Love from Boy

by Donald Sturrock

  I had a grand shit in a petrol tin this morning with 3 other blokes doing the same within a space of 4 yards. One of them suddenly leapt up, shrieking, ‘Gor—a fuckin’ scorpion’s got me balls.’ A lengthy examination followed, and after a muttered, ‘Thank shit, it’s only a bloody sand fly,’ he sat down again and resumed his duties.

  I can’t write any more because it’s absolutely dark—for the last 5 minutes I haven’t been able to see what I’m writing, and there’s only a tiny little lamp in the tent.

  Please thank Else for her letter. Hell of a pity about the bracelet—but let’s hope it’ll turn up sometime. If I ever go to Dar es Salaam again we’ll have another made. I think and hope we’ll be back and flying soon—Advanced Training this time—I’m told I collected an Above Average for I.T.S.

  Love to all

  Roald

  Am on guard duty from 11.00 p.m. to 6 a.m. Bugger it.

  May 8th 1940

  4 S.F.T.S.

  Habbaniya

  Iraq

  Dear Mama

  At last I’m able to write to you under fairly normal conditions. I’m sitting in a chair, at a table; and there is no sand in my eyes, ears or mouth. To us, this camp, which a month ago was a pretty bloody uncivilised sort of place, now appears to be the very height of luxury. The beds seem uncommonly soft and sheets dazzlingly white. You no longer find a little heap of sand in the bottom of your mug after you’ve drunk your tea—and last night I wore a set of clean clothes.

  That we should have come to regard Habbaniya in the light of a luxury city is a very excellent and I am told, quite unprecedented thing—but I’m afraid that it will not be so for long. Soon, no doubt we shall once more be so spoilt that we shall be crying out for a drink of whisky, a taxi or a theatre; or a dance and the company of women. But at present we are very thankful for small mercies—and comforts.

  I don’t know how much I may tell you of what happened, but I don’t think that the Censor can object to a bare outline. It is after all common knowledge by now in Baghdad.

  The ancient River Euphrates chose this singularly inopportune moment to flood its banks to an extent previously unheard of, due to the melting of the snows up in Turkey where she has her source. (You can no longer argue that we too have not felt the effects of your cold winter.) As this camp is on the river it was, said the authorities, assuredly in a very dangerous position in spite of the fact that enormous bunds* some 20 feet high have been built all around. It was generally assumed that the whole camp would be 20 feet under water. It was very difficult to imagine so vast a place being completely inundated—but was it not the Euphrates that submerged the proud city of Babylon.

  What to do? Get out quick. So the whole camp, plus every item of equipment, stores, food, planes, chairs, tables, hospitals, dental chairs started a grand trek up on to a huge sand plateau situated on some mountains some 3 miles from the camp. To visualise the magnitude of the operation you’ve got to realise the size of the camp. I don’t know how many people there are here; probably some 4000 British men and about 6000 Iraqis from the civil cantonment, who act as our servants, shopkeepers, labourers, etc.

  Anyway this vast camp was set up. Tents appeared, and we all bundled in. I drove an Albion lorry for 3 days transporting crates of dried fruit, marmalade and ammunition up there. The temp. was well over 100 degrees in the shade and the dust was everywhere.

  The camp itself was many miles in circumference, and you could well walk about in it for an hour without finding the squadron for which you were looking. Beside it were lines of aircraft pegged down in the open on a flat piece of desert, whither they had been hurriedly flown.

  Once installed, we spent our time working in gangs on the bund, reinforcing it with sandbags. I worked every night from 10 p.m. to 6.30 a.m.! Every day there was a dust storm up on the plateau. The sand all around the camp had been churned to powder by the lorries, so that even the lightest wind would raise it in a cloud. This dust and sand is guaranteed to get anyone down, and in a tent and eating in the open—doubly so. There were times when the cookhouses just couldn’t function.

