#1
Hi all. I had to write a story in Ernest Hemingway's style for an english assignment. I finished the rough draft, and I was wondering if anyone would care to proofread it for me. It's about a bomber pilot in WWII. Here's the story:

The bright light hurt his eyes. He tried to roll over and shut it out, but he felt something turn him back over. He heard a far-off voice saying “get up Lieutenant, mission today, briefing is at 0600.” He slowly slipped back into a semi-conscious state, but was jarred awake by a loud crash. Someone else had tipped over their cot, and had woken everyone in the crowded Nissen hut. As he rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes and got dressed, he could see the strain on the faces of the men around him. No one said anything. They all just stared off into oblivion as they prepared themselves for the day ahead.
Later, as he stood waiting in the chow line, he wondered if today would be the day. He made his way through the line without even paying attention to what was being served. It was all the same anyway. He found an empty spot at a table and sat down to eat. Powdered eggs and cardboard cereal again. He ate in silence, listening to the hushed conversations of the men around him. Just like every day. He glanced up at the large clock hanging on the wall. 15 Minutes. 15 Minutes until he found out whether he would live or die today. A spot opened up next to him, and another man quickly took it.
He looked over to see a face he didn’t recognize. That was unusual for him. He had been here so long he thought he knew just about everybody. This guy must be new. The other man looked up from his eggs and said “ I think I’m assigned to your crew today.”
He grunted an acknowledgement.
“Where do you think they’ll send us today?”
“Somewhere.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“I’m hoping for somewhere easy, like France.”
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
Someone a table over announced “briefing time.” The mess hall quickly cleared. He joined the crowd and walked outside. The weather in England was always horrible, but today was especially bad. The mud sucked at his boots as he walked across to the briefing hut, and the rain stung his exposed face.
He took a seat in the middle of the hut. Someone handed him a pencil, and he brought out his clipboard. The spool of red yarn on the side of the covered map used to mark the flight route moved upward as it was pulled out. Today it was jammed up to the ceiling. The briefing officer appeared at the front of the room. After going through the usual weather ( “cloudy, but it should clear up” ) and AAA ( “it should be pretty light, don’t worry about it” ) predictions, it was time to reveal the target. Without any ceremony whatsoever, the map was uncovered. Berlin. Today was the day. It had to be. The rest of the briefing was a blur. As he and the other airmen made their way to the tarmac, he couldn’t keep his thoughts focused.
At the hardstand, he met up with the rest of today’s crew. The man from the mess hall was there. He had flown with at least three of the other men. He didn’t remember their names. The others were apparently recent transfers from another squadron. Mess Hall would be his copilot. He and Mess Hall walked around the aircraft to make their preflight check. The crew then boarded the aircraft. In the cockpit, they went over the checklist. Everything was ready. They started the bomber’s four 1,200 horsepower engines. They taxied out to the runway. They waited for the signal from the tower. A green flare. He pushed the throttles forward and released the brakes. In 30 seconds they were airborne.
They climbed up to altitude and broke through the perpetual cloud layer into clear blue skies. A few minutes later the navigator informed them that they were at the rally point. He and Mess Hall scanned the sky around the aircraft for the rest of the squadron. He spotted them about a mile away, and moved over to join the formation. They took their position in the bottom three of the defensive box formation. He decided to take a nap, and turned control of the aircraft over to Mess Hall.
He awoke to Mess Hall’s prodding- they were over enemy territory. He suddenly became fully alert. He took back control of the aircraft, and told the crew over the intercom to test fire their guns. The aircraft vibrated as the gunners fired off short bursts. Then, it was back to more waiting.
Then, it came. One of the crewmen from the high squadron called out “bogeys, two o-clock low.” He looked out and saw several black specks off to the right. He counted twenty-three of them. A few seconds later his fears were confirmed. The top turret gunner reported “bandits, one o-clock level.” The German fighters swept in fast, guns blinking, attacking from directly ahead of the formation. Several crews reported taking damage. One bomber dropped out of formation, its entire right wing a mass of flame. The fighters had been focusing on the high squadron. The came around and set up for another pass at the bombers.
This time it was the low squadron’s turn. He saw the fighter lining itself up on their aircraft. He wished he had a gun, but he was helpless. He watched the dot grow larger. He saw the lights blinking on the fighter’s wings and nose. He felt the aircraft shudder as the bullets hit home. He looked to his right. Mess Hall was screaming. He had no left leg below the knee. The radio operator reported that the left wing was on fire.
He had a decision to make. He could try to nurse the bomber home, or they could all bail out and probably be captured. Then his mind was made up for him. Another fighter scored hits all along the right wing. Both engines on that side stopped working. He ordered the crew to bail out. He told Mess hall to get out, that he would follow. Mess hall protested “No. I can’t move with my leg. I’ll try to limp her home.”
He answered “Forget it. Get out of the plane now. That’s an order.”
Mess hall still protested “I can’t move.”
He then got up out of his seat, and grabbed Mess hall under the arms. He picked him up and forcibly dragged him back to the escape hatch. He dropped him out of the hatch, and prepared to follow. Just then, the bomber’s left fuel tanks exploded. He was thrown back away from the hatch, and then was pinned to the inside of the aircraft. He tried to move, but the centrifugal force of the spinning B-17 was too strong. He gave up, and prepared himself to die.
After falling for several seconds, the aircraft exploded violently. He found himself thrown clear of the wreckage. It took a few seconds to gather his wits, and then he pulled his ripcord. He was jerked upright by the parachute, and began a slow descent to the ground thousands of feet below. He landed in a small clearing. Before he could even get up, he was surrounded by German soldiers. He was captured. After several months of interrogations and living in a prison camp, the news came that the war was over. He and his fellow prisoners were picked up and flown home by the end of the week.


