It was undoubtedly Roald’s experiences as a wartime flyer that finally made him into a writer. Right from the beginning, swooping over the Kenyan bush, the sense of being alone and free in an unfamiliar element stimulated his sense of the mystical. The sky became an alternative world: a place of tranquility and gentle beauty that could be magical, transformative, even redemptive. Most of his early adult stories are profoundly connected to this spiritual dimension of flying, and it is a feature of much of his children’s fiction. In his final book, The Minpins, a small boy rides on the back of a swan, flying “in a magical world of silence, swooping and gliding over the dark world below, where all the earthly people were fast asleep in their beds.”47 Similarly, in James and the Giant Peach, the child protagonist stands at night on the surface of the giant fruit as it flies across the Atlantic. Contemplating the heavens, James is filled with a similar sense of wonder: “The peach was a soft, stealthy traveller, making no noise at all as it floated along. And several times during that long silent night ride high up over the middle of the ocean in moonlight, James and his friends saw things that no-one had seen before.”48
His training began in the idyllic surroundings of Nairobi in Kenya. Soon he was flying over the bush and exploring the Rift Valley. He delighted in the RAF lifestyle and was thrilled to have left the humid world of sundowners and expatriate life on the coast behind him. The final stages of his training however took place in the remote desert air base of Habbaniya in Iraq, some sixty miles from Baghdad. Its many buildings included churches, a cinema, a dental hospital, a swimming pool, and a mineral water factory. Writing to his mother, Dahl praised the good food, including fresh fish from the River Tigris, and the central heating in the billets, but later he would recall it as “an abominable, unhealthy, desolate place . . . a vast assemblage of hangars and Nissen huts and brick bungalows set slap in the middle of a boiling desert on the banks of the muddy Euphrates river miles from anywhere.”49 Roald was one of the top trainees on his training course and also one of the few who occasionally ventured out, visiting Baghdad to play poker and haggle in the marketplace for gifts, and driving to see the ruins of Babylon.
Roald with his friend Alec “Filthy” Leuchars while completing his flying training at RAF Habbaniya in Iraq, 1940. Roald would later describe Habbaniya as possessing “the worst climate in the world,” where the trainees lived “only for the day we will be leaving.”
All the while, he continued to worry about the welfare of his mother and sisters. The “phoney war” that followed the declaration of war in September 1939 had continued through the winter, and despite Roald’s attempts to persuade his mother to move to Tenby, Sofie Magdalene had stubbornly refused to budge. Bexley lay close to two potential bombing targets: Woolwich Arsenal and the Vickers Armament works in nearby Crayford. Roald knew that Oakwood, the family house, would almost certainly be hit by any German air raid. He was also concerned that his mother’s status as an alien might make life difficult for her—particularly when Norway was invaded by the Germans in April 1940. But from 4,500 miles away he was powerless to do anything but cajole, hector, and browbeat.
His chronicles of the dusty tedium of life at Habbaniya make vivid reading, as does his description of what happened when the Euphrates flooded and the entire station had to be rebuilt three miles away as a tented encampment atop a sand mound. The scorpions, sand vipers, and incessant sandstorms brought out the stoic in his personality and made him reflect on the good things of life. He had little inkling that far greater travails lay ahead for him.
[November 1939]
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Dear Mama
. . . Well, I drove up from Dar es Salaam on Tuesday Wed and Thursday. And it really was marvellous fun . . .
. . . Left Korogwe at 8am Wednesday (by the way Dar to Korogwe was 300 miles) and had the most lovely journey right up into the mountains. The road climbed to about 7000 feet, marvellous scenery; but after I’d gone about 100 miles it started to rain like hell, and miles away from anywhere the car decided it couldn’t get through the muddy road. It slithered from side to side and ultimately finished up in the undergrowth. After what seemed hours some wandering natives came along & helped to get it out, none the worse for wear.
