticed that. But he would be afraid to go down into the
wind again when he had to land. He did not know what he would do. He knew
that he did not want to go down into that wind and have the plane bumping and
lurching. He would not have control of it then. He wouldnt keep it straight, and he
wouldnt be able to level it off when it got near the ground.
His father might be dead. He looked and saw the quick breaths that came not-very-
often. The tears that Davy thought had dried up in him were on the lower lids of
his dark eyes and he felt them lip over and come down his cheeks. He licked them
in and watched the sea.

22
Ben felt the lurching pain that seemed to freeze his body into shafts of ice, leaping
and tearing at him, and he came slowly out of it with a dry mouth, until he knew
what was happening. He could see the dust through the roof above him, and see
the dim sky over that.
Davy! Whats happened? What are you doing! he shouted angrily.
Were almost there, Davy said. But the wind is right up high now, and its get-
ting dark.
Ben closed his eyes to catch up with his last memory, and he couldnt comprehend
it, and he fancied that he had awakened and redirected the boy and passed out again
and forgotten. The lurching punishment from the jerking and bucking of the plane
kept him tense against his pain.
What can you see? he shouted.
All the fields, and all the buildings of Cairo. Theres the big airport where the pas-
senger planes come in.
The lurching and bumping cut it off
because they seemed to rise a hun-
dred feet in one wad of air, and then
lose two hundred in the sickening
drop, and the wings dipped franti-
cally from one side to the other.
Dont lose sight of the airport,
Ben cried in his pain. Keep it in
sight. Dont take your eyes off it.
He shouted it twice before the boy
heard him and he kept saying to
himself: For Gods sake, Davy,
youve got to hear what Im saying
now.
The plane doesnt want to go down, Davy said to him, with his pale face and
eyes widened to the point where they filled his face.
Cut your engine...
I did, but it makes no difference. I cant keep the stick down.
Use the tail trimmer, Ben said and lifted his head to the roof where the tail trim-
mer was. He remembered the flaps too, but the boy would never be able to move
them and they would have to do this without flaps.
Davy had to half-stand to get the purchase on the wheel and turn the trimmer for-
ward. The plane put its nose down in the beginning of a dive.
Cut your engine! Ben screamed at him.

23
Davy had already pulled back the throttle and mixture until the wind kept bumping
the plane down and up as it went into its long power glide.
Keep your eye on the airfield and go around it! Ben told him and began to pre-
pare himself for the one thing he must do. He must sit up erect enough and long
enough to see over the windscreen as they made the approach. This was the mo-
ment that all the others were for. Getting a plane off and flying it was easy: putting
it down was another thing.
There are big planes, Davy shouted. I can see one taking off...
Keep away, on the side, Ben shouted.
That was hardly enough warning, but he was inching himself up from his slumped
position, helped by the nose-down angle of the plane. He had been slumped against
the vibrating door, and he inched his shoulder and head up along it and concentrat-
ed on it until his head was high enough to fall forward on to the instrument panel.
At least he was up, and he lifted his
head and saw their approach.
Youre all right! he shouted. He
was shivering and sweating, and he
felt that he only had his head and
nothing else to his body. He could
not feel his limbs at all.
Left, he shouted. Stick forward
more. Keep it left. More bank left.
More bank! he shouted. Good.
Youre all right, Davy. Youll do it.
Left again! Keep the stick down...
Ill hit the plane. Look at it.
Ben could see the big plane. They
were five hundred feet and going almost straight towards it. It was almost dark.
The dust was like a yellow sea over the land, but the big four-engined plane was
beating up a clean path of air behind it, and he could see its engines going at full
throttle. If only it was taking off and not testing the motors, theyd be all right,
because they couldnt trust the rough ground off the tarmac.
Ben closed his eyes against it.
Its taking off...
Ben opened his eyes with an effort and looked over the nose as it lurched up and
down; and in their approach now they had two hundred feet left and the big DC4
was direct in their path below, but moving off so quickly that they would miss it.
They would miss it. He felt Davy start to pull back the stick in fear.