  Then came the old scorpions and tarantulas to add to the excitement. They loved the tents, and many were killed (scorpions, not people). The secret was never to walk about barefoot, and always to look into your blankets before going to bed. Nevertheless several people were bitten. One fellow went to bed with a sand viper—I asked him if it was for want of a more suitable companion, but he swears he didn’t do it on purpose! I killed a 4 ft sand viper on the bund the other evening just as it was approaching Peter Moulding who was sitting down having a rest and a cigarette.

  The net result of our labours was that we beat the river. The night on the bund we saw the water creep up to within 2 feet of the top—lorries were waiting to rush us away if it broke; but it was not to be. Breaches were made in the banks at other points to relieve the pressure and no doubt many wandering Iraqis and Bedouins were drowned, but Habbaniya was saved. And now we’re all moving back and trying to wash ourselves clean. I am told that the river has burst its banks lower down and is flowing across the plain to the Tigris and Baghdad is going to be flooded to buggery.

  I’ve just received a letter from you and one from Asta enclosed. I’ll bet you the Bestes are still in Josefine* quite safe and sound. I’m sure things aren’t so frightfully bad in Oslo. They are only bombing the aerodrome. But I don’t think you’ve much hope of hearing from them for a long time. As for old Finn and all the others—goodness knows. It’s pretty bloody.

  As far as I can see you’re doing too much work, Ellen says so too. You simply must get a maid—and keep her. Why don’t you take that holiday?

  Tell Asta I’ve just told her story about the Mississippi at supper and it lifted the roof off. People spluttered custard all over the place through laughing with their mouths full.

  I must stop to catch the post. They tell me there’s a parcel for me at the P.O. May be my shoes—or even the Christmas Cake and pullover! I’ll let you know next post.

  Lots of love to all

  Roald

  June 8th 1940

  A.T.S.

  4 S.F.T.S.

  Habbaniya

  Iraq

  Dear Mama

  I expect your last letter has been held up somewhere again, as I haven’t heard from you for about 9 days. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to short non-newsy letters from me now, firstly because there is so little news, and secondly because when there is some it seems hardly worth mentioning at the present time. The only news we listen to at the moment is the home news on the wireless. It’s pretty frightful—at the moment anyway—but there’s no point in discussing it. Here as usual the news is just flying (which is going quite O.K.) and the heat, which is not so O.K . . .

  However, I expect it’s better than having to be running in and out of the cellar the whole time, as you’re probably doing. You really must move—and move soon. It’s absolute madness to stay in Bexley. The Germans will probably do their bombing from about 30,000 feet because they are frightened of our defences, and from that height the bombs will be dropped absolutely indiscriminately—they can’t possibly aim accurately at their targets. Tell Alf, Else and Asta to think about it a bit. They won’t be helping Leslie or John by staying. On the contrary, they’ll only be worrying them. And what’s more—I don’t think Sussex is any good really, do you? Somewhere like Wales or Cornwall are the only really safe places. You might all just as well go there as not. Once again, please let me know what you’re doing.

  We had a large snake in the swimming bath last week. About 100 people swam quicker than they had ever done before, and the whole bath was empty of airmen in about 5 secs. The wretched animal was ultimately killed, and bathing continued, but it was very funny while it lasted.

  No more news I’m afraid.

  Lots of love to all

  R
oald

  Dated August 19th 1940

  DAHL

  OAKWOOD

  BEXLEY

  KENT

  ADDRESS R.A.F. ISMAILIA, EGYPT STOP

  PILOT OFFICER NOW PASSED OUT SPECIAL DISTINCTION

  HOPE ALL WELL

  LOVE

  RONALD DAHL [SIC]

