Category: Non-Fiction

I was twenty-four when Egypt first settled into my bones. Not the Egypt of postcards and pyramids, but the Egypt of hot concrete runways shimmering under a white sun, the smell of aviation fuel drifting lazily across the dispersal pans, and voices floating up from the town markets beyond the wire where life continued with a rhythm entirely indifferent to war or empire.

My name is Ronald Walker, Pilot Officer in the Royal Air Force, and in 1954 I was stationed at RAF El Adem, just south of Tobruk. Officially, we were there to maintain stability and British interests across the region. Unofficially, we were young men flying fast aeroplanes, half-believing ourselves immortal.

I flew the de Havilland Mosquito — the “Wooden Wonder,” though by then she was becoming something of an elder stateswoman among aircraft. She lacked the brute modernity of the jets beginning to appear in other squadrons, but she possessed grace, reach, and a peculiar liveliness that made her feel less like a machine and more like a partner that rewarded care and punished arrogance.

I adored her.

Most pilots spoke of aircraft in practical terms: speed, climb rate, armament, handling at altitude. I spoke of her balance in a banking turn, the almost musical note of the engines when the propellers bit cleanly into dense desert air, and the way she seemed to sense hesitation through the controls. She flew best when one flew with conviction.

El Adem itself was a curious posting. The base was British, of course — orderly, precise, regulated by paperwork and tea — but Egypt and Libya seeped through the edges of daily life. Local contractors worked on the ground crews. Traders supplied fruit and coffee that tasted like smoke and earth. Children waved at our vehicles with wide, fearless grins. We were strangers, yet not entirely unwelcome.

I took to it immediately. I enjoyed the people, their patience, their humour, their endless capacity to negotiate everything from carpet prices to philosophical disagreements with equal enthusiasm. I found the country beautiful in a severe way — the desert stretching to horizons that made a man aware of his smallness, while the towns bustled with stubborn human colour.

And I developed a reputation within the squadron for two things: flying well and playing squash even better.

The squash courts sat behind the officers’ mess, constructed from pale stone that trapped the day’s heat and released it slowly through the evening matches. Squash was an obsession for me. I had played at school, dominated the station tournaments, and, being young, I carried my success with an enthusiasm that bordered on performance.

“Walker will be insufferable if he wins again,” one of the ground crew said once within earshot.

I smiled at the time. I took it as confirmation of my superiority rather than warning of my youth.

One afternoon, after dispatching another unfortunate flight lieutenant in straight sets, I was approached by a corporal who worked liaison duties with local staff.

“There’s an Egyptian gentleman who would like a game,” he said.

“Is he service?” I asked, towelling my neck.

“No, sir. Civilian contractor. Maintenance supply, I believe.”

I shrugged. “Bring him along.”

The man who entered the court was slight, silver-haired, and easily past sixty. He wore loose cotton trousers and carried a battered racket that looked older than most of the squadron.

He bowed his head slightly.

“Mr Walker,” he said in careful English, “I am Hassan.”

I offered him a hand and the casual confidence of youth. “Ronald, please. We play best of three?”

He smiled politely. “As you wish.”

I remember the match with uncomfortable clarity. At first, I played as I always did — aggressive, fast, driving the ball deep into corners, forcing my opponent to chase. Hassan moved slowly, almost lazily, returning each shot with gentle placement rather than force.

Within minutes, I realised I was chasing him.

He placed the ball into spaces that required me to cover the entire court, while he moved with minimal effort. He changed pace unpredictably. He let me tire myself. Each rally became longer. Each return more humiliatingly precise.

I lost the first game badly.

The second was worse.

He never struck the ball harder than necessary. He never appeared hurried. When I attempted to rush him, he simply angled the ball past me. When I attempted power, he absorbed it. When I attempted cