Early 1942 found Roald living with his mother in a thatched cottage in the small Buckinghamshire village of Grendon Underwood, planting raspberry canes and wondering what to do with himself. He had returned from Egypt via Cape Town the previous summer and was still on extended sick leave. He was also dealing with a feeling of emasculation that he was no longer a fighter pilot. The RAF dangled the possibility of a job as a flying instructor in front of him, but that was almost like torture. As he was to write the following year, “to a pilot, being alive but earthbound is worse than not being alive at all.”60
Then one evening in London, over dinner at Pratt’s, one of London’s smallest and most exclusive all-male dining clubs, his loud, raucous energy got him an unusual job offer. He was asked to work for the RAF at the British Embassy in Washington, D.C., where Lord Halifax was ambassador. His job title would be Assistant Air Attaché and he would be charged with using his charisma and flying experience to bring the American public behind the Allied war effort. He accepted it with alacrity.
His first weeks in the capital were among the most astonishing in his life. He met countless celebrities, had his moment of epiphany as a writer, and got his first story published. Before long he had befriended the U.S. Vice President, Henry Wallace, and was soon hobnobbing with the Roosevelts themselves at the White House. Within months of sitting under a tree in Grendon Underwood, telling stories about gremlins—strange little elves who RAF pilots held responsible for mechanical failures in the airplanes—to the children of a pilot friend who had recently been killed, he was working with Walt Disney as a writer on a major feature film about them.
His letters home chronicle the excitement of these dizzying new encounters. There is much name-dropping, as a host of film stars, directors, and writers come into his office, all eager to support the war effort. It was the same with the many powerful and wealthy individuals he met, some of whom went on to become friends or lovers. Roald’s shock at the contrast between the austerity of life in wartime Britain and the excesses he confronted in the USA is evident too and he sent home endless gifts of butter, sugar, chocolate, Norwegian cheeses, lipstick, stockings, and other luxuries denied to his family by rationing in Britain.
There is an infectious delight in the pleasure he gets telling his mother about his literary successes, which began soon after a lunch with C. S. Forester. Forester had been commissioned to write a piece about the RAF for the Saturday Evening Post and took Roald out for a meal, so he could get some good circumstantial details for his story. Roald told him about his crash in the desert. The table was a small one and both men ordered rather messy roast duck. Forester found it difficult to eat and take notes at the same time, so Roald offered to write the story up for him when he got home that evening. He did. When Forester read the result, he was astonished. He told his newspaper editor that the story should be published pretty much exactly as Roald had written it. It was. A career had been launched.
Roald’s letters reveal how seminal this moment was for him. From now on, in spite of all his other distractions, writing was what really mattered. The letters to his mother stress the role that luck and happenstance played in this transformation. And certainly the stars were on Roald’s side. He was in the right place at the right time. But his official correspondence to agents and editors presents a contrasting picture. These letters reveal the intensity with which he was already practicing his craft.
Dignitaries inspecting Montgomery Blair High School Victory Corps, 1943. The program focused high-school children on skills relevant to the war effort. Flight Lieutenant Roald Dahl however (fourth from the right) found it absurd. “The things we do for England” he commented to his mother. On his left is the veteran playwright and farceur Squadron Leader Ben Travers. Roald described Travers as “about the dirtiest little man I have ever met, but extremely nice and terribly funny.”
Roald did not find the embassy a convivial place to work. He thought it snobbish, humorless, and hierarchical. The Air Mission itself was looked down on by embassy figures such as Isaiah Berlin, the information officer, who recalled that his colleagues regarded it “rather as a grammar school was looked on by public schoolboys.”61 Occasionally, in his letters home, one senses Roald’s frustration with this working environment, but it is like light glimpsed through cracks in a wall. He would articulate that resentment more fully later on. “I’d just come from the war,” he told the writer William Stevenson in the mid-1970s. “People were getting killed. I had been flying around, seeing horrible things. Now, almost instantly, I found myself in the middle of a pre-war cocktail mob in America. I had to dress up in ghastly gold braid and tassels. The result was, I became rather outspoken and brash.”62
It is sometimes hard to see this frustration in the letters, because all Roald’s wartime correspondence home was censored. So there is little actual detail about his job in them. His unflattering opinion of the ambassador, Lord Halifax, is impossible to detect because Roald’s comments about him are generally limited to their time on the tennis court. His intense dislike of his immediate boss, Air Commodore Thornton, is also scarcely apparent. Yet Roald’s arrogance and intolerance was very discernible to those around him. Isaiah Berlin for example thought writing successes had turned his head. He became “extremely conceited,” Berlin recalled, believing himself “a creative artist of the highest order, and therefore entitled to respect and very special treatment.”63
Roald was made a squadron leader in April 1943, but Air Commodore Thornton, who had always disapproved of his subordinate’s maverick qualities, had by then decided he could tolerate them no longer.