  August 28th

  P/O R. Dahl

  Officers Mess

  R.A.F. Station

  Ismailia

  Egypt

  Dear Mama

  Today I sent you a telegram telling you where I am and I hope you got it. Really this is the loveliest (that’s lovely, not lousy!) place I’ve yet seen anywhere in Africa. My views are probably a bit biased after being in Habbaniya for 6 months, but I think that anyone, wherever they come from, couldn’t fail to be impressed. You’ve probably seen on the map that we’re about half way down the Suez Canal—in fact Ismailia (pronounced ISMA-LIA or Ismer-lier) is the home of the Suez Canal Company. It was practically all built by them and is consequently overflowing with French Suez Canal Co. families. There’s a French Club and a larger French bathing place, to both of which all R.A.F. officers are admitted as Honorary Members. The beach is frequented by hordes of the most lovely women I’ve ever seen—and coming after 6 months of terrific abstinence in the desert at Habbaniya it has come as a bit of a shock.

  As I told you in the telegram, I got a ‘Special Distinction’ which is one better than a ‘Distinguished Pass’ and exempts one from taking any exams for promotion. In our reports they have to classify you for ‘Ability to become an officer’ and I, by some extraordinary chance, got the only ‘Exceptional’ on the course.

  I should say at a guess that we’re only spending a very short time here, learning to fly modern type fighters, and shall no doubt be having a crack at the Italians before this reaches you. Hope so anyway. I’ll try to keep you informed telegraphically of my movements.

  You must be having the hell of a time with bombing raids. I do hope you’re all all right—where is Asta? Is she in a London hospital?

  I’m afraid I can’t make this letter half as interesting as it should be, because the censor will only cross everything out, so you’ll have to use your imagination. At the moment anyway, and I’m afraid it will only be very short lived—though well earned—we are having a marvellous time—flying in the mornings, bathing and perhaps dancing in the evenings. The climate is perfect. How we got here I can’t tell you, but it was a marvellous trip. I saw Lake Galilee, Nazareth, and all the lands of the Bible.

  Do look out for yourselves in the raids.

  Love to all

  Roald

  September 10th 1940

  P/O R. Dahl,

  Officers Mess

  R.A.F. Station

  Ismailia

  Egypt

  Dear Mama

  This place Ismailia is indeed a marvellous place.

  . . . Every morning we have been getting up at 5.30 a.m. and started flying at 6 o’clock. At eight we go back to the mess for breakfast. But breakfast in the Officers Mess is a little different to breakfast in the Airmen’s cookhouse. No longer do we have to remember to give our forks and spoons an extra good lick on the last mouthful or to scrape our knives on the edge of the plate to make them easier for us to wash in the communal bucket of water and permanganate of potash. Nor do we have to queue up for the food while some Iraqi cook slops it on to your plate. No, we go back at 8 o’clock to an ordinary breakfast sensibly served and cooked. Stewed fruit, Force, eggs, bacon, kidneys, tomatoes—toast and Coopers Oxford marmalade—what a change.

  Then some more flying until about midday; a drink in the Mess and lunch. After lunch some sleep until half past three in the afternoon. Then we drive down to bathe at Ferry Port. Ferry Port is a large expanse of sand actually on the edge of the Suez Canal, reserved almost exclusively for the employees of the Canal Company, who are of course legion here. British Officers are allowed there too—and I should bloody well think so considering that we’re defending them. The bathing is marvellous. For about ten yards there’s shallow water with a silver sand bottom then it goes sheer down into the Canal proper, where the dredgers have been at work. We bask on the beach for a while, then someone suggests a swim to Sinai . . .

  The weekend before last—our first here—we drove to Alexandria in 2 taxis and had some marvellous champagne parties with all the friends of the 6 people on our course who originally lived there. Once again we bathed (this time in the Mediterranean) and basked in the sun. Last weekend we took taxis to Cairo to have another look at that. A very enjoyable but hectic weekend. I expect I’ll soon be browner than I ever was in Norway with all this ‘basking’ and everyone has already, I should say, recovered nearly all they lost in health at Habbaniya. Yes—Ismailia is a good spot.

  Lots of love to all and thank Asta again for her letter.