At 3pm I sighted Kilimanjaro looking simply marvellous with its huge snowcapped peak, and 2 hours later I arrived at Moshi, which is a town literally at the foot of Kilimanjaro—marvellous place, with air just like that of the mountains in Norway. I stayed at the Lion Cub Hotel and left again next morning for Arusha. This bit was one of the most interesting parts of the trip because I came into the Masai country. You probably know all about these natives which are quite untamable and still walk about with paint and mud on their faces and hair and bows & arrows and spears. They are great fellows for hunting lion, and very few of the men stand under 6 foot 2˝. I stopped and talked—as best I could because they don’t speak Swahili—to some of them on the road. One had the most lovely bow and arrows I’ve ever seen. It was so tight I couldn’t stretch it more than 2 or 3 inches, but at my request, and for a cigarette, he shot an arrow into a small tree literally 60 or 70 yards away. He said he killed a lion last month. Arrived at Arusha at about mid-day, and went straight on to Nairobi where I arrived at about 6.30pm. Saw lots of game on or just beside the road all along the way. Giraffe, rhino, zebra, antelope and thousands of lovely little buck. I took some photos, including one of Giraffe & will send them by next letter.
The next day—Friday, I reported at the R.A.F., and immediately became an aircraftman, we’ve been issued with uniforms—blue & 2 khaki, socks, boots, shirts, towels—everything. I live in a barrack with 18 other fellows, who seem very pleasant indeed, and we start flying on Monday, and attend a lot of classes about flying, Morse code and all that sort of thing.
I can’t tell you much more yet because these letters are carefully censored and it would probably only be crossed out any way, but it looks as though it’s going to be very good fun. No more nonsense with boys doing everything for you; you wash your own knives & forks & mugs which you own, call everyone sir, and in short lead a life which I think will make me extremely fit and be thoroughly good for the soul . . .
Now it’s Monday—I couldn’t get this off yesterday. Great fun today—did my first flying with extremely pleasant instructor . . .
Must go and polish my kit now.
Lots of love to all
Roald
December 4th 1939
Monday
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Kenya
Dear Mama
. . . I’m having a lovely time; have never enjoyed myself so much. I’ve been sworn in to the R.A.F. proper and am definitely in it now until the end of the war. My rank—a Leading Aircraftman, with every opportunity of becoming a pilot officer in a few months if I don’t make a B.F. [Bloody Fool] of myself . . . The flying is grand and our instructors are extremely pleasant and proficient. With any luck I’ll be flying solo by the end of this week.
These details are rather meagre, but I can’t say any more. We never wear ordinary clothes, except for games. My dinner jacket and tails and nearly all my clothes are stowed away in a camphorwood chest (moth proof) which I had made before I left Dar. If we go out before 4.30pm (Wednesday is a half day) we wear a Khaki RAF uniform. After 4.30pm wherever we are, be it walking, talking in a club or dancing in a hotel we must wear the RAF blue uniform with a little blue cap on the side of the head—you know it.
. . . I don’t think there’s any more news. Hope everyone’s O.K.—for all we know I might be in England before 1940 finishes, but that’s a bit optimistic. Thank goodness the bombing hasn’t started yet, but when it does, you’ve all got to shoot away to Wales without wasting any time.
By the way, will you please send my next income instalment (if any!) to my account Barclays Bank Nairobi. I must go to bed—it’s only 9 o’clock, but late nights just don’t work with this life.
Lots of love to all
Roald
Herewith some photos of my trip from Dar to Nairobi, see backsides for comments.
December 11th 1939
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Dear Mama
. . . You needn’t address my letters Aircraftman . . . and anyway that’s the wrong title because I’m a Leading Aircraftman now! The flying’s going fine, it really is great fun. I can just about manage a plane for elementary things such as taking off, cruising around, climbing turning and landing. The landing part of it was jolly difficult, largely I think because there’s always such a hell of a wind blowing across the aerodrome. It’s in a great flat plain, and you’ve only got to look over the fence a bit and you see all sorts of things wandering around—wildebeest, zebra, buck etc. Also the fact that one is 5½ thousand feet up before one starts doesn’t help matters. We’re starting to fly at 6.15am now in order to avoid the wind.
. . . I’m trying to write this letter in the Naafi* when there are about 100 aircraftmen drinking and making merry, playing the piano and singing some very beautiful songs, and it’s not very easy, so I think I’d better stop.
Anyway, I want to drink and sing too.