[probably April 1942]
On board
Dear Mama
We’re due in this afternoon, although we can’t see any land yet. It’s actually taken 2 or 3 days less than we thought it would—we went pretty fast. All the same it has seemed almost as long as the Capetown–England trip, I don’t know why. We had some fairly rough weather, and a lot of the types disappeared for a few days, but it didn’t affect me. One or two scares; a few depth charges popping around but nothing, except when a ship going the other way passed clear between us and our neighbours one dark night. It hit a gap about 800 yards wide without knowing we were there at all and that shook all concerned quite a bit.
As usual the food has been ordinary peacetime first class passengers’ food. Typical breakfast: stewed fruit—four kinds of cereal—haddock or kipper—eggs, bacon, ham, tomatoes—griddle cakes and maple syrup (a Canadian speciality)—rolls, butter and marmalade ad lib.
At lunch and dinner always soup, fish, 2 kinds of meat and pudding. Why the hell they do it, I don’t know. All the types have been eating themselves silly and are complaining of chronic constipation, which serves them right. Plenty of whisky at 7/- a bottle, I’m sorry I can’t send any home. On the other hand, no one’s allowed to get drunk because they figure that it’s easier to get into a lifeboat when you’re sober.
Old Bradbury, who was our Intelligence Officer in 80 Squadron at Haifa is on board bound for some training school in Canada, and he’s managed to keep us amused. He used to have an Alsatian called Rex in the Squadron and he still likes to pretend he’s got him on board. For example yesterday he entered the lounge when all and sundry were knocking back their pre-supper glass of ale—carefully held the door open and said, ‘Come on Rex old boy.’ Then walked across the room saying, ‘Rex, come here, good dog.’
The result was amazing. Strong men dropped their drinks and gaped wondering whether they were seeing things; complete silence until old Brad had walked out of the other door, again carefully holding it open and saying, ‘Come on Rex, old boy.’ We shook with laughter.
We’ve arrived. It’s bloody cold, with a terrific wind blowing. It’s even trying to snow. Otherwise looks rather like Norway.
Lots of love
Roald
April 21st
British Embassy
Washington, D.C.
Dear Mama
I couldn’t cable you many happy returns because we were only allowed to send three figure groups—one meant ‘arrived safely’ then ‘all well’ then ‘love’. At least that’s what they told me. So here’s a belated many happy returns. I sent you a temporary present via a special messenger which should get to you pretty soon. The parcel contains a large tin of marmalade, 2 long slabs of cheese like the one John gave you, and some milk chocolate and lemons. Also 5lbs of sugar separately. I hope you got them.
We got off the boat and saw many extraordinary things at which we marvelled much. I bought a local small town newspaper—it had 40 pages. I had a hot dog and a milk shake. Everyone else was eating ice cream although it was bitter cold. At the railway station I bought handfuls of magazines for 50 cents (2/-). Everyone else was buying bottles of milk and drinking it out of a straw.
The train to Montreal which took 24 hours was luxurious. It was full of gadgets, air conditioning, floor heat, thermos, spittoons. Some Americans were arguing next door. One said, ‘Aw let’s talk about somethin’ else.’ Another said, ‘Yea, let’s eat foxes.’ At meals the waiter gave you a pad and pencil and you wrote down what you wanted from a vast menu of pineapple juices and maple syrups. Everything iced. Then a very comfortable night in a huge bed to wake up and see lots of snow on the ground. Two more Americans came along; one said, ‘Did yer sleep well?’ Answer, ‘Wal, there’s no profit to be shown.’ The first one then said, ‘However, what’s cookin’?’ Sounded queer to me.