  Roald

  CHAPTER 5

  —

  “Don’t worry”

  1940–1942

  In October 1940, on the way to his first day on active service, Roald got lost over the Libyan desert at night, crash-landing his Gloster Gladiator and suffering head injuries so severe that the RAF doctors thought he would never fly again. The crash itself would be the subject of his first piece of published writing, “Shot Down over Libya” (1942), and was an event to which he returned several times, most notably in “Missing: Believed Killed” (1944), “A Piece of Cake” (1942–6), “Lucky Break” (1977), and Going Solo (1986). 80 Squadron’s accident report notes that “Pilot Officer Dahl was ferrying an aircraft from No. 102 Maintenance Unit to this unit, but unfortunately not being used to flying aircraft over the desert he made a forced landing two miles west of Mersah Matruh. He made an unsuccessful forced landing and the aircraft burst into flames. The pilot was badly burned and he was conveyed to an Army Field Ambulance station.”50 Roald’s own accounts of the incident, however, often differed markedly from this record. Sometimes the plane did not crash, but was instead “shot down” by a German fighter. Initially these fictions were necessitated by the needs of Allied wartime propaganda. But the mythology persisted.

  That crash was undoubtedly the key event in Roald’s life. For the first time he tasted mortality. Blinded and trapped in his burning aircraft, he contemplated what seemed to be a certain death. “All I wanted was to go gently off to sleep and to hell with the flames,”51 he wrote. But some sort of life force, a “tendency to remain conscious”52 made him extricate his burning body from its parachute straps, push open the cockpit canopy, and drop out on to the sand beneath. Then the Gladiator’s machine guns started to explode and bullets ricocheted around him. “All I wanted was to get away from the tremendous heat and rest in peace,” he explained later. “The world about me was divided sharply down the middle into two halves. Both these halves were pitch black, but one was scorching hot and the other was not.”53

  Perhaps the most revealing piece of mythmaking associated with the crash involved another airman entirely. Douglas McDonald had flown with Roald from Fouka in a separate airplane and put his Gladiator down safely on the sand, close by the wreckage of Roald’s plane. McDonald comforted his injured comrade through the long cold desert night, while they waited for rescue forces to locate them. It was, as Roald later told his daughter Ophelia, the worst moment of his life.54 Roald, who liked to appear impregnable to the world, found himself supremely vulnerable, being nursed by another pilot and one, moreover, who had not crashed his plane. So, despite the fact that in the earliest versions of the crash McDonald is present in the narrative, he largely disappears from later accounts. Most tellingly, Roald fails to mention him in the first letter he wrote to his mother after the accident. Even for her, perhaps particularly for her, he needed to maintain that façade of strength. Yet, writing to Douglas McDonald’s widow, Barbara, in 1953, eighteen months after her
husband’s death in a plane crash in the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, Roald shone a different light on the situation.

  April 24th

  9 East 62nd Street,

  New York City

  Dear Mrs. McDonald

  It was really very good of you to write to me like you did. I should have written to you first about Douglas, had I known where you were, because I heard the awful news from ‘Mug’ in Nairobi some weeks ago.* It shook me more than almost anything that has happened for a long time, because, although I hadn’t seen him since the war, I always felt a strong personal bond—and also a very deep gratitude—to him.

  I expect he’s told you a little of what happened that evening in the desert when we both came down, and I crashed. But I doubt he explained how really marvellous he was to me, and looked after me and tried to comfort me, and stayed with me out there during a very cold night, and kept me warm. Well, he did. And I shall always remember it most vividly, even some of the things he said (because I was quite conscious) and most of all how, when he ran over and found me not dead, he did a sort of dance of joy in the sand and it was all very wonderful, because after all we were not very far away from the Italians and he had a great many other things to think about.

  I’ll never forget it. I tried to write a little of it in that story ‘A Piece of Cake’. Of course you know that the ‘Peter’ there is Douglas. That appeared originally in the Saturday Evening Post and was read by 12 million people.