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- Author: Roelof Steenbeek
- Publisher: Partridge Publishing
- Year: 2014
- Pages: 1000
- ISBN-10: 1482803682
- ISBN-13: 9781482803686
- Format: 15.2 x 22.9 x 5.7 cm, softcover
- Language: English
- SAVE -10% with code: EXTRA
Reviews
Description
To date, I have never piloted a biplane, but for many nights before I had any thought of writing this book, I dreamed I was sitting in the cockpit of a black biplane. Although I could not see the wings, I just somehow knew it was one. There was a tiny half-moon windshield, an instrument panel with some gauges, and a joystick in front of me. I could feel the wind on my face, icy cold in my bones, vibrations and movements of the aircraft through the seat of my pants, and a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. A few nights later, the silhouetted head and shoulders of a young man started to haunt my dreams instead. Every time I dreamed of him, his face became a little clearer, and I eventually saw he was wearing old-fashioned flying goggles and a leather cap: everything was sepia-colored like an old-fashioned photograph or daguerreotype plate. Silent at first, eventually he said, a trifle forlornly, but not bitterly, "Please, ask them not to forget us. What we fought and died for, was it for nothing?"
EXTRA 10 % discount with code: EXTRA
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- Author: Roelof Steenbeek
- Publisher: Partridge Publishing
- Year: 2014
- Pages: 1000
- ISBN-10: 1482803682
- ISBN-13: 9781482803686
- Format: 15.2 x 22.9 x 5.7 cm, softcover
- Language: English English
To date, I have never piloted a biplane, but for many nights before I had any thought of writing this book, I dreamed I was sitting in the cockpit of a black biplane. Although I could not see the wings, I just somehow knew it was one. There was a tiny half-moon windshield, an instrument panel with some gauges, and a joystick in front of me. I could feel the wind on my face, icy cold in my bones, vibrations and movements of the aircraft through the seat of my pants, and a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. A few nights later, the silhouetted head and shoulders of a young man started to haunt my dreams instead. Every time I dreamed of him, his face became a little clearer, and I eventually saw he was wearing old-fashioned flying goggles and a leather cap: everything was sepia-colored like an old-fashioned photograph or daguerreotype plate. Silent at first, eventually he said, a trifle forlornly, but not bitterly, "Please, ask them not to forget us. What we fought and died for, was it for nothing?"
Reviews