The train kept changing engines and drivers every 3 hours, and every now and then went backwards for 5 minutes, but we eventually arrived at Montreal in the evening. I was met and taken to the Ritz-Carlton, a swank joint where I did myself very well. Had a drink with Anna Neagle. All the Americans say your name after each sentence: Pleased to meet you Mr. Dahl, Thank you Mr. Dahl, Goodbye Mr. Dahl, and so forth. I now know their names anyway. The bathroom had floating soap in it, my suit was valeted in 5 minutes and the lift to the 10th floor took 5 seconds. You usually arrive at a place well before you get there, and you start to get ready to go after you’ve left. The food at the hotel was amazing. Lettuce hearts like giant cabbages, and steaks like doormats, only thicker. The females all have baby faces but when they walk you think they are strolling from the bathroom into the bedroom—and they usually are.
The men all wear fantastic gold and diamond rings, they look like Austin Reed posters and have teeth like piano-keys.
Came down to Washington by night train 12 hours. Stopped at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore.
This is a lovely city. Spring is well advanced and the whole place is covered with the most magnificent double cherry blossom. It’s very warm, almost too hot for these clothes already and for the moment I’m staying at the Willard—about the biggest hotel here. The cost is 21/- a day without food!
Meanwhile I’m finding a furnished flat and I’ve got to buy a goodish car. But this diplomatic business is very useful. I have a special diplomatic car licence so I can’t be fined, pay no car tax, or for that matter, no tax on anything. My whisky, for example, is duty free which works out at 4/1 a bottle. Every time I buy something at a shop I get a special price, because the tax has to be deducted.
The people in the Embassy seem very pleasant. I’ve got plenty of secretaries, and there’s going to be lots of travel. In three days I’ve got to fly up to Newark, New Jersey, and be guest of honour at the Masonic Lodge of West Orange, New Jersey, make a speech and give a lecture—probably on Greece.
People keep stopping you in the street and asking you what your uniform is—then they say, ‘Thank you sir.’ Tomorrow I’m attending the premiere of a new film ‘Saboteurs’ . . .
I’ve got to stop now because I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got to write a lot of articles about Greece and Syria for papers like the Saturday Evening Post, Readers Digest, and Atlantic Monthly; hope they pay me well . . .
Let me know what you would especially like me to send; I can send parcels weighing up to 5lbs, one a month to each address. So I could send one to you and one to Alf, and possibly one to Asta. (Let me have Asta’s address.) You cannot have more than 2lbs of each article, and the packing usually weighs about ½lb or more, so 4lb is probably more like it. But you can have literally anything, and you have to pay duty at your end. So let me know, and I shall just phone a standing order.
Lots of love
Roald
May 13th 1942
Air Attaché
British Embassy
Washington D.C.
Dear Mama
. . . As far as I can see I may be coming into large sums of money over here for those R.A.F. stories our British press people are getting me to write. My first one—a short thing of about 4000 words was sent up by C.S. Forester to the biggest agent in New York, and reply received yesterday. I was told that these agents are tough indeed and spend their lives sending stories back to aspiring authors with a polite or often an impolite chit of non-acceptance. However they said about mine ‘It is remarkable—if he wrote it himself, he is a natural writer with a superior style; It will certainly sell’!! which shook C.S. Forester even more than it shook me. He said he’d never had a note like that from his agents in his life, and he gets $1000 for a short story. I’ll let you know what happens.
They are trying to make me write a book re Middle-East R.A.F., also a play for Hollywood—but I’ve told them I won’t run before I can walk. I’ll send you a copy of the first one shortly; it’s called ‘A Piece of Cake’ and is just about getting shot down. It’s really purely in my line of duty, because they say it does a lot of good with the American public.
I move into my little house ($150 a month) on Friday next—the 15th May. I shall only be able to afford a half time negro servant I think—someone to come in and make the bed and wash clothes and dishes etc. Anyway I don’t want a cook, because I’ve got to go out to most meals.
I’ve made about four speeches in the last 10 days. One in New York, two here in Washington and one in Newark, New Orange [Jersey].
I don’t know what they were like—they sounded pretty awful to me, but everyone was very polite and stood up and clapped loads at the end—then started asking countless questions. I’ve had my photos of Greece and Syria made into lantern slides, so they can be shown on a screen if necessary.
The average size of the rather po-faced cod-eyed audience is three to four hundred—usually at a dinner. I get myself a little pissed before I start and that makes things a lot easier.
The only thing was, I told a party of rather staid Freemasons, in a happy moment that, ‘someone had his balls sheared off because he had his finger in!’ Whereas I meant to say ‘he was reprimanded for inefficiency.’ They pissed with laughter, as the President said afterwards, ‘The Diplomatic Corps has a language all of its own.’ Talking about Diplomatic Corps, I have a special number plate on my car which says D.P.L. in large yellow and black letters. It gets you a lot of places. Yesterday it got me into the White House in a hurry . . .
