Love from Boy Read online

  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 writ
e 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.