War

by Roald Dahl

  ‘Why doesn’t someone tell us what to do next?’ somebody else said.

  ‘Because they don’t know,’ another voice said.

  ‘Seriously,’ I said, ‘why don’t we all just take off and fly to Crete? We’ve got full tanks.’

  ‘That’s a bloody good idea,’ David Coke said. ‘Then we can refuel and fly to Egypt. They’ve hardly got any Hurricanes at all in the Desert. These seven would be worth their weight in gold.’

  ‘You know what I think,’ a young man called Dowding said, ‘I think someone wants to be able to say that the brave RAF in Greece fought gallantly to the last pilot and the last plane.’

  I figured that Dowding was probably right. It was either that, or our superiors were so muddle-headed and incompetent that they simply didn’t know what to do with us. I kept thinking about what the Corporal had said to me only a week before when I had first landed in Greece. ‘This is a brand new kite,’ he had said, ‘and it’s cost somebody thousands of hours to build it. And now those silly sods behind their desks in Cairo ’ave sent it out ’ere where it ain’t goin’ to last two minutes!’ It had lasted more than that, but I couldn’t see how it was going to last much longer.

  We sat up on our rocky ridge beside the deep blue sea and occasionally we glanced at the burning tanker. No one had got out of her alive, but there were a number of charred corpses floating in the water. Either the current or the tide was bringing the corpses slowly towards the shore and every half hour or so I looked over my shoulder to see how close they were getting. There were about nine of them and by eleven o’clock they were only fifty yards from the rocks below us.

  Somewhere around midday a large black motor-car came creeping on to our landing field. All of us became suddenly very alert. The car crept slowly over the field as though searching for something, then it turned and headed for the olive grove below us where our planes were parked. We could make out a driver at the wheel and a shadowy figure sitting in the back seat, but we couldn’t see who they were or what they were wearing.

  ‘They might be Germans with submachine-guns,’ somebody said. We realized we were totally unarmed. None of us carried even a revolver.

  ‘What make of car is it?’ David asked.

  We could none of us recognize the make. Someone thought it might be a Mercedes-Benz. All eyes were watching the big black motor-car.

  It pulled up beside the olive grove. We sat in a close group up on our rocky ridge, alert and apprehensive. The back door opened and out stepped a formidable figure in RAF uniform. We were close enough to see him quite clearly. He had a pale orange-coloured moustache and a thick body. ‘My God, it’s the Air Commodore!’ Dowding said, and it was. This man, who had his headquarters in Athens, had been, and indeed still was, in command of all the RAF in Greece. A few weeks ago he had directed the activities of three fighter squadrons and several bomber squadrons, but now we were all he had left. I was surprised he had managed to find out where we were.

  ‘Where the hell is everybody?’ the Air Commodore shouted.

  ‘We’re up here, sir!’ we called back.

  He looked up and saw us. ‘Come down at once!’ he shouted.

  We clambered down and straggled up to him. He was standing beside the motor-car and his fierce pale-blue eyes travelled slowly over our little group. He reached into the car and brought out a thick parcel wrapped in white paper and sealed with red sealing-wax. The parcel was about the size of an average Bible, but it was floppy and bent slightly as he held it in his hands.

  ‘This package’, he said, ‘must be delivered back to Elevsis at once. It is of vital importance. It must not be lost and it must not fall into enemy hands. I want a volunteer to fly there with it immediately.’

  Nobody leapt forward, but that wasn’t because we were afraid of returning to Elevsis. None of us was afraid of anything. We were just fed up with being pushed around.

  Finally I said, ‘I’ll take it.’ I am a compulsive volunteer. I’ll say yes to anything.

  ‘Good man,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘When you land, there’ll be somebody waiting for you. His name is Carter. Ask him his name before you give him the package. Is that clear?’