24
Dont! he cried. Keep it down...
They lost air speed now, because the nose was up. If they stalled from this height
in this wind theyd go down into a thousand pieces...
Its the wind! the boy shouted, and though his face was screwed up into its own
small tragedy, into its own small comprehension, Ben knew that the last inch of it
would be in the boys hands...
Youre all right, he shouted again. They had a minute left to finish the approach
and hold off.
Six inches, he cried to Davy with the effort and pain swelling his tongue and
drawing the hot tears from his eyes. Six inches, Davy ... Wait! Not yet. Not yet...
he cried.
It was at the last inch from the ground that he lost his nerve at last; and he was
lost in his own fears and in his own death, and he could not speak nor shout nor
cry nor sob but simply hang there
with his eyes in fear for himself, in
fear of that last sickening dip as the
earth in its dust cloud and black tar-
mac came up to him. He was trying
to shout Now! Now! Now! but the
fear was too great and in that last
rigid moment which sent him back
into oblivion again he felt the slight
lift of the nose, and heard the hard
roar of the engine still revving and
felt the balloon-like bounce as the
plane hit the ground with its wheels,
and the sickening rise and the long
wait for the next touch-down; and
then he felt the touch-down on the tail and the wheels, the last inch of it. The plane
yawed uncontrollably and swerved as the wind hurled it around in a ground loop,
and when it stopped dead he heard the stillness.
Oh that stillness and silence. He heard it and felt it and knew then that he would
stick it out, because he had been afraid to die, and he couldnt give in yet.
There were always many last moments and last inches to life, and in the smashed
body of a flyer there were last bones and last blood vessels that other men had
never heard of. They were always there when the last one ran out. Ben had inter-
minable supplies of them, as the Egyptian doctors discovered to their amazement;
and the ability to replace and repair the bodys shattered sinews was part of the
heart of a flying man.

25
It took time; but what did that matter to this last fraction of life that divided life
from death. He wasnt aware of it anyway; excepting how long pain took to come,
and pain took to go; and then the slow time to realise.
Its all a matter of adrenalin, the curly-headed Egyptian doctor told him with a
big laugh. And you manufacture it like atomic energy.
That was all right; but then he had to realise that he had no more left arm.
(Funny, he thought, I would have sworn it was my right that got the worst
of it.) He had to undo his paralysis, which this curly-headed life-giver in-
sisted on calling a touch of nervous rigidity. The shock had turned him
into a stiff, shatterable fragment which would take some slow relaxing; but it
would be all right. It would all be all right except for his left arm which had
gone to the incinerator; but that was all right too, except that this was where
his flying had gone also: to the incinerator.
Then there was the boy.
He was all right, the doctor had told
him. Not even shock. This Egyp-
tian curled head had good jokes in
wonderful English. Hes less rigid
in the spine than you are.
That was all right too. Even the plane
was all right. Everything fine, abso-
lutely, until he would see the boy, and
that was where it would begin or end
again.
When they brought Davy in, it
seemed to Ben that this was the same
boy, with the same face he had re-
cently discovered. What he had dis-
covered was one thing. But it was unlikely that the boy had made any similar
discoveries about his father.
Well, Davy? he said shyly to the boy. That was pretty good, wasnt it?
Davy nodded. Ben knew he didnt think it pretty good at all; but someday he
would. Someday the boy would understand how good it was. That was worth
working on.
Not much of an old man am I? he said wryly to the boy.
Davy shook his head solemnly in agreement.
Ben smiled. Well, at least it was the truth. This was going to take time. It would
take all the time the boy had given him. But it seemed to Ben, looking at those

26
pale eyes and non-American face and slightly forward teeth, that it would be such
valuable time. It would be time so valuably spent that nothing else would be so
important. He would get to the boy. Sooner or later he would get to him. That last
inch, which parted all things, was never easy to overcome, until you knew how.
But knowing how was the flyers business, and at heart Ben remained a very good
flyer.

The Last Inch was written in 1957 and translated into Russian the same year,
while the first English edition came out in 1960.

27