Lots of love to all
Roald
December 18th 1939
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Dear Mama
. . . Well, everything here is also going very smoothly. I did my first solo flight some days ago and now go up alone for longish periods every day. I’ve just learnt to loop the loop and spin and the next thing we’ve got to do is flying upside down, which isn’t quite so funny. But it’s all marvellous fun. Nairobi looks very small and funny from the air; it’s in the middle of a huge plain on which you can see all sorts of weird animals roaming, and if it’s not too cloudy you can see Mt. Kilimanjaro on one side and Mt. Kenya on the other—a marvellous sight. The peaks of both are covered in snow the whole time—even out here.
I’m afraid there’s absolutely no news—this is just to say that I’m still here and everything’s fine and it’s bloody cold at 5.30am in the mornings and dammed hot at midday and I’m tired and I’m going to bed although it’s only 8.30. Never in my life have I continually gone to bed so early and got up so early as we do these days; I’m sure it’s very good for one . . .
Sorry this is such a short letter.
Lots of love to all
Roald
I’m writing to Bestemama tomorrow.
January 6th 1940
Saturday
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Dear Mama
I’m afraid that I haven’t written to you for years—not since my Xmas telegram—if you call that writing.
Anyway, what with Christmas and New Year there’s been quite a lot to do. At Christmas I had a great 4 day holiday: stayed in luxury at a marvellous farm house just outside Nairobi with two old ladies and a fellow in our flight called Alec Leuchars (who’s a friend of theirs). Alec used to be in Dar es Salaam with me as Imperial Airways man. George, who went to Mombasa lent us his car, and we went to Brackenhurst (7500 ft) every day to play golf and dance. Nothing very much happened but it was very enjoyable and extremely restful . . .
On New Year’s Eve we had the best party that I’ve had in East Africa—and that’s saying something. I went with a fairly large party to the Muthaiga Club whose annual New Year’s party is famous. I got special permission to wear a dinner jacket, which was in itself a bit of a relief, and after polishing off about a bottle of Pol Roger 1926, I didn’t remember very much else about the party—not in detail anyway. I remember dancing around the most enormous bonfire on Muthaiga Golf Course at midnight, and kissing all the unfortunates who came within reach. The next thing I remember was ordering breakfast at 7 a.m., and then going home to bed—only to get up again at 9 a.m. to play in a golf competition, which, believe it or not, I won. In fact I won this very smart 40/- fountain pen with which I’m writing this letter, and which, in my opinion makes my writing look a little less spidery than usual.
And now we’re flying again, and as far as I can see everything is going O.K. I was the first in our batch to do the more advanced solo aerobatics such as slow rolls and inverted gliding—and it’s bloody good fun. (We always wear parachutes for that.)
I’m not allowed to tell you where we’re going or when we’re going, but in a very few weeks’ time we’ll be on the move.
I seem to remember that either Alf, Else or Asta knew some people in Cairo. I may be wrong, but if they or anyone else you know does, you might let me and them know, because it would be useful. This doesn’t mean that we are actually destined for Cairo, because we are NOT . . .
There’s no more news. The weather here is a very pleasant change from the coast, and I was told the other day that I was looking really fit for the first time since I’d been in Africa. (They only sell beer at the canteen—no whiskey!)
Lots of love to all
Roald
January 29th
P.O. Box 1071
Nairobi
Dear Mama
The time is now drawing very near and we’re all feeling fairly excited about leaving this country. All our exams are finished and so now all we do is to fly the whole time. Yesterday I had a great time. I flew someone up to Nakuru about 90 miles, dropped them there and went on to a place called Eldoret, another 100 miles or so. It’s a grand country to fly over, because the scenery is so interesting. Escarpment going into the Rift Valley is amazing. You fly along merrily over woods, fields and native villages and things when suddenly you see below you what is little less than a bloody great cliff about 2000 feet high, and the whole country in front of you suddenly assumes a level of 2000 feet less than it was before. This Rift Valley, which you’ve no doubt heard of in your geography lessons, is full of extinct volcanoes with huge craters, and lakes and flocks of pink flamingos and giraffes and ostriches and many other things which force you to take your eye off the compass too long and lose your bearings. I’ve seen quite a lot of Africa already; it really is marvellous fun.
Else keeps asking what sort of machines we are flying but I haven’t mentioned any names because I don’t think I’d be allowed to. Anyway up to now we’ve only been flying fairly small trainers, but as soon as we arrive at our next destination we get straight on to bigger and more serious stuff. Whether it be bombers or fighters. If we get any choice, which I believe we do, I shall choose fighters straight away . . .