So, if you feel like it, could you please read through this and tell me what you think? (and let me aknow about any corrections I should make)

Thanks in advance.
Peace n' love
I understand about indecision, but I don't care if I get behind. People living in competition, all I want is to have my peace of mind- Boston

CLASS OF 2008!!!!!!!

Member of UG's Christian Guitarists
Last edited by Jaypack44 at Jun 2, 2008,
#4
I didn't read it, sorry.
tl;dr.
But the one piece of advice I can give you, is if you're writing in Hemingway's style, there is one thing you need to always do.
Short, brief and to the point. Everything.
Don't ever use complex, excessively descriptive or "big" words in anything you write that your average 5th or 6th grader couldn't understand..
This was his writing style that he was and always has been noted and remembered for.
#5
Quote by Jaypack44
Hi all. I had to write a story in Ernest Hemingway's style for an english assignment. I finished the rough draft, and I was wondering if anyone would care to proofread it for me. It's about a bomber pilot in WWII. Here's the story:

The bright light hurt his eyes. He tried to roll over and shut it out, but he felt something turn him back over. He heard a far-off voice saying [new line for speech]Get up Lieutenant, mission today, briefing is at 0600.” He slowly slipped back into a semi-conscious state, but was jarred awake by a loud crash. Someone else had tipped over their cot, and had woken everyone in the crowded Nissen hut. As he rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes and got dressed, he could see the strain on the faces of the men around him. No one said anything. They all just stared off into oblivion as they prepared themselves for the day ahead.
Later, as he stood waiting in the chow line, he wondered if today would be the day. He made his way through the line without even paying attention to what was being served. It was all the same anyway. He found an empty spot at a table and sat down to eat. Powdered eggs and cardboard cereal again. He ate in silence, listening to the hushed conversations of the men around him. Just like every day. He glanced up at the large clock hanging on the wall. 15 minutes. 15 minutes until he found out whether he would live or die today. A spot opened up next to him, and another man quickly took it.
He looked over to see a face he didn’t recognize. That was unusual for him. He had been here so long he thought he knew just about everybody. This guy must be new. The other man looked up from his eggs and said [new line]no spaceI think I’m assigned to your crew today.”
He grunted an acknowledgment.
“Where do you think they’ll send us today?”
“Somewhere.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“I’m hoping for somewhere easy, like France.”
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
Someone a table over announced:[new line]Briefing time.” The mess hall quickly cleared. He joined the crowd and walked outside. The weather in England was always horrible, but today was especially bad. The mud sucked at his boots as he walked across to the briefing hut, and the rain stung his exposed face.
He took a seat in the middle of the hut. Someone handed him a pencil, and he brought out his clipboard. The spool of red yarn on the side of the covered map used to mark the flight route moved upward as it was pulled out. Today it was jammed up to the ceiling. The briefing officer appeared at the front of the room. After going through the usual weather ( “Cloudy, but it should clear up” ) and AAA ( “It should be pretty light, don’t worry about it” ) predictions, it was time to reveal the target. Without any ceremony whatsoever, the map was uncovered. Berlin. Today was the day. It had to be. The rest of the briefing was a blur. As he and the other airmen made their way to the tarmac, he couldn’t keep his thoughts focused.
At the hardstand, he met up with the rest of today’s crew. The man from the mess hall was there. He had flown with at least three of the other men. He didn’t remember their names. The others were apparently recent transfers from another squadron. Mess Hall would be his copilot. He and Mess Hall walked around the aircraft to make their preflight check. The crew then boarded the aircraft. In the cockpit, they went over the checklist. Everything was ready. They started the bomber’s four 1,200 horsepower engines. They taxied out to the runway. They waited for the signal from the tower. A green flare. He pushed the throttles forward and released the brakes. In 30 seconds they were airborne.
