I hope you are not too sad about it all any longer, and I’m glad that you have a daughter to comfort you.
I’m staying out here for a while now, writing stories for the ‘New Yorker’ magazine, and possibly a novel. If I come home soon, I’ll call you up.
Yours sincerely,
Roald Dahl55
That letter to Mrs. McDonald is a reminder that the “fictionalised” version of events in Roald’s life is sometimes closer to the truth than the front he maintained in his letters home to his family, which was generally one of the confident entertainer, the provider of gifts, the stoic, unflappable pater familias.
That image was certainly a long way from the reality of his situation in hospital in Alexandria. There, Roald lay concussed and sightless, uncertain of time or surroundings for many days. He told his mother that he was blind for a week, but later admitted that he was not able to see for “much, much longer,” altering the truth, “so as not to alarm her.”56 As he lay in his hospital bed, he also learned that Oakwood, the family house in Bexley, had been virtually destroyed by German bombers and that the tent in Ismailia where his air-force kit—including camera and photographs—was stored had been destroyed in an air raid. It must have seemed to him as if one part of his life was over and an entirely new one had begun.
He left hospital after almost three months to convalesce in Alexandria at the spacious villa of a wealthy English couple, Major Bobby Peel and his wife Dorothy. For several weeks, he tired easily and suffered from severe and prolonged headaches, yet his letters make light of his lack of energy, describing instead how he slept on silk and linen sheets, listened to Beethoven, Brahms and Elgar on the gramophone, and was pampered by Dorothy Peel. As always, in his letters, he focused on the positive.
Roald often claimed that this “monumental bash on the head” had changed his personality in some way and therefore turned him into a writer. Whether or not he actually underwent a psychological change as a result of the trauma is impossible to tell—he certainly believed he emerged from the accident a different person—but it undoubtedly gave him something powerful to write about. The comic chronicler of Dog Samka’s adventures in downtown Dar es Salaam was now working on a much broader canvas.
Roald’s first big decision when he was discharged from hospital was whether to be invalided home, or to stay in Egypt and try to recover sufficiently for him to fly again. He opted for the latter, returning to 80 Squadron to fight in Greece in April 1941. Roald arrived when the Allied forces were already in full retreat. The squadron had been stationed at Elevsis to defend Athens, but the odds against them were enormous: approximately 800 German and 300 Italian planes against a motley force of 192 British and Greek machines—or, as one of Roald’s fellow pilots described it, “all the wops in the world and half the Jerries, versus two men, a boy and a flying hearse.”57 Defeat was inevitable and Roald witnessed the death of many of his comrades including his friend David Coke. He evoked that fatalism in his early short story “Katina.” “The mountains were invisible behind the rain, but I knew they were around us on every side,” he wrote. “I had a feeling they were laughing at us, laughing at the smallness of our numbers and at the hopeless courage of our pilots.”58
Yet there was another side to these grim encounters. “It was truly the most breathless and exhilarating time I have ever had in my life,” Roald would later write in Going Solo. These were also the sentiments he echoed in the brief description of the combat he gave to his family in letters or indeed in telegrams, where the telegraph operator almost always got his name wrong, signing him Ron or Ronald. He flew briefly again in combat over Palestine, before the headaches and blackouts returned and he was pronounced unfit to fly, returning home to England in late summer 1941. “They never recede with time,” he wrote years later of his experiences in battle. “They were so vivid and violent that they remain etched on the memory like something that happened last month.”59
Roald’s pilot log book covering his ten days of aerial combat over Greece in April 1941. It details his three confirmed “kills” as well as the destruction of all the RAF planes there by ground strafing. “No fighters left in Greece,” was his grim conclusion.
Dated September 21st 1940
NLT DAHL
WOODLANDS FARM
AYLESBURY
PROCEEDING TO FIGHTER SQUADRON IN WESTERN DESERT IMMEDIATELY.
ADDRESS R.A.F. CAIRO.
YOU WON’T HEAR MUCH FROM ME SO DON’T WORRY.