We’ve had rather a tough week. Friday we ‘held an airman’s ball’ in our hangar, at which about 200 airmen and their molls participated. We got a bit drunk and I went to bed in my shoes and socks and a shirt—at least that’s what I woke up in. The others in here seemed to think it was very funny but I didn’t feel in any mood to laugh . . .
I haven’t got the cake or the pullover yet! But I’m leaving instructions for it to be forwarded—so by the time I get it that cake will have done a bit of travelling.
Lots of love to all
Roald
February 20th 1940
Tuesday
Address: L.A.C. Dahl
774022 (!)
Pupils Squadron
4 F.T.S.
Habbaniya
Iraq
Dear Mama,
Well here we are in Iraq. We flew from where you got my last letter and arrived 2 days ago. On the journey we called in at the most remote places in Palestine that you could ever imagine—a small aerodrome in a vast desert with perhaps a pumping station for the Iraq petrol pipeline—an icy cold wind blowing, and a group of incredible Bedouin folks all in about 6 huge sheepskin coats and furry hats. Altogether we saw a lot of country but it was mostly sand. The river Jordan looked picturesque and so did one or two of the oases, but otherwise, as I have said before, it was just sand; and for that matter it still is!
This place is miles and miles from anywhere—it is literally IN THE DESERT. Sixty miles away is Baghdad, but, except for an exceptional weekend, no one ever gets there—I expect we’ll go sometime. On the other hand it is a rather marvellous place—an enormous R.A.F. camp—so enormous that you could not possibly visualise it. Churches, cinema, hospitals, mineral water factory, a street of shops, and hangar upon hangar and billet upon billet; all these things there are, but women do not come this way, so amongst numerous other things, they, during the next 4 or 5 months will have to be completely forgotten. But that will not be difficult because we are working and flying so hard.
Lake Habbaniya is very close, and the River Euphrates wends its very windy way past us only a few hundred yards distant. Otherwise there is sand all around us; in one direction it is flat sand, and in the other it’s a curious mountainy sort, and when the wind blows as it invariably seems to at this time of the year you breathe this sand in a rough proportion of 50/50 with the air. Then, so they say, you get Gyppy Tummy and spend the next 3 days on the lavatory seat hoping that you haven’t got dysentery—you usually haven’t! There’s hardly any malaria, but there’s sand fly fever which has almost exactly the same effect—high temp. for 3 or 4 days and 8 days convalescence. They say one is bound to get sand fly fever because no mosquito nets are small enough to keep out the bloody little sand flies. Otherwise at the moment, the climate is lovely because it is meant to be springtime. Icy cold in the mornings, and warm in the daytime. In a month or so the summer comes along and it will be 120/130 degrees in the shade! Deserts, they say, get very very hot.
Because of these inconveniences, they have built here one of the finest R.A.F. Stations in the world; up to date and beautifully equipped. Excellent sleeping quarters and good food; marvellous canteens and Naafis, tennis, squash, cricket, rugger, soccer, hockey, and golf of a sort! A good swimming bath . . . It appears that we’ll be stuck here for 4/5 months, after which time, with luck we should be drafted to a squadron with a commission. We should get our wings fairly soon. By that time I should imagine that we shall be pining for a bit of civilisation and a little less sand.
So much for Habbaniya. We had 4 days in Cairo and had the hell of a time from which we are only just recovering. We had unfortunately to stay in a large R.A.F. camp outside the town, but we went in each day. Wine, women and song were the order of the day or rather of the night, and by day we scrambled up the pyramids, gaped at the Sphinx, rode camels from place to place, and galloped about the desert on frisky Arab steeds (I did not fall off). We saw King Tutankhamen’s treasures in the museum and King Farouk driving through the streets. They were all cleared at his approach, and he passed at 55 mph surrounded by men and motorbikes.
Then we called on your old friend Dr. Omar Khairat, who gave us a very cordial welcome. Four of us Leading Aircraftmen were invited to dinner at his brother’s house where the most incredible orgy took place. Course upon course of rich Egyptian delicacies were piled upon us, and we were forced to eat until we could literally hardly stand upright. Dr. Omar, as we called him, was extremely kind to us . . . Jock Dick, who had toothache was whisked off by him in a taxi to a good dentist, where his rotten tooth was removed, and he was informed that it would be taken as an insult if he attempted to pay for anything—even the taxi. He gave me 2 photographs—one of Else and Asta tabulating blood transfusions and one of Ellen working in the labs, both very good. His other photos were absolutely marvellous and if Ashley had known the number of University College nurses that he had photographs in the nude he would have had a shock—very beautiful women and very beautiful photographs. We sent him an enormous box of chocolate-covered marron glacés because he likes sweet things . . .