They climbed up to altitude and broke through the perpetual cloud layer into clear blue skies. A few minutes later the navigator informed them that they were at the rally point. He and Mess Hall scanned the sky around the aircraft for the rest of the squadron. He spotted them about a mile away, and moved over to join the formation. They took their position in the bottom three of the defensive box formation. He decided to take a nap, and turned control of the aircraft over to Mess Hall.
He awoke to Mess Hall’s prodding; they were over enemy territory. He suddenly became fully alert. He took back control of the aircraft, and told the crew over the intercom to test fire their guns. The aircraft vibrated as the gunners fired off short bursts. Then, it was back to more waiting.
Then, it came. One of the crewmen from the high squadron called out [new line]Bogeys, two o-clock low.” He looked out and saw several black specks off to the right. He counted twenty-three of them. A few seconds later his fears were confirmed. The top turret gunner reported “bandits, one o-clock level.” The German fighters swept in fast, guns blinking, attacking from directly ahead of the formation. Several crews reported taking damage. One bomber dropped out of formation, its entire right wing a mass of flame. The fighters had been focusing on the high squadron. The came around and set up for another pass at the bombers.
This time it was the low squadron’s turn. He saw the fighter lining itself up on their aircraft. He wished he had a gun, but he was helpless. He watched the dot grow larger. He saw the lights blinking on the fighter’s wings and nose. He felt the aircraft shudder as the bullets hit home. He looked to his right. Mess Hall was screaming. He had no left leg below the knee. The radio operator reported that the left wing was on fire.
He had a decision to make. He could try to nurse the bomber home, or they could all bail out and probably be captured. Then his mind was made up for him. Another fighter scored hits all along the right wing. Both engines on that side stopped working. He ordered the crew to bail out. He told Mess hall to get out, that he would follow. Mess hall protested “No. I can’t move with my leg. I’ll try to limp her home.”
He answered “Forget it. Get out of the plane now. That’s an order.”
Mess hall still protested “I can’t move.”
He then got up out of his seat, and grabbed Mess hall under the arms. He picked him up and forcibly dragged him back to the escape hatch. He dropped him out of the hatch, and prepared to follow. Just then, the bomber’s left fuel tanks exploded. He was thrown back away from the hatch, and then was pinned to the inside of the aircraft. He tried to move, but the centrifugal force of the spinning B-17 was too strong. He gave up, and prepared himself to die.
After falling for several seconds, the aircraft exploded violently. He found himself thrown clear of the wreckage. It took a few seconds to gather his wits, and then he pulled his ripcord. He was jerked upright by the parachute, and began a slow descent to the ground thousands of feet below. He landed in a small clearing. Before he could even get up, he was surrounded by German soldiers. He was captured. After several months of interrogations and living in a prison camp, the news came that the war was over. He and his fellow prisoners were picked up and flown home by the end of the week.


So, if you feel like it, could you please read through this and tell me what you think? (and let me aknow about any corrections I should make)

Thanks in advance.


Cool. Only one spelling mistake, and though I couldn't be bothered to point out each time, you just need to capitalise the first letter of any speech sentence, and start a new (indented) line each time. I wish I could do this for a living.
#6
Thanks for those corrections. I'll probably extend the ending a little.
Peace n' love
I understand about indecision, but I don't care if I get behind. People living in competition, all I want is to have my peace of mind- Boston

CLASS OF 2008!!!!!!!

Member of UG's Christian Guitarists
#7
Give the man a name. You've got the nameless dialogue and the concise sentences, but you can't use "he" 485 times in your paper. Vary it up.
Mmmm, coffee


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