  Someone said, ‘They’ve just been ground-strafing Elevsis again, sir. We saw them go by. One-O-Nines. Masses of them.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped the Air Commodore. ‘It makes no difference. Now you,’ he said, staring at me with his fierce pale-blue eyes, ‘you’re to deliver this package to Carter right away and don’t fail me.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Carter will be the only person on the place,’ the Air Commodore said. ‘That is if the Germans haven’t got there already. If you see any German planes on the aerodrome, for God’s sake don’t land. Get away at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Where shall I go?’

  ‘Back here. Fly straight back here. What’s your name?’

  ‘Pilot Officer Dahl, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Dahl,’ he said, weighing the package up and down in one hand. ‘This is on no account to fall into enemy hands. Guard it with your life. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, feeling important.

  ‘Fly very low all the way,’ the Air Commodore said, ‘then they won’t spot you. Land quickly, find Carter, give this to him and get the hell out.’ He handed me the package. I wanted very much to know what was in it but I didn’t dare ask.

  ‘If you are shot down on the way, make sure you burn it,’ the Air Commodore said. ‘You’ve got a match on you, I hope?’

  I stared at him. If this was the kind of genius that had been directing our operations, no wonder we were in a mess.

  ‘Burn it,’ I said. ‘Very well, sir.’

  Good old David Coke said, ‘If he’s shot down, sir, I imagine it’ll burn with him.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the Air Commodore said. ‘Now then, when you arrive back here, don’t land. Just circle the field.’ He turned to the others and said, ‘The rest of you will be waiting in your cockpits, and as soon as you see him overhead, you are to taxi out and take off. You’, he said, pointing at me, ‘will join up with them and all of you will fly on to Argos.’

  ‘Where’s that, sir?’

  ‘It’s another fifty miles along the coast,’ the Air Commodore said. ‘You’ll see it on your maps.’

  ‘What happens at Argos, sir?’

  ‘At Argos’, the Air Commodore said, ‘everything has been properly organized to receive you. Your ground crews are there already. So is your Squadron-Leader.’

  ‘Is there an aerodrome at Argos, sir?’ somebody asked.

  ‘It’s a landing strip,’ the Air Commodore said. ‘It’s about a mile from the sea and our navy is standing offshore waiting to take off the troops. Your task will be to give air cover to the navy.’

  ‘There are only seven of us, sir,’ someone said.

  ‘You’ll be doing a vital job,’ the Air Commodore announced, his moustache bristling. ‘You will be responsible for the protection of half the Mediterranean fleet.’

  God help them, I thought.

  The Air Commodore pointed a finger at me. ‘You,’ he said, ‘get cracking! Deliver that parcel and get back here as fast as you can!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I went over to my Hurricane and got in and did up my straps. I put the mysterious package on my lap. On the floor of the cockpit under my legs I had the paper-bag with my belongings, as well as my Log Book. My camera, I remember clearly, was hanging by its strap from my neck. I taxied out and took off. I flew very low and fast, and in eight minutes I had reached Elevsis airfield. I circled the field once, looking for Germans or their planes. The place seemed totally deserted. I glanced at the windsock and banked straight in to land against the wind.

  Just as I came to the end of my landing run, I heard the air-raid sirens wailing somewhere in the distance. I jumped out of my plane with my precious package and lay down in the ditch that surrounded the field. A great swarm of S
tuka dive-bombers came over with their escort of fighters above them, and I watched them as they flew on to Piraeus harbour. At Piraeus they began dive-bombing the ships.

  I got back into my Hurricane and taxied up to the Operations Hut. The small buildings were splattered with bullet marks and the glass in all the windows was shattered. Several of the huts were smouldering.

  I got out of my plane and walked towards the wreckage of huts. There was not a soul in sight. The entire aerodrome was deserted. In the distance I could hear the Stukas diving on to the shipping in Piraeus harbour and I could hear the bombs exploding.

  ‘Is there anybody here?’ I called out.

  I felt very lonely. It was like being the only man on the moon. I stood between the Ops Hut and another small wooden hut alongside. The small hut had grey-blue smoke coming out of its shattered windows. I held the famous package tightly in my right hand.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out. ‘Is there anybody here?’

