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Authors: Roald Dahl

Going Solo

BOOK: Going Solo
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ROALD DAHL
Going Solo

PENGUIN BOOKS

Contents
 

The Voyage Out

 

Dar es Salaam

 

Simba

 

The Green Mamba

 

The Beginning of the War

 

Mdisho of the Mwanumwezi

 

Flying Training

 

Survival

 

First Encounter with a Bandit

 

The Ammunition Ship

 

The Battle of Athens – the Twentieth of April

 

The Last Day But One

 

The Argos Fiasco

 

Palestine and Syria

 

Home

 
Maps
 

1 East Africa

 

2 The Eastern Mediterranean

 

PENGUIN BOOKS

GOING SOLO
 

Roald Dahl is best known for his mischievous, wildly inventive stories for children. But throughout his life he was also a prolific and acclaimed writer of stories for adults. These sinister, surprising tales continue to entertain, amuse and shock generations of readers even today.

By the same author

 

FICTION

Kiss Kiss

Someone Like You

Over to You

My Uncle Oswald

Switch Bitch

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life

Roald Dahl’s Book of Ghost Stories

NON-FICTION

Boy

Going Solo

COMING IN 2012

The Complete Roald Dahl Short Stories
Volume 1

The Complete Roald Dahl Short Stories
Volume 2

For
Sofie Magdalene Dahl
1885–1967

A life is made up of a great number of small incidents and a small number of great ones. An autobiography must therefore, unless it is to become tedious, be extremely selective, discarding all the inconsequential incidents in one’s life and concentrating upon those that have remained vivid in the memory.

The first part of this book takes up my own personal story precisely where my earlier autobiography, which was called
Boy
, left off. I am away to East Africa on my first job, but because any job, even if it is in Africa, is not continuously enthralling, I have tried to be as selective as possible and have written only about those moments that I consider memorable.

In the second part of the book, which deals with the time I went flying with the RAF in the Second World War, there was no need to select or discard because every moment was, to me at any rate, totally enthralling.

R.D.

 

The Voyage Out
 

The ship that was carrying me away from England to Africa in the autumn of 1938 was called the SS
Mantola
. She was an old paint-peeling tub of 9,000 tons with a single tall funnel and a vibrating engine that rattled the tea-cups in their saucers on the dining-room table.

The voyage from the Port of London to Mombasa would take two weeks and on the way we were going to call in at Marseilles, Malta, Port Said, Suez, Port Sudan and Aden. Nowadays you can fly to Mombasa in a few hours and you stop nowhere and nothing is fabulous any more, but in 1938 a journey like that was full of stepping-stones and East Africa was a long way from home, especially if your contract with the Shell Company said that you were to stay out there for three years at a stretch. I was twenty-two when I left. I would be twenty-five before I saw my family again.

What I still remember so clearly about that voyage is the extraordinary behaviour of my fellow passengers. I had never before encountered that peculiar Empire-building breed of Englishman who spends his whole life working in distant corners of British territory. Please do not forget that in the 1930s the British Empire was still very much the British Empire, and the men and women who kept it going were a race of people that most of you have never encountered and now you never will. I
consider myself very lucky to have caught a glimpse of this rare species while it still roamed the forests and foothills of the earth, for today it is totally extinct. More English than the English, more Scottish than the Scots, they were the craziest bunch of humans I shall ever meet. For one thing, they spoke a language of their own. If they worked in East Africa, their sentences were sprinkled with Swahili words, and if they lived in India then all manner of dialects were intermingled. As well as this, there was a whole vocabulary of much-used words that seemed to be universal among all these people. An evening drink, for example, was always a sundowner. A drink at any other time was a chota peg. One’s wife was the memsahib. To have a look at something was to have a shufti. And from that one, interestingly enough, RAF/Middle East slang for a reconnaissance plane in the last war was a shufti kite. Something of poor quality was shenzi. Supper was tiffin and so on and so forth. The Empire-builders’ jargon would have filled a dictionary. All in all, it was rather wonderful for me, a conventional young lad from the suburbs, to be thrust suddenly into the middle of this pack of sinewy sunburnt gophers and their bright bony little wives, and what I liked best of all about them was their eccentricities.

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