Best Opening Sentences of Books.

[probes]

thanks, Caco! (for the full text)

[Slasher]

Does it feel good to have your "true colours" back, btw?

Yes it does Probes!

[ian16th]

Look who cribbed an idea from here

[Cacophonix]

Well not a novel but a book of anecdotes and tales. Aviation themed as is my wont.

Superficially, the building seemed normal as I walked towards the wing commander’s office. I soon began to realise, however, that any such initial impression was deceptive.

The Lightning Boys: True Tales from Pilots of the English Electric Lightning (The Jet Age Series)



I post a little more for our amusement…

Prudence dictated the need for a few ready-made excuses before I entered the wing commander’s presence. So it was that, when I thought back, I reckoned that the problem must have stemmed from the morning’s weather briefing. It was, in other words, the weather man’s fault. The fellow had failed to emphasise that the recent change of air mass had introduced abnormally low ambient temperatures which were likely to affect engine performance. That would be my excuse, anyway – at least, one of my excuses. As I scratched my brains for further explanations – and rather better ones at that – I knew in truth that the weather conditions, other than the ambient temperature situation, had actually been quite good for my low-level aerobatic performance. This performance, indeed, had gone well as I worked towards my usual dramatic finale: a wingover manoeuvre followed by a high-speed run past the watching crowds. For the event in question, I had been flying a Lightning Mark 1A. This meant, among other matters, one particular problem. In the early marks of Lightning, reheat ignition could not be guaranteed above an airspeed of 350 knots, although, once lit, the reheats remained stable throughout the speed range. Because of this, I always started my high-speed run from a steep wing-over which involved an airspeed reduction to around 300 knots. When at 300 knots, I would engage both reheats before commencing a dive towards the runway. I would aim then to fly along the runway at about fifty feet, a height which precluded close monitoring of the aircraft instruments. I reckoned, though, that my speed should be approximately 600 knots as I flew abeam the air traffic control tower. On this particular day, because of the uncommonly low ambient air temperatures, the Lightning’s Rolls-Royce engines had been more efficient than normal and the local speed of sound had been relatively low. The aircraft, I had to admit, had seemed to be moving rather fast as I flew past the control tower.

My first intimation that all was not well came from the controller who, in a rather higher-pitched voice than usual, made some comment on the radio to the effect that he no longer needed air conditioning. I thought he was joking but realised that trouble lay ahead when, after landing, I was met by my squadron commander. He looked shaken and said with a serious expression that I was required to report at once to the operations wing commander – with my hat on.

When I entered the building where my fate would be decided and as I walked past the dangling light fixtures and the members of staff quietly sweeping up the mess, I had an ever-growing sense of foreboding. My future was in the balance. Through clouds of dust that still polluted the air I spotted the wing commander’s office.

I hesitated for a moment before entering. When, eventually, I summoned the courage, I knocked timidly on his door. A shaky voice told me to enter. I stood and stared as I went into the office.

The wing commander had an intense, animated air. His expression of horror and rage seemed to confine me to the caprices of the dark. He raised his arms and tried to speak but he twittered like a bird in the jaws of a cat. He’s completely off his trolley, I thought. His blue air force uniform, now covered in a layer of white dust, was barely recognisable. From a desk drawer he produced his wing commander’s hat, the only part of his uniform protected from the dust and consequently reasonably normal. He placed the hat on his head.

With a perfectly straight face he cleared his throat and managed to say in a distinctly nasal twang: “I suppose you thought that was funny, Bendell.”

I stared at his pale face, its colour now barely distinguishable from the new hue of his service uniform. His stalwart attempts to formalise the interview, to give me an almighty rocket, somehow added to the comedy of the situation. Perhaps he expected me to say a curt “no, sir, not at all,” but all I could manage was something along the lines of “well, sir, now you come to mention it…”

I struggled to stifle a spontaneous guffaw. “You’ve caused a hell of a lot of damage, you know, Bendell.” “I’m sorry, sir.” “The air traffic control tower’s bloody well falling apart at the seams, at least six huge double-plate glass windows have been shattered, the locals are going berserk, the camp cat’s probably had a heart attack. Let alone all of this…” he waved a hand around his office. “Even the bloody weather man’s been knocked off his sodding perch. The fellow keeps going on about his barograph.”

“That’s terrible, sir.” I tried to sympathise but in truth I wanted to throw back my head and laugh.

“What the devil went wrong?” he persisted. I attempted to explain.

“*****,” he said.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Somebody will have to pay.”

“I know, sir. Her Majesty, perhaps?”

“It’s not funny,” he said for the second time.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop and seemed at a loss for further words. “You’d better get the hell out of here now,” he said eventually.

“Yes, sir.” I saluted, turned round and as I walked from his office I listened to his parting rant:

“Her Majesty will not be amused, Bendell, I want you to understand that…”

Pike, Richard. The Lightning Boys: True Tales from Pilots of the English Electric Lightning (The Jet Age Series)



Well worth a read for those that like this kind of thing.

Caco

[Sisemen]

“Oh, ****”, cried Biggles.

I’m pretty sure I read that one

[Cacophonix]

“Oh, *f*ck*”, cried Biggles.

I’m pretty sure I read that one

Captain W. E Johns is rolling in his grave Sisemen.

Caco

[Hydromet]

Siseman, IIRC, that's the first line of "Biggles Flies Undone".

[Fox3WheresMyBanana]

I thought it was 'Biggles Cocks It Up'

[Magnus]

"It was the day my grandmother exploded" - Iain Banks, Crow Road.