LOVE
RONALD DAHL
TELEGRAM TO ASTA
Dated October 14th 1940
NLT ASTA DAHL
WOODLANDS FARM
QUAINTON
MANY HAPPY RETURNS AND LOVE
CRASHED IN DESERT TWO WEEKS AGO.
CAUGHT FIRE BUT ONLY CONCUSSION BROKEN NOSE.
ABSOLUTELY OKAY SOON. ADDRESS FOR
FEW WEEKS ANGLO SWISS HOSPITAL ALEXANDRIA
DON’T EXPECT ANY LETTERS
LOVE TO ALL
ROALD DAHL
TELEGRAM
Dated November ? 1940
NLT DAHL
WAYSIDE EDGE
LUDGERSHALL
BRILL
GOOD PROGRESS SITTING UP READING WRITING.
ANY TIME NOW HOPE LEAVE HOSPITAL FOR CONVALESCENCE
IN TWO OR THREE WEEKS
TWO MONTHS BEFORE FLYING. POOR OAKWOOD.
LOVE
ROALD DAHL
November 20th 1940
2nd/5th Gen. Hospital
Middle East Command
Egypt
The air raids here don’t worry us. The Italians are very bad bomb aimers.
This address is the same as the one you have, but we’re now not allowed to use the previous name or mention the town
Dear Mama
At last I’m allowed to write, but I’m told that it’s got to be a short letter. Yesterday I received eight letters from you and one from Alf and one from Else and one from Asta, dating back from July right up to the last one you wrote in October from the cellar at Oakwood, when Mrs. Creasey arrived in the middle. They’d been all over Egypt and the desert before finally turning up, and are the first I’ve had for two months.
I hope you’re well settled now at Wayside Cottage and that it’s quite safe there. You seem to have had the hell of a time at Oakwood. I expect you’ve written to tell me what’s happened to the house and the pictures and furniture. Did you take the best pictures out of their frame and cart them off. I hope so.
I sent you a telegram yesterday saying that I’d got up for 2 hours and had a bath—so you’ll see I’m making good progress. I arrived here about eight and a half weeks ago, and was lying on my back for 7 weeks doing nothing, then got up gradually, and now I am walking about a bit. When I came in I was a bit of a mess. My eyes didn’t open for a week (although I was always quite conscious). They thought I had a fractured base (skull), but I think the X-ray showed I didn’t. My nose was bashed in, but they’ve got the most marvellous Harley Street specialists out here who’ve joined up for the war as Majors, and the ear, nose and throat man pulled my nose out of the back of my head, and shaped it and now it looks just as before except that it’s a little bent about. That was of course under a general anaesthetic.
My eyes still ache if I read or write much, but they say that they think they’ll go back to normal again, and that I’ll be fit for flying in about 3 months. In between I still have about 6 or more weeks’ sick leave here in Alex when I get out, doing nothing in a marvellous sunny climate, just like an English summer, except that the sun shines every day. We stay with rich people in Alex, who volunteer to take in convalescent officers. But for any letters or telegrams written about 3 weeks from now send to
c/o Barclays Bank Mess
97 Avenue Prince Ibrahim,
Sporting
Alexandria
That’ll always get me at once.
I suppose you want to know how I crashed. Well I’m not allowed to give you any details of what I was doing or how it happened. But it occurred in the night, not very far from the Italian front lines. The plane was on fire and it hit the ground. I was just sufficiently conscious to crawl out in time, having undone my straps, and roll on the ground to put out the fire on my overalls which were alight. I wasn’t burnt much but was bleeding rather badly from the head. Anyway I lay there and waited for the ammunition which was left in my guns to go off. One after the other, well over 1000 rounds exploded and the bullets whistled about seeming to hit everything but me.
I’ve never fainted yet, and I think it was this tendency to remain conscious which saved me from being roasted. Anyway luckily one of our forward patrols saw the blaze, and after some time arrived and picked me up and after much ado I arrived at Mersah Matruh (you’ll see it on the map—on the coast, east of Libya). There I heard a doctor say, ‘Oh he’s an Italian is he.’ (My white flying overalls weren’t very recognisable.) I told him not to be a B.F. and he gave me some morphine.