May 14th next morning
My story has been sold to the ‘Saturday Evening Post’ for 300 dollars which is about £76, which will help pay for some of my car—half in fact . . .
Apparently the Saturday Evening Post is the widest read magazine in America with a circulation of about 4 million. I am told that it’s every author’s ambition to get a story therein.
I’ve had an offer to write a film script but I simply haven’t got time.
C.S. Forester has just sent me the letter he received from his New York agents—the first one—it says: Dear Cyril, That’s a remarkable piece. It is not much more than a fragment but I hope to be able to see it nevertheless. Did Lieutenant Dahl write it without any assistance whatever? If so he should write more. He is a natural writer of superior quality. I will let you know what happens. Yours, Harold Matson.
Sounds funny to me because I didn’t think it was anything special . . .
Must stop.
Lots of love
Roald
I hear Mrs. Harris has taken up bicycling.*
June 22nd
British Embassy
Washington
Dear Mama
I’ve just done another story, this time longer, about 7000 words, on ‘Gremlins’. Maybe you don’t know what they are, but everyone in the R.A.F. does. They are little types with horns and a long tail who walk about on the wings of your aircraft boring holes in the fuselage and urinating in your fuse-box. They have wives known as Fifinellas, and children which are Widgets or Flipperty-Gibbets, according to their sex. Widgets are masculine.
It’s really a sort of fairy story, and I was very surprised to see it referred to by the British Information and Press Service over here and by Ronald Tree the Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of Information as ‘one of the best literary efforts that has appeared on this side since the war began’.
It’s going on the market shortly and I’m told that there should be no difficulty at all in selling its magazine rights for 500 dollars which is about £125, but I may get more. The other shock I got was that apparently Walt Disney is interested, but I’m not saying anything about that yet. If he really means business it will become worth many thousands of dollars. I propose to give a large proportion of anything I make to the R.A.F. Benevolent Fund. I haven’t a spare copy of it at the moment, but I’ll send you one as soon as I can.
Sorry; a Gremlin walked across the page after bathing in my ink bottle.
The first story, called ‘A Piece of Cake’ is appearing in about 3 weeks’ time in the Saturday Evening Post. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out.
The snag is I have to write all these things in the lunch hour and in spare moments because I’m pretty busy, so I can’t do many. That’s why my letters to you are such a scrawl usually, but you’d rather have 3 pages scribbled than ½ a page neatly written, wouldn’t you?
. . . I believe I told you I have a tiny little garden at the back of the house, and a little flower bed which I water assiduously on my return from work every evening. My nice window-box is no longer a thing of beauty because the flowers have died and I haven’t been able to deal with it. My front door and window shutters are pale blue, which is a very pleasant sight to be sure. But the dame who furnished the house was in the habit of using pink sheets and pillow cases, which look bloody awful.
Someone has lent me a large original Munnings horse picture to hang downstairs, which helps, but I want some more. I asked Mr. Guggenheim, whom I know quite well, if I could borrow one of his Titians (he has two in the drawing room) but he said he thought he’d like to keep them.
My head’s not behaving badly at all. Occasionally I feel it, but not much. I think it’s on the mend—although of course this climate is not exactly ideal . . .
Must rush.
Love to all
Roald
August 7th 1942
Washington
Dear Mama
I’m getting a bit more used to this American business at last, although they are undoubtedly as different from us as the Chinese. Everything is done in terms of publicity and money. Aircraft manufacturers try to get film stars to autograph the wings of fighters; tank manufacturers get Clark Gable to ride one of their trucks out of the factory (with a battery of press photographers waiting outside). The wireless or radio as it’s called here has no ordinary programmes at all. They are all advertisements, doesn’t matter where you tune in, all you can get is some hot swing music for 30 seconds, then a smooth-voiced bastard comes on who says, ‘Buy delicious creamy white vitamin filled double flavour bread,’ or ‘Put delightful smooth-tasting soft chewing Wrigley’s chewing-gum in your mouth—the flavour lasts,’ or ‘Do you have stomach trouble: if you do take S.R.Tablets. Delightfully smooth working, pleasant tasting, quick acting S.R.Tablets. Take S.R. and there you are.’
So now you know why I’ve bought a lot of gramophone records.
The shops are still as full of everything as ever, so don’t forget if you want any clothes of any sort let me know. I’d better send Asta some more films I think.