Here is an unposed and not very good photo taken of me in the streets of Cairo by one of those men who pop up from behind a public lavatory and snap you and hand you a bit of paper telling you to call tomorrow for the print. What do you think of the uniform! Jock Dick is in the background, and Geoff Pelling’s arm is in the left foreground. Also some snaps taken in Nairobi on our last day at the aerodrome.
Lots of love to all
Roald
[postmarked March 8th 1940]
Pupils Squadron
4 F.T.S.
Habbaniya
Iraq
Dear Mama
. . . The post is doing funny things these days—witness the fate of your beautiful Christmas pudding and the Air Force blue pullover, which are now probably being eaten and worn respectively by some Gyppy postmaster in some outlandish Egyptian village.
On the other hand the watch turned up last week. Thank you very much indeed. It seems to be really quite a good one, and keeps excellent time. It comes in particularly useful here and is in great demand because we can time at how many words a minute we are sending our Morse code. I hope it won’t get worn out. Talking about watches—I couldn’t resist spending what was virtually my last penny in Cairo on another wrist watch, merely because it was such a bargain (there’s no duty here on Swiss watches). My gold waterproof is going perfectly but I thought I’d like a standby, as I lost my silver Stauffer in Dar es Salaam some time ago. Anyway the one I bought is a very small waterproof stainless steel Longines—who are I think the finest watch makers in the world. I paid £8, but you couldn’t have got it in England under £12 or £14. I know because I looked at some Longines when I was going to buy the gold one you gave me, or rather before I bought it. You may think it rather extravagant, but I’ve got rather a weakness for watches with good movements. My gold one and the Longines both keep time to the second.
. . . I went on a cross-country flyer today and saw a bit of Iraq from the air. Saw the Tigris meeting the Euphrates; saw Baghdad; saw, down in the desert, one of the seven wonders of the world—the largest unsupported arch in existence at Ctesiphon; saw one of the holy cities with an enormous gold domed mosque. You could see the same glittering in the sun many miles away. Also saw lots of desert.
You ought to be able to find a photograph of it in your photographic encyclopaedia.
Naturally the people who live in the desert round here are most curious types. It is literally dangerous to wander far out of the camp either into the desert or along the bank of the river. By far I mean only 3 or 4 miles, because they are quite liable either to fall upon you and hand you over to their womenfolk, who take good care that you do not get away with your balls; or to have a shot at you with a rifle from the top of a date palm! Not long ago they murdered a Pilot Officer who was riding to the lake on his bike because they wanted his bike and he wouldn’t give it to them. I’ve taken some photographs of these people and will send you them when they are developed . . .
(Pause while I eat my orange, which are very good here.)
. . . I hope the cold weather has disappeared. How awful not being able to get any coal. I expect you’ll get a warm spring to make up for it. My Christmas presents seem to have been very well chosen.
When we go to Baghdad I’ll see if there’s anything interesting there for your birthday, also for Alf and Leslie’s wedding present. Am writing to Parrain.
Lots of love to all
Roald
Photographs of Iraqi desert-dwellers taken by Roald on a trip from Habbaniya to Baghdad, 1940. Roald was fascinated by the Bedouin, but sometimes alarmed by them. These “blokes with guns and knives,” he told his mother, “don’t think twice about cutting your balls out for the sake of getting your brass fly buttons.” They were, he reported, “a treacherous crowd.”
A photograph of the Arch of Ctesiphon, the largest unsupported arch on earth, taken while Roald was flying over Iraq. “I was flying over the desert solo in an old Hawker Hart biplane,” he wrote in Going Solo, “and I had my camera round my neck . . . I dropped one wing and hung in my straps and let go of the stick while I took aim and clicked the shutter. It came out fine.”