In about 24 hours’ time I arrived where I am now, living in great luxury with lots of very nice English nursing sisters to look after me. I was in a private room for some time, but now I’m in a big ward with some other blokes, which is more fun. The good ladies of Alex come and visit us and bring us flowers and one Danish one Mrs. Ludwickson has lent me a wireless. The Norwegian colony, consisting of 2 judges who sit on the Mixed Tribunal here, rallied round right from the outset and have been very kind. I believe you’ve heard from Mrs. Dahl, Judge Dahl’s wife, who you used to know at school in Norway. I’ve been told I’ve got to stop now.
By the way, if there’s ever any money due to me, please always cable it to my a/c with Barclays Bank (D.C. & O) Cairo. If there’s any difficulty about getting it out of the country, telegraph me and I’ll arrange it with the Shell Co. here. I’ve got an income tax reclaim form here to sign, but can’t get a suitable witness till I get up.
Lots of love to everyone
Roald
Thank Alf for her offer of a birthday present, but tell her it’s no good. I’ll have it after the war. Don’t bother about Xmas presents.
December 6th 1940
P/O R. Dahl
2nd/5th = Gen. Hospital
(The same hospital)
Dear Mama
I’ve just been told that all troops are allowed to send home a one page letter free which if posted by tomorrow evening will be guaranteed to arrive by Christmas. So here it is.
Merry Christmas to you all.
I’ve just received your telegram saying that you’ve sent me a parcel to R.A.F. Cairo. Many thanks—and I’ll make sure of getting it this time.
I haven’t written to you since my one and only letter some weeks ago, chiefly because the doctors said that it wasn’t good for me. As a matter of fact I’ve been progressing very slowly. As I told you in my telegram I did start getting up, but they soon popped me back to bed again because I got some terrific headaches. A week ago I was moved back into this private room, and I have just completed a whole long 7 days lying flat on my back in semi darkness doing absolutely nothing—not even allowed to lift a finger to wash myself. Well, that’s over, and I’m getting up today (it’s 8 o’clock in the evening actually) and writing this and incidentally feeling fine. Tomorrow I think they are going to give me intravenous saline and pituitary injections and make me drink gallons of water—it’s another stunt to get rid of the headaches. You needn’t be alarmed—there’s nothing very wrong with me; I’ve merely had an extremely serious concussion, they say I certainly can’t fly for about 6 months, and last week were going to invalid me home on the next convoy. But somehow I didn’t want to—once invalided home, I knew I’d never get to flying again, and who wants to be invalided home anyway. When I go I want to go normally.
Anyway instead I shall be going up to a big new hospital in Cairo as soon as I’m up and about (which won’t now be more than about 2 weeks. I’m not pulling your leg) and from there I’ll go straight to Kenya for a long sick leave of some months—3 or 4 months I should say, my brain apparently must have a complete rest, so I’ll probably find some friends with a farm in the Highlands and stay there, and perhaps travel about a bit. By the way, I forgot to tell you that all my belongings, plus my white suitcase were blown up in my tent in the desert some time ago. The only things we found were my cigarette case and gold watch (still going). So I’ve got to start all over again. The only other things I’ve got are my cameras, which luckily I’d left behind. I don’t mind much because I am only too thankful that I wasn’t in the tent at the time.
A photo of Roald in 1941, taken on his way to fly in Palestine after he had been evacuated out of Greece. In reference to the plane crash the previous year when he had suffered severe head injuries, he told his mother: “I’m enclosing another awful photograph of me—just to show you that I’ve still got a nose.”
I don’t think my eyes are affected but I’m not allowed to do any reading yet (11 weeks in bed so far) but I’ve got my little wireless beside my bed. At the moment they are playing Brahms Second Symphony from Jerusalem and it’s very good too. Will notify you by telegram of all my movements.
Happy Christmas and best love to all
Roald (My nose is bent!!)