Petrol rationing has got quite serious. The average person gets a basic allowance of 3 gallons a week—which sounds a lot; but it isn’t in these American cars which all do 10 miles to the gallon. So it’s equal to one gall. a week for your car. I get a bit more because I’ve got to do a lot of special trips. But I don’t use it at all for cruising out into the country or anything like that.
I started this letter the moment I got into my office this morning, before my secretary had started chucking stuff at me and before the telephone had begun to hum, but as you see I didn’t get very far. It’s now 7.45 in the evening and I’m still here and this is the first chance I’ve had of looking at it again. I kept a check today just to see, and I find that I’ve dictated thirty letters to a relay of three different typists—answered 55 phone calls, including one from Montreal, three from Miami, one from Seattle, five from New York and one from San Francisco (3500 miles away). So in a moment I’m going to trot home and have a quiet whisky and soda on my sofa and listen to some music.
I’ll also send you the Saturday Evening Post with my story in it. In reading it you must remember that it was written especially to impress the American Public and to do some good over here—and also that my name’s not on it.
The leading American newspaper man here in Washington told me last night, and much to my surprise that every newspaper man in the country would give his right arm to get an article in the ‘Post’. He said once they’ve done that they’re made. I’m not of course because no one knows who wrote it; and by the way the B.F.’s have gone and changed the title and half ruined it—it’s now called ‘Shot Down Over Libya’ which is bloody, I think. Ask Asta to take a photo of Mrs. Harris for me.
Lots of love
Roald
October 4th
Air Attaché
British Embassy
Washington, D.C.
Dear Mama
I’m spending my first thousand dollars, which I already have, on wireless sets for the Desert Squadrons in the Middle East. That’s apparently what they need and want most.
Here life goes on much as usual. The work still pours in, and my evenings are often pretty full up with official stuff. Last Thursday I had to make a speech to 500 people at the annual dinner of the American Legion. Fortified by a number of whiskeys I managed to get through it without making too much of a bloody fool of myself.
Two days before that I had to inaugurate (with the American Minister for Education) their equivalent of our Air Training Corps (for children) and inspected, with considerable embarrassment rows and rows of schoolboys and girls lined up in an enormous field. They all wore peculiar hats on their heads showing that they were now members of the Corps, and there was a lot of flag waving and news photographers. I hope no photograph ever gets home of me inspecting a row of schoolgirls.—The things we do for England.
Many thanks for letters from Alf and Else. I’d answer them separately but there’s not much point if they read this. But go on writing because I don’t get many letters from England—except masses from Air Ministry!
My head is still fairly active, but I think it’s improving a little.
Lots of love to all
Roald
November 27th 1942
Dear Mama
Well, I’ve been to Hollywood and come back; and had the most amazing time.
I think I told you in my last letter 2 weeks ago that I had a frantic telegram from Walt Disney, saying that he was all set to start work on the Gremlins—so with everyone’s permission in an official capacity I boarded an American Airlines plane Wednesday evening, the 11th Nov. at 8.30 p.m. in the evening. It’s the hell of a way across America—about the same as across the Atlantic only a bit further, and I kept having to put my watch back one hour in every five. At dawn on Thursday we were over Arizona on the Mexican border, and finally got into Los Angeles at about midday Thursday (about 14 hours’ trip). I was met by Jimmy Bodrero, Walt’s number one artist, and taken to the Beverly Hills Hotel, and after a bath and a shave was driven out to the studio and ushered up to Walt’s room. He has two secretaries outside—one called Dolores who has been with him for 20 years—and his room itself is very magnificent with sofas, armchairs, a grand piano and Dolores serving coffee or drinks the whole time.
He said he wanted to get an illustrated book out right away, based on my story, and would I sit down and write it. He would give me all his best artists to work with, and anything else I wanted. And, oh, by the way, I’ve put a car at your disposal the whole time that you’re here.
I said thank you very much and followed Jimmy down to an enormous room where a half a dozen of his best artists were waiting with pencils poised to be told what a Gremlin looked like. I’d already told them that the ones they drew in Cosmopolitan Magazine to go with my article were lousy.
So we set to work. I wrote and they drew. As soon as I’d finished a page, it was typed out in the pattern they wanted, sometimes with the type going slantwise across the page and sometimes squiggly. Then they drew pictures all around it, and now and again a full colour picture for the opposite page.