  Again the silence. Then a figure shimmered into sight beside one of the huts. He was a small middle-aged man wearing a pale-grey suit and he had a trilby hat on his head. He looked absurd standing there in his immaculate clothes amidst all that wreckage.

  ‘I believe that parcel is for me,’ he said.

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked him.

  ‘Carter,’ he said.

  ‘Take it,’ I said. ‘By the way, what’s in it?’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, smiling slightly.

  I took an instant liking to Mr Carter. I knew very well he was going to stay behind when the Germans took over. He was going underground. And then he would probably be caught and tortured and shot through the head.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I said to him. I had to raise my voice to make it heard over the crash of bombs falling on Piraeus harbour.

  He reached out and shook my hand. ‘Please leave at once,’ he said. ‘Your machine is rather conspicuous out there.’

  I returned to the Hurricane and started the engine. From my cockpit I glanced back to where Mr Carter had been standing. I wanted to wave him goodbye, but he had disappeared. I opened the throttle and took off straight from where I was parked. I flew back fast and low to the field at Megara where the other six were waiting for me on the ground with their engines running. When they saw me overhead, they took off one by one and we all joined up in loose formation and flew on to look for this place that was called Argos.

  The Air Commodore had said it was a landing strip. It was in fact the narrowest, bumpiest, shortest little strip of grass any of us had ever been asked to land a plane upon. But we had to get down, so down we went.

  It was now about noon. The Argos landing strip was surrounded by those ever-present olive trees and in among the trees we could see that a whole lot of tents had been put up. Nothing stands out from the air more than a bunch of tents, even when they are tucked away among the olive trees. Oh brother, I thought. How long will it take them to find us here? A few hours at the most. No one should have put up any tents. The ground-crews should have slept under the trees. So should we. Our Squadron-Leader had his own tent and we found him sitting in it behind a trestle table. ‘Here we are,’ we said.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ll be doing a patrol over the fleet this evening.’

  We stood there looking at the Squadron-Leader as he sat behind his trestle table that had no papers on it.

  There is something wrong about this, I told myself. There is no way in the world the Germans are going to allow us to operate our seven aircraft from this place. Our superiors were evidently expecting the worst because deep slit-trenches had been dug amongst the olive trees. But you cannot hide aeroplanes in slit-trenches and you cannot hide tents anywhere, especially tents that are a brilliant shining white.

  ‘How long will it take them to find us here, sir?’ I remember asking.

  The Squadron-Leader passed a hand over his eyes, then rubbed his eye-sockets with his knuckles. ‘Who knows?’ he said.

  ‘They’ll wipe us out by tomorrow,’ I said, greatly daring.

  ‘We can’t run away and leave the army with no air cover,’ the Squadron-Leader said. ‘We must do our best.’

  We all trooped out of the tent feeling not very happy about anything.

  The Argos Fiasco

  When we left the Squadron-Leader’s tent, David and I wandered off together to have a look around the camp. What we were really searching for was something to eat. We had been up since four-thirty that morning and it was now about two in the afternoon. None of us pilots had had anything at all to eat or drink since the night before. We were famished and very thirsty.

  There must have been twenty-five tents scattered around that olive grove, but David and I soon located the mess tent. In the rush to move out of Elevsis during the night, it seemed that somebody had forgotten to bring the food. The local Greeks very quickly got wise to this state of affairs and they were now streaming into the camp bearing vast quantities of black olives and bottles of retsina wine. David and I bought a bucket of olives and two bottles of wine and found a shady patch of grass under a tree where we could sit down to eat and drink. We chose a spot right between our two Hurricanes so that we could keep an eye on them all the time. The number of Greek villagers mooching around was amazing. We must have been the first operational military airfield in history that was open to the public.

