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Superb stories, daring deeds, fantastic adventures!
Going Solo is the action-packed tale of Roald Dahl's exploits as a World War II pilot. Learn all about his encounters with the enemy, his worldwide travels, the life-threatening injuries he sustained in a plane accident, and the rest of his sometimes bizarre, often unnerving, and always colorful adventures. Told with the same irresistible appeal that has made Roald Dahl one of the world's best-loved writers, Going Solo brings you directly into the action and into the mind of this fascinating man.
little spy-hole, I spotted a movement at the far end of the deck. Then a naked body materialized. But this was no ghost. It was all too solid flesh, and the man was moving swiftly over the deck between the lifeboats and the ventilators and making no sound at all as he came galloping towards me. He was short and stocky and slightly pot-bellied in his nakedness, with a big black moustache on his face, and when he was twenty yards away he caught sight of my silly head sticking out of the port-hole
properly declared. And even then the enemy must be given the chance to surrender before you kill him.’ ‘How will we know when war is declared?’ Mdisho asked me. ‘They will tell us on the wireless from England,’ I said. ‘We shall all know within a few seconds.’ ‘And then the fun will begin!’ he cried, clapping his hands. ‘Oh bwana, I can hardly wait for that time to come!’ ‘If you want to fight, you must become a soldier first,’ I told him. ‘You will have to join the Kenya Regiment and
bwana, and it took four hours each way. That is why I am so late. I am sorry to be so late.’ Mdisho stopped. He had finished his story. I knew it was true. The German sisal-owner was called Fritz Kleiber and he was a wealthy and extremely unpleasant bachelor. It was rumoured that he treated his workers badly and had been known to beat them with a sjambok, which is a murderous whip made of rhinoceros hide. I wondered why he hadn’t been rounded up by our people before Mdisho got to him. They
Commodore said. ‘It’s about a mile from the sea and our navy is standing offshore waiting to take off the troops. Your task will be to give air cover to the navy.’ ‘There are only seven of us, sir,’ someone said. ‘You’ll be doing a vital job,’ the Air Commodore announced, his moustache bristling. ‘You will be responsible for the protection of half the Mediterranean fleet.’ God help them, I thought. The Air Commodore pointed a finger at me. ‘You,’ he said, ‘get cracking! Deliver that
you want something badly enough,’ he said, ‘and if you need something badly enough, you can always get it.’ He stood up and slapped me on the back. ‘You have a lot to learn,’ he said. ‘But you are a good boy. You are fighting for freedom. So am I.’ He led me out of the hut and through the grove of fig trees that were covered with small unripe fruit, and all the children were still clustered around my Hurricane, gazing at it in absolute wonder. I had bought another Zeiss camera in Cairo to