March 27th 1940
Pupils Squadron
4 F.T.S.
Habbaniya
Iraq
Dear Mama
Many thanks for your letter—I’m glad you’ve given Harrods the raspberry about the Christmas Cake—although I don’t suppose that it’s their fault. John’s a lucky bugger having Else and Asta keeping a pub for him at Havant—tell him he can thank his stars he’s not here. He’d only get his balls cut off if he wandered out of this camp!*
Anyway we’ve just had a marvellous Easter weekend—probably the most expensive I’ve ever had in my life—I’ve got no more money left! But what’s the use of saving it. There were three of us altogether—Alec Leuchars—whose home is in West Byfleet Surrey: Peter Blignant, who hails from the gold mines of South Africa, and myself.
We hired a taxi and beetled into Baghdad on Thursday evening and stayed at the Semiramis Hotel again. That evening we beat up the Cabaret and most of the rest of Baghdad, finished up at 4 a.m. in a filthy top storey attic playing poker with 5 of the crookedest Iraqi gents I’ve ever seen. They were all wearing hats and smoking yellow cigarettes and eating raw onions. Anyway they were shouting and grabbing and kept fingering their knives (all these blokes carry them) so we buggered off after we’d lost about £5 each.
The next day we decided that we must see the ancient city of Babylon, an opportunity which would probably not occur again, and which after all is not granted to many. It’s so difficult to get to that very few of the average travellers or sightseers go there. We hired a taxi and drove out across the most desolate looking country for 2 1/2 hours and finally arrived at what looked like a few large slag heaps on the banks of the Euphrates. But lo and behold; on approaching closer, there beneath the ground which had been excavated to some 150 feet lay part of the old place itself.
It really was most interesting and absolutely amazing. The most marvellous brick walls still in perfect condition, the bricks cemented together with ordinary bitumen or tar. There was no-one there to look after the place, except an old Arab who had been with the German expedition which had been doing the excavating, but had packed up when the war broke out. We wandered round, picking up pieces of beautifully glazed pottery, blue and green, and I found a bit of brick with cuneiform writing on it—you know the stuff like this.
I translated mine to read ‘Dear Nebuchadnezzar, I’m in pod, what are you going to do about it?’* But the others said that that was wrong. However they are a good 6000 years old.
Meanwhile I got the old camera going, and got some good shots, which I rather treasure, because apparently no-one has taken many good ones of the place. They are enclosed herewith plus explanations on the back. The ones of the three of us are very successful considering they were taken by the old Arab. I fixed everything and told him what to press, and he did it very well, particularly the one of us in the Lion’s Den where Daniel was thrown.
By the waters of Babylon we sat down and ate—our lunch of sandwiches and beer, and drove home again, to have another beat up in Baghdad . . .
I think I must buy a Persian carpet before I go—they cost very little—and they are Persian, hand made . . .
Many happy returns, and the same to Louis.
Lots of love to all
Roald
Roald, Alec Leuchars, and Peter Blignant exploring the ruins of Babylon, and the den where the biblical Daniel was purported to have been thrown to the lions. “I got the old camera going,” he told his mother, “and got some good shots, which I rather treasure, because apparently no-one has taken many good ones of the place.”
April 26th 1940
Same address as before
‘The Desert’
Dear Mama
I don’t think that I’m very good at writing letters on the floor of a tent with eight other blokes in it, pitched on top of a bleak sand mountain in the Iraqi desert. I think it’s nearly over now; more I cannot tell you, but I’ve probably witnessed one of the most extraordinary episodes in the history of the R.A.F. . . . Anyway it’s an excellent thing to experience discomforts which are so intense that you can be tolerably certain that you will never have to experience ones which are worse. Putting up tents at midday of an Iraqi summer in a desert which consists not of ordinary sand, but of a form of dust which is so thin and light (I expect some will get into the envelope of this letter anyhow) that the slightest puff of wind whips it up in your face.
Anyway the wind doesn’t seem to have dropped since we have been here, and many times it has blown at 40 mph for hours on end. That means a proper sand (dust) storm. You can see about 20 yards if you dare to open your eyes. You certainly cannot go about without special dark glasses with side bits on them. I was on guard duty on the river for 7 hours last night in the middle of it, and staggering back to my tent to find my blankets under 2 inches of sand. Five scorpions and 2 sand vipers were found in the tents on either side of ours this morning, and a fellow or 2 here have been bitten—I believe a native died—but we are keeping a careful watch in our tent.
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
Roald
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