And could they draw. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Walt has gathered together there about 80 artists, any one of whom could be placed amongst the first 6 drawers of pure line pictures in the world—Jimmy Bodrero, Freddie Moore, Bill Justice and a whole flock of others. When they choose to do a picture out of hours for a client, they sell it for about 1000 dollars.
So all the first day we worked. Then there was a party for me which Walt had arranged at which I think I met most of Hollywood in one evening.
Charlie Chaplin came in and pretended to be a Widget all around the room, and all the rest of them arrived trying to be some sort of a Gremlin or other. Greer Garson, Dorothy Lamour, Spencer Tracy, Bill Powell etc. etc. And I must say they were all very nice. There weren’t many English—Basil Rathbone and Reggie Gardiner were the only ones I can remember. There was a very beautiful dame called Phyllis Brooks (who is at present co-starring with Ginger Rogers in some new film) who I thought was a great deal better than the rest, and made it my business to organise for the rest of my stay.
Well that was a good party, but next morning, and every one after that, I was up at six, then ½ an hour’s drive out to the studio at Burbank, and work on the book until 6 in the evening, with probably a couple of hours each day in conference with Walt on the actual film script. He plans to make it the biggest film he has yet made—with real actors and actresses—in Technicolor, with the Gremlins, Fifinellas and Widgets actually drawn on to the photographs. It’s a new experiment.
He’s the most amazing type. He doesn’t draw at all, and can’t very well anyhow; but he runs everything and the people in the studio worship him. He’s quite an erk and when he gets excited always gets his grammar wrong with ‘E don’t do this’, or ‘E don’t do that.’ When Mary Blair, the only woman artist there, and incidentally one of the finest exponents of colour in the world, brought him her picture for the outside cover of the book he didn’t like it.
‘Goddammit, Mary, I have to buy the stories, direct the pictures, produce them, but son of a bitch I’m buggered if I’m going to draw the illustrations as well.’ At which Mary said, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Walt; I’ll do you another.’ And she did.
By Sunday we all thought we needed a bit of a rest, so Jimmy took me up north to stay the day with his family in Santa Barbara—or rather I took him in the car Walt had lent me.
Santa Barbara is a lovely place. Blue skies, and blue seas, and we lounged around drinking with the local citizens, and talking to Jimmy’s two children. Then we bathed in the Pacific, because I said it was about the only ocean I haven’t bathed in, and drove back to Hollywood and so back at 7.30 next morning . . .
Finally we got the book finished in a week, and it is being published in late January, which is apparently quick work. I’ll send you one as soon as it comes out. And I had to go back to Washington. I held a party in Phyllis Brooks’ house to which all the types came, and a fellow called Hoagy Carmichael (who composed Stardust and many others, and has the biggest house I’ve ever seen) played rude R.A.F. songs on the piano which were sung with great gusto by all concerned. This was Monday—23rd Nov. and at 11.30 pm we drove out to the aerodrome where I just caught my aeroplane back to Washington.
Walt gave me four books, Snow White, Pinocchio, Bambi and Fantasia, all signed and with best wishes, and I got some of the artists who created the original characters in them to draw inside the covers.
Jim Bodrero gave me one of the best large watercolours he has ever done, which is really something, considering he is the best artist in the Studio. It’s of two galloping mules with two wonderful Mexicans on their backs, and it really is a lovely picture.
Anyway now I’m back—and that was Hollywood. The most exciting thing about it was working for Walt (who calls me Stalky because he can’t pronounce Roald). I believe the whole thing is going to do quite a bit of good over here in furthering the ever-present question of Anglo American Relations . . .
Lots of love to all
Roald
I’m enclosing a sketch of a young Widget drawn by Jim Bodrero, who is drawing them for Walt. Even that is well drawn. They are going to be floppy creatures who manoeuvre around the plane like little bags filled with water.
Roald Dahl and Walt Disney with cuddly toys inspired by Roald’s creations, the gremlins. He described them as “little types with horns and a long tail, who walk about on the wings of your aircraft boring holes in the fuselage and urinating in your fuse-box.”
December 28th 1942
Dear Mama
I’m afraid I haven’t written for rather a long time, but some rather curious things have been happening which have taken up practically all my time.