January 10th 1941
R. Dahl
Pilot officer
8 Rue des Ptolomées
Alexandria
Egypt
Dear Else
This is meant to be a sort of pre-wedding letter, saying good luck and all that sort of thing, although you may well be Mrs. John before it reaches you. You must have bought a lovely trousseau by the sound of it, although I hope you didn’t waste any money on pyjamas; but I suppose they’re necessary these days in case you have to go into an air raid shelter.
Lucky John’s not a fighter pilot or you’d find he wanted to sleep in his parachute, and they’re so cumbersome. Anyway I hope you have a decent honeymoon, and tell John he’s a lucky bugger. I’m arranging for a wedding present but it’ll take some time to reach you I’m afraid—something gold (oo-er!).
‘What do you think it is, Asta?’
‘Dunno, Vaseline I should think.’
‘Silly you are to say that.’
By the way, Thank you, and Asta for your letters. Yes, living my life of luxury, I’m making goodish progress. I never get up till 10.30, and when I feel tired or have a bit of a head I go to bed before dinner. The old brain seems a bit sluggish still. Whereas before I used to play quite a moderate game of bridge, I find that at the moment I can’t remember a single card or even formulate a simple plan for playing a hand. That however, is all only a matter of time so long as I’m careful.
I’ve started to play a tiny bit of golf. There are two lovely courses here with very good grass greens. (What a change from Dar es Salaam.) I drive down with Bobby Peel late in the afternoon and we play a leisurely 6 or 7 holes. Bobby and Teddy between them have 5 cars, 2 Cadillacs, 2 Fiats and a Rolls, so there’s never much difficulty about transport.
Mrs. Peel weighs me regularly and contentedly watches me putting on the two odd stone which I’ve lost. I get masses of invitations from the good people of Alex, but I very seldom go anywhere except an occasional tea, although most of them have beautiful daughters. By the way, whilst I was up in hospital in Cairo I am told by Rhoda Hill, one of the sisters at the Anglo-Swiss that a young Naval fellow called to see me, saying that he knew the family at home; but he left no name or where I could find him. He must certainly have been Ian Patterson, so I shall try to get hold of him by making enquiries with the Navy.
My chief joy still is the gramophone. I play it all day. At this very moment I’m playing the last movement of F
ranck’s D Minor Symphony. Before that I had on Dvorak’s Fourth (not the New World) and as Cesar Franck is just coming to an end I must get up and put on something else. Excuse me –
That’s fine, Beethoven’s Trio in B flat—the Arch-Duke. You’d be surprised—I could now tell immediately any of Beethoven’s nine symphonies if you played me a few bars of one of them, or for that matter any of Brahms, Elgar, Franck, Dvorak, Mendelssohn, etc. I know practically all of them backwards. And although I still couldn’t hum or whistle a single bar of any of them in tune, I can ‘think’ through a symphony with the greatest of ease. But you people who know about music must I think get something extra out of it. For it means nothing to me whether a thing’s in B flat or C sharp; I fail to appreciate a subtle change of key or skilful orchestration; and although I can follow a score for a few seconds, I get left miles behind as soon as it speeds up. In spite of all this, I think I enjoy it more than many.
I remember, years ago hearing Ellen say that Ashley got a funny feeling down his spine whenever he heard Wagner, and what nonsense I thought it must be. But it’s not—I get tickles in the tummy—but not from Wagner, except bits. I get exactly the same sensation from reading Matthew Arnold’s Scholar Gypsy as from listening to Beethoven’s Pastoral.
Maybe it’s nonsense, but anyway I’ve filled up another three pages and if I stop in about a minute or so I shall just be in time to turn over Beethoven’s record.
Give my love to Mama, Alf, Asta, Ellen Ashley, Louis, Meriel, John and Leslie.
My squadron is the famous fighter squadron in Albania; if I can get fit quickly, I’ll be there soon.
Lots of love
Roald
TELEGRAM
FEBRUARY 10TH 1941
DAHL
WAYSIDE COTTAGE
LUDGERSHALL
Love from Boy Page 15
