Danny is the master of the throwaway line ... "I drew a line on the map, took a Spitfire and got airborne". But maybe it's like those old cars, lovely to look back upon but horrible old beasts when you actually meet one again. I tried a Green Goddess (Bedford RL) a couple of years ago and what a pig she proved to be!
Did you three-point your Spitfires or wheel them on? I found tail-draggers were easier on grass, but of course there's precious little grass around today's airports even if you were admitted to pay your exorbitant landing and parking fees. Anyway, back to RAF Khormaksar in 1952:
ANOTHER 10 days’ detention imposed for the camel cart affair, and I’m woken by a terrible racket from below. It’s very late, about 9.30 pm, and I peep down from the top of the stairs to see David’s parents with Mum and Dad. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, and they have a bottle of special Grown-up Cola that I’m not allowed, not that I’d want it anyway. I tried a sip of Dad’s once when he was at the bathroom and it’s foul, it’s nearly as bad as milk.
Mum is all giggly, the way she is at Christmas, and the two fathers are roaring with laughter over a big green folder which they pass to David’s mum, who reads it, turns bright red and collapses onto the sofa making a gasping noise. At once I recognise the symptoms. I’m about to go down and tell Mrs. Brindley I’m very sorry she has caught VD and I hope she gets better soon when, just in time, I remember the Official Secrets Act. I tiptoe back to bed and go out like a light.
I wake to the bugle calls from the Aden Protectorate Levy lines half a mile away. My parents are still sound asleep and I consider flinging their doors open shouting ‘Wakey wakey rise and shine’ the way Dad does with mine, but some sixth sense warns that this might not be the wisest course today.
From the verandah I see Graham mooching towards our house, passing the house of Tiddles the tomcat. Tiddles hasn’t been seen since his fight with Abdul, Graham’s land crab. Following on our close brush with conversion to Judaism, we have worked out that Abdul removed a certain component of Tiddles, thereby turning him into a Jewish tomcat. Graham’s a thoughtful boy and just to show there’s no hard feelings he pops a couple of locusts through the louvres of the front door. He says his parents are still asleep too so we look around for something to eat. On the table beside the overflowing ashtray is the green folder they had last night. Inside we find a single typed sheet:
Station Routine Orders, RAF Khormaksar. Addendum ref. 234/52
It has been brought to the notice of the Station Commander that personnel have been interfering with camels on the Sheikothman Road. This practice will cease forthwith.
Signed: Officer Commanding.
“What’s funny about that? Last week they give us a whacking for turning the camel, now they laugh about it”, says Graham. We commiserate on the problems of having grown-ups until Mum comes downstairs and we assure her that we are not hungry, we don’t mind having no breakfast. She looks guilty and says Graham can stay for breakfast, after which he can ask his parents if he can go to the lido, and here’s a shilling for the gharri. We can’t believe our luck.
As we pass Abdullah he says naughty boys, naughty boys, but his eyes are smiling. I lean from the gharri, put my hands together in Indian greeting and say Salaam, Abdullah sahib. Salaam, chota sahib, he replies, points at his gate and breaks into a roar of laughter. We wave to each other until the gharri goes out of sight. We’re friends again, the sun shines and all’s well in our happy little world.
COMING SOON: Our homeward posting casts a shadow over happy days at the Khormaksar Pantomime.