  So we sat there, the two of us, in the shade of an olive tree on a lovely warm April afternoon, eating the small black juicy olives and drinking the retsina out of the bottles. From where we sat we could see the whole of Argos Bay, but there was no sign of an evacuation fleet nor of the Royal Navy. There was just one fairly large cargo vessel lying out in the bay and there was a plume of grey smoke rising from her forward hold. We were told that she was yet another fully-laden ammunition ship and that the Germans had been over and bombed her that morning. There was now a fire below decks and everyone was waiting for the enormous explosion.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ David said, ‘sitting in the sun and drinking pine juice and what a terrific cock-up it all is.’

  I said, ‘The Germans know very well that there are seven Hurricanes left in Greece. They intend to find us and they intend to wipe us out. Then they will have the sky all to themselves.’

  ‘Exactly,’ David said. ‘And they’re going to find us very quickly.’

  ‘When they do, this camp will be an inferno,’ I said.

  ‘I shall be in the nearest slit-trench,’ David said.

  It was curiously peaceful sitting there chewing the delicious slightly bitter black olives and spitting out the stones and taking gulps of retsina in between. I kept looking at the ammunition ship out in the bay and waiting for her to blow up.

  ‘I don’t see any army getting into any ships,’ David said. ‘Who are we going to patrol over this evening?’

  ‘Tell me seriously,’ I said, ‘do you think we’ll come out of here alive?’

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘I think we’ll be dead within twenty-four hours. We’ll either cop it in the air or they’ll get us right here on the ground. They’ve got enough planes to totally annihilate us.’

  We were still sitting in the same place at 4.30 p.m. when there was a sudden roar overhead and a single Messerschmitt 110 swept in low over our camp. The One-One-O, as we called it, was a fast twin-engined fighter with a crew of two and with a longer range than the single-engined 109. We stood up to watch him as he banked round over the water of the bay and came back again straight towards us, still flying low. He showed utter contempt for our defences because he knew we had none, and as he flashed over the second time, we could see both the pilot and the rear-gunner peering down at us with their cockpit hoods wide open. A fighter pilot never expects to come face to face with an enemy flier. To him the machine is the enemy. But now it was only the humans that I saw. All of a sudden those two Germans were so close they made my skin prickle. I saw their pale faces turned towards me, each face framed in a blac
k helmet with the goggles pushed up high over the forehead, and for one thousandth of a second I fancied that my eyes looked into the eyes of the pilot.

  That pilot made three workmanlike passes over our camp, then he flew off to the north.

  ‘That’s it!’ David Coke said. ‘That’s done it!’

  Men were standing up all over the camp. They were discussing the consequences of the 110’s visit. It hadn’t taken the Germans long to find us.

  David and I knew exactly what the sequence of events would be from now on. ‘We can work it out,’ I said. ‘It’ll take him roughly half an hour to get back to his base and report our precise whereabouts. It’ll take his squadron another half hour to get ready for take-off. Then another half hour for the whole lot of them to arrive back here and knock the daylights out of us. We can expect to be ground-strafed by a squadron of One-One-Os in an hour and a half’s time, at six o’clock this evening.’

  ‘We could jump them,’ David said. ‘If the seven of us are all airborne and waiting for them directly overhead at six o’clock we could jump them beautifully.’

  The Adjutant came up to us. ‘CO’s orders,’ he said. ‘All seven of you to patrol over the fleet for as long as you can this evening. Take-off is at six o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Six o’clock!’ David cried. ‘But that’s just when they’ll be coming over.’

  ‘Who will be coming over?’ the Adjutant asked.

  ‘A squadron of One-One-Os,’ David said. ‘We’ve worked it all out. They’ll be coming over to strafe us at six o’clock.’

  ‘You seem to have better information than your commanding officer,’ the Adjutant said.

  We tried to explain exactly how we thought things were going to happen, but it was no good. ‘Just stick to your orders,’ the Adjutant said. ‘Our job is to give cover to the ships evacuating our army.’

  ‘What ships?’ David said. ‘And what army?’

  I was only a very junior Pilot Officer, but I was damned if I was going to leave it like that. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘will you please try to get permission for us to take off at say half-past five or even a quarter to six instead of six o’clock. It might make all the difference.’