Open Writing

There were several unserviceable aircraft in the hangars that were gradually being put into flying order. One was a Kittyhawk, and I offered to take it down to Cairo. After booking out and checking the aircraft, I heard reports that a plague of locusts was expected.

I felt I should get airborne as quickly as possible and taxied out - only to see an enormous black cloud descending on the airfield. I felt I could get airborne without getting involved with the locusts, but my inexperience proved that to be a wrong decision.

As I built up speed to take off, a cloud of bodies splattered over my windscreen, and it became evident that takeoff would be extreme folly. So throttle back and wait to be towed in. The aircraft was in one dreadful mess, and dead locusts were splattered all over the place, including in the engine.

They settled everywhere and ate anything that was growing. The local Arabs were delighted and collected as many locusts as possible, which they ate raw. Finally they all took off and went elsewhere, revealing a devastated area.

Another opportunity arose. This time with a Mustang that had been repaired and was also to be flown to Cairo. With a tailwind I really made good speed in the fast aircraft and at the time felt I had probably earned a world record flying between Tripoli and Cairo.

Christmas was approaching, and it was clear that my number would soon turn up, permitting my return to UK for demob. So, like many others, I started counting the days.

Christmas came. The first Christmas of peace since 1938, and in each mess there were parties. As was my custom, I visited the Sergeants’ Mess where I was offered a drink.

As a light drinker, my request was for anything appropriate. A large glass was placed before me, which I drank without questioning, without really recognising what it was. On asking, the answer was, “You asked for everything and so I’ve mixed everything we had in the bar.” The result that night was catastrophic. Neither before nor since had I been sick following drinking. Fortunately it all happened in the toilet attached to my room. A good lesson on the folly of mixing drinks.

As the days rolled by, it became clear that my demob papers would arrive during early January. Whilst waiting a Miles Master, an advanced dual-controlled training aircraft, was supposedly made serviceable and was ready for air test. I offered to air test it.

The start up was simple and I went to taxi the aircraft out for takeoff. Realising immediately that the rudder controls had been reversed so that left rudder steered the plane to the right and right rudder to the left, I immediately stopped, switched off and reported the aircraft unserviceable for the obvious reason.

I was met with what seemed to me something of a classic comment: “Now you know, Sir, it is easy enough to fly the aircraft merely using the controls in reverse.” That seemed to be a warning, and my decision was No More Flying Until After My Demob.

Within a few days the return for demob papers arrived, and it was then only a question of packing, saying goodbye and waiting for an appropriate aircraft to take me back. I chose my own crew, loaded my substantial gear aboard and obtained an uncomfortable seat in a York aircraft, a transport version of the Lancaster bomber.

Due to bad weather we were diverted to Istres Airfield in the south of France and spent the night there. It occurred to me that we were in the centre of what would again become a luxury holiday area, but a night in an RAF transit camp was no luxury. However I was well used to spending nights in all sorts of strange places from Iraq to Ceylon.

The next morning we were off early and in three and a half hours had reached Holnsley South in Dorset where the transport sergeant was making available travel vouchers. Mine was to London, and in due time I arrived at Paddington where I obtained a taxi and loaded my large amount of gear.

I had not advised my parents of my immediate return nor had I phoned them when we landed in the UK. Thus my arrival home in the evening caused so much excitement after three and a half years that I thought my parents could well have a heart attack. Even Sally, our bull terrier bitch, remembered me and was delighted at my return.

The first night at home and the return to my own bed were something rather special after this long time, and made me thankful for a safe return to my family.

My parents did not appear to have aged, and life picked up much as before. I had gone overseas as a Sergeant Pilot and came back as a Flight Lieutenant. To be alive was the biggest thrill.

The rest of my service career was pretty mundane. A reasonable amount of leave followed by a posting to Bournemouth, followed by a posting to Yorkshire for the actual demob operation. There I handed in my Mae West and parachute that had been part of me for so long and was given a pretty awful demob suit in which I travelled home. Thus completing the transition from Flight Lieutenant to Mr. Davis.