"WE'RE going through!" The Commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with
the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a
hurricane, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you, Lieutenant Berg," said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights!
Rev her up to 8500! We're going through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased:
ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He
walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8
auxiliary!" repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3
turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each
other and grinned. "The Old Man'll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of hell!" . . .
"Not so fast! You're driving too fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"
"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed
grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You
know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in
silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate
airways of his mind. "You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It's one of your days. I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw
look you over."
Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. "Remember to get
those overshoes while I'm having my hair done," she said. "I don't need overshoes," said Mitty. She put her mirror
back into her bag. "We've been all through that," she said, getting out of the car. "You're not a young man any longer."
He raced the engine a little. "Why don't you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?" Walter Mitty reached in a
pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had
driven on to a red light, he took them off again. "Pick it up, brother!" snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty
hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past
the hospital on his way to the parking lot.
. . . "It's the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan," said the pretty nurse. "Yes?" said Walter Mitty, removing his
gloves slowly. "Who has the case?" "Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington
from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over." A door opened down a long, cool corridor
and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. "Hello, Mitty," he said. `'We're having the devil's own
time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract.
Tertiary. Wish you'd take a look at him." "Glad to," said Mitty.
In the operating room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr.
Mitty." "I've read your book on streptothricosis," said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. "A brilliant performance, sir."
"Thank you," said Walter Mitty. "Didn't know you were in the States, Mitty," grumbled Remington. "Coals to
Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary." "You are very kind," said Mitty. A huge, complicated
machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go
pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. "The new anesthetizer is giving away!" shouted an intern. "There is no one in the East who
knows how to fix it!" "Quiet, man!" said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going
pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep . He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. "Give me a fountain
pen!" he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the
pen in its place. "That will hold for ten minutes," he said. "Get on with the operation. A nurse hurried over and
whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale. "Coreopsis has set in," said Renshaw nervously. "If you
would take over, Mitty?" Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave,
uncertain faces of the two great specialists. "If you wish," he said. They slipped a white gown on him, he adjusted a
mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .
"Back it up, Mac!! Look out for that Buick!" Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. "Wrong lane, Mac," said the
parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. "Gee. Yeh," muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the
lane marked "Exit Only." "Leave her sit there," said the attendant. "I'll put her away." Mitty got out of the car. "Hey,
better leave the key." "Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it
up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.
They're so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know everything. Once he
had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to
come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him
drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I'll wear my right arm in a sling; they won't
grin at me then. I'll have my right arm in a sling and they'll see I couldn't possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked
at the slush on the sidewalk. "Overshoes," he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.
When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder
what the other thing was his wife had told him to get. She had told him, twice before they set out from their house for
Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to town--he was always getting something wrong. Kleenex, he
thought, Squibb's, razor blades? No. Tooth paste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, Carborundum, initiative and referendum?
He gave it up. But she would remember it. "Where's the what's-its- name?" she would ask. "Don't tell me you forgot
the what's-its-name." A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial.
. . . "Perhaps this will refresh your memory." The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet
figure on the witness stand. "Have you ever seen this before?'' Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly.
"This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80," ho said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge rapped for
order. "You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly. "Objection!"
shouted Mitty's attorney. "We have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that he
wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the fourteenth of July." Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering
attorneys were stilled. "With any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three
hundred feet with my left hand." Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. A woman's scream rose above the
bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty's arms. The District Attorney struck at her
savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point of the chin. "You miserable cur!" . . .
"Puppy biscuit," said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of the misty
courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman who was passing laughed. "He said 'Puppy biscuit,'" she said to her
companion. "That man said 'Puppy biscuit' to himself." Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. & P., not the first
one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. "I want some biscuit for small, young dogs," he said to the clerk.
"Any special brand, sir?" The greatest pistol shot in the world thought a moment. "It says 'Puppies Bark for It' on the
box," said Walter Mitty.
His wife would be through at the hairdresser's in fifteen minutes' Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had
trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it. She didn't like to get to the hotel first, she would want him to be
there waiting for her as usual. He found a big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put the overshoes and
the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy of Liberty and sank down into the chair. "Can
Germany Conquer the World Through the Air?" Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes and of ruined
. . . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him
through tousled hair. "Get him to bed," he said wearily, "with the others. I'll fly alone." "But you can't, sir," said the
sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von
Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier." "Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump," said Mitty. "I'm going
over. Spot of brandy?" He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the
dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. "A bit of a near
thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly. 'The box barrage is closing in," said the sergeant. "We only live once, Sergeant,"
said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting smile. "Or do we?" He poured another brandy and tossed it off. "I never see a man
could hold his brandy like you, sir," said the sergeant. "Begging your pardon, sir." Captain Mitty stood up and strapped
on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. "It's forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last
brandy. "After all," he said softly, "what isn't?" The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of
machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter
Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "Aupres de Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant.
"Cheerio!" he said. . . .
Something struck his shoulder. "I've been looking all over this hotel for you," said Mrs. Mitty. "Why do you have to
hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find you?" "Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely. "What?" Mrs.
Mitty said. "Did you get the what's-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty.
"Couldn't you have put them on in the store?" 'I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am
sometimes thinking?" She looked at him. "I'm going to take your temperature when I get you home," she said.
They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was
two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, "Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won't
be a minute." She was more than a minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it. He
stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . . He put his shoulders back and his heels together. "To hell with
the handkerchief," said Waker Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with
that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful,
Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
Thurber, James. "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty." Literary Selections. Compiled by J. Massengill. 18 June 2005. http://coastalbend.home.att.net/lit