I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard of a film director called Gabriel Pascal—he’s a great Bernard Shaw man and produced Pygmalion, Major Barbara, etc. Well, the other day this Gabriel Pascal walked into the Embassy and asked to see me. I saw him and said Hallo and he sat down and talked a bit then said, ‘Come out to lunch.’ So I went. Then he said he wanted me to write a script for an enormous film he was thinking of doing about the world and good and evil, etc. etc. and in which Henry Wallace the Vice President of America was very interested. I said—‘Well . . .’ And the next day I found myself having lunch with the Vice Pres. of the United States and talking to him from one o’clock until 6 p.m. He said he wanted me to give up my job for 3 months, retire into the mountains somewhere and write the script! I said no, I wouldn’t—but if he liked I would try to do it in my spare time. He said O.K. and then rang up Lord Halifax and I had a lot of long talks with him about it. He said, ‘Go ahead.’ So I suppose I’m going ahead. No-one knows, least of all myself, why they should pick on me. Money is apparently no object, because the Vice-Pres. is arranging all that with the U.S. Treasury.
We had a good party on Christmas Eve—we acted two silly plays I wrote and a good time was had by all. The mail is going on return. The bag is closing in 5 mins so must stop. Will write a longer letter soon.
Love to all
Roald
January 7th 1943
Air Attaché
British Embassy
Washington, D.C.
Dear Mama
I’m so busy these days that there’s hardly any time for anything, what with the Air Attaché down in Central America, and one thing and another. I turn down nearly all my evening dinner invitations, and try to stay at home and write. I leave off work at perhaps 6.30 or 7 in the evening, then probably go along and have a short drink with someone. Then off home, stopping at my grocer on the way to buy my supper, which I proceed to cook (very well!). Then I get comfortable, may be with a glass of Californian (or if I’m rich) French Brandy and begin to write. After an hour I get fed up and play a symphony or something on the gramophone, and then start writing again.
Tomorrow I’ve got another long conference with the Vice President of the United States on this script he has asked me to do, and on Saturday I’m seeing the President, old Roosevelt; so we move in very high circles—so bloody high that sometimes it is difficult to see the ground . . .
As usual, I’m scribbling along as fast as I can to try to catch the air bag before it closes—so I must apologise for this scrawly letter. I always say I’m going to write you a better one, but never do—Next time I will. Will also send you a photo of self by next mail, which I had to have taken over here. As usual it’s a rather exaggerated semblance of Primo Carnera.*
Lots of love to all
Roald
January 12th 1943
Dear Mama
We’ve had an awful lot of snow lately and it’s been very cold, but today there’s a lovely blue sky and the sun is shining. But still freezing hard and driving about the streets—and even walking—has become very dangerous. Talking about driving—they’ve suddenly realised over here that there’s a war on, and have forbidden people to use their cars for pleasure purposes, which is just about the most sensible thing yet. Now police cars patrol the streets and one is liable to be stopped and asked where one is going. If you can’t think up a better excuse than that you’re just going to drive down to the park and pick your nose then they reach an enormous hand inside your window and demand your ration book there and then. A very American way of doing things, but quite effective. And the people groan and grouse until one might almost think that they’d spent the whole of the war in the front line . . .
I’m getting a little tired these days—so as soon as Air Commodore Thornton comes back I think I’ll take a little leave somewhere. All this is not very good for the head . . .
Lots of love to all
Roald
April 17th 1943
Washington
Dear Mama
I’m afraid it’s the hell of a time since I wrote to you, but I thought it better to wait till I came back from the West Coast—Things were so hectic out there, and there was so much to do in such a short time.
I flew out on Wednesday evening 31st March, leaving here at 6.30 pm. It’s a very tiring trip, you sit up all night and try to go to sleep, but it doesn’t work. By 5.30 am the next morning we’d arrived at El Paso in South Texas, just on the Mexican border, and it was fun to go out of the plane and find yourself in desert country once more.
Got to Los Angeles at 10.30 that morning and was met by Jim Bodrero and Ted Sears from Walt Disney’s studio. They handed me over a very smart Packard car which was to be mine for my stay. Unshaven and feeling pretty shagged I went straight to the studio for a conference with Walt which lasted over lunch and well into the afternoon.
He told me he’d booked a palatial suite for me at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and that I was to pay for nothing. All drinks, cigarettes, meals and parties I wished to throw would be on him. I thought that was a good show and he said, ‘Not at all; you’re not costing us anything, whereas we should normally have to pay $400 or $500 a week for a writer.’
Anyway it was a very fine apartment, and when I arrived the manager came sidling in rubbing his hands saying that I had only to ring the bell and everything would be taken care of—it was Mr. Disney’s orders.
