A Spitfire Pilot Remembers: 23 - The Final Move
While serving on an airbase near Tripoli, Spitfire pilot John M Davis tries to cultivate an English-style garden. "My colleagues considered me decidedly odd when I manured the patch - although I was unclear as to whether it was cow or camel.''
By this time I was beginning to count the days until my return home, after nearly four years overseas and without sight or sound of my parents, family or friends. Telephone calls were never possible, and the mail had been limited for much of the period to one airmail letter card a week, which took an uncertain time to reach home, though most of them seemed to get there in the end.
The longer sea mail letters went round the Cape and took about three and a half months.
My posting was to Castel Benito, which was the very big Italian-built military airfield some 25 miles south of Tripoli. This was to deal with a new situation that was developing - namely the flying out of relief troops from UK to India and the returning of the time-expired troops from India to UK for de-mob.
Most of the crews had never flown outside Europe, and it was felt that they should have briefing from someone who knew the North African coast pretty well. The route from UK was usually a stop at Marseilles, Castel Benito, Cairo, Shaibah (the border between Iraq and Arabia) and then on down the Persian Gulf to Karachi.
October 1945
I hitched a lift in a passing aircraft, and on the journey I took another good look at Marble Arch, which was the massive stone arch erected at the coastal border between Tripolitania and Libya. Mussolini had ordered it with the intention that when the Italian troops conquered Libya, he would make a triumphant entry through the arch. This was a typical piece of Mussolini braggadocio, and it had provided us with a wonderful landmark during the war years when Marble Arch was a desert structure in the middle of nowhere.
The desert was pretty devoid of any worthwhile landmarks. Many of the Commonwealth troops had passed Marble Arch several times on the way forward or back, as the desert war moved in both directions. However, I had never seen it from the ground, and it was a good opportunity to have a proper look from the air. It seemed well built and totally out of place in the middle of a desert.
On arrival in Castel Benito I unloaded my gear and was allocated a comfortable room on a small officers’ housing section. This had all been Italian construction and had never been seriously damaged. After settling in and making contact with fellow members of the Officers’ Mess, I gradually assumed my responsibilities of briefing crews coming out to India or returning to UK.
It never seemed a very onerous or difficult job. There were no enemy positions or problems, and the flying to Cairo, Baghdad or the Gulf was simple enough. As for the flights north on the way back into the south of France and home to the UK, most of the crews were familiar with that territory. Since I had never flown over it, I was not able to give them any useful advice.
There was quite a substantial flow of aircraft flying from UK to India with relief troops to police that country and returning with those being sent back for de-mob. My responsibility was to ensure proper briefing for the crew and also to ensure that any freight was properly stowed and that the aircraft was not overweight.
Without any training in either of those areas, I think I coped OK. At least none of the aircraft flying from our airfield got lost or crashed. Today, in the vastly changed flying scene, I would not be allowed to do either job. The aircraft were usually Lancasters, Wellingtons, Stirlings or Liberators which had been hastily, and crudely, converted to carry passengers.
This was a job that continued for 24 hours. So it was worked out on a watch system and I would often find myself going to bed at 9 am.
Autumn is a pleasant time in that part of the world. Not too hot and with occasional rain. Since there was a plot of earth outside my room in a sort of courtyard, I decided to try and cultivate an English style garden. With some plants I picked up in Tripoli and regular watering, it began to look nice. I cannot imagine that when I left, it lasted for long because no one else was interested in such a peculiar pastime. My colleagues considered me decidedly odd when I manured the patch - although I was unclear as to whether it was cow or camel.