That evening I had a bath and a shave and drove out to have dinner with Ginger Rogers. She’s got a marvellous house right up on top of the hills overlooking the sea. Bars, swimming pool, tennis courts, private cinema, etc., it was all there including Ginger, who was by far the best part of the house. A very nice girl.
From then on I was at the studio at 7.30 a.m. every morning, having conferences with Walt, going off and writing, looking at storyboards, having more conferences, more writing, more story boards and so on all day till we left at about 7 p.m.
The second night I went to Dorothy Lamour’s wedding reception. There we saw all the types. A milling throng of people, stars, directors, producers, etc. Half of them were very nice indeed, and the other half were pretty bogus. Spent most of the time with Marlene Dietrich with whom I was most impressed. At first she kept saying, ‘I wish my daughter were here—you’d like her,’ until I remembered the right American retort which was, ‘Honey, forget her and don’t give me that stuff about your daughter—get your hat.’
Gary Cooper is a decent type and so is Spencer Tracy.
The next day I told the studio that I was fed up, and that I wanted some sun. If they wanted to work that afternoon they’d have to come along to the edge of Hoagy Carmichael’s swimming pool and do it there, because that was where I was going. So they all packed their easels and pencils and pads and we had a good afternoon’s work and sunbathing.
When anyone got persistent about a foolish idea he was just rolled off into the pool to cool off.
Hoagy Carmichael plus wife and two terrific small boys called Hoagy Bix and Randy Bub are the nicest family I met there. He’s the composer of Lazy Bones, Stardust, Little Old Lady etc. but apart from that he’s as nice as his wife. He asked me to write a poem for his children who are mad on flying, which I did, although I can’t write poetry.
TO HOAGY BIX AND RANDY BUB
When I am old and bent and crinkly-faced
When you are big and strong and muscle-meat
I know you’ll learn to fly; you’ll like the taste
Of freezing clouds at thirty thousand feet.
You’ll like the taste of hail and ice and sleet.
II
When you come down to earth, you’ll have to pay.
You’ll hear the people talk of little things;
You’ll hear them laugh, and some of them will say:
‘It isn’t only angels that have wings.’
III
If they do this, you mustn’t ever yield.
Walk away slowly, never start to run.
Stand in the middle of a poppy field
Stand on your toes and try to reach the sun.
IV
If someone hits you where it really hurts,
Then say ‘I’ll see you in the afternoon’
Just throw away your most expensive shirts.
Stretch out your hand and gently touch the moon.
I had a busy time also visiting aircraft factories, talking to the workers, and exhorting them to greater efforts.
My last night I threw a party in Hoagy Carmichael’s house and charged it to Walt. I hired a large projector, and put on a preview of the film ‘Desert Victory’ which I expect you’ve seen, and which I think is marvellous. It created a terrific impression. I asked a lot of the types, including, let me see, Ginger Rogers, Carole Landis, Jimmy Cagney, Bob Montgomery, Bert Marshall, Joan Blondell, etc. and all the boys from Walt’s studio including Duckie Marsh (the man who makes the Donald duck noises!).
Now I’m back here working very hard . . .
Lots of love to all
Roald
June 25th
Washington
Dear Mama
I missed the last mail, but it couldn’t be helped—there was so much to do. But this evening at any rate, I can write in comparative comfort because they have just installed an air conditioner in my office. The bloody thing sits in the window and makes a noise like a four-engined bomber taking off, disgorging the while a certain amount of cold air. It makes the temperature more reasonable, but I still wouldn’t like to wear a jacket in here.
It’s now 7 p.m. and hot as hell outside. I’m writing this whilst waiting for my girl to finish typing some notes on a rather high powered speech I’ve got to make in New York on Sunday. It’s to the Aviation Writers Association of America, who are holding a Convention, and I can tell you that there are a large number of Aviation writers in this country right now. Some are congenial others are cantankerous, but they are rather an important bunch of types—otherwise I wouldn’t be taking all this trouble. I wish they’d go and stuff themselves, each one separately and individually . . .
Next weekend, Saturday and Sunday I’m going to run away, because I’m going (as I think I told you) to stay with President Roosevelt. I’ll let you know all about it in due course. I’ll tell you whether he blows his nose in his fingers, or whether he eats with his mouth open, or whether (and this will be interesting to find out) he laughs at my dirty jokes. I don’t think he will, but he might as well hear them just the same.
Lots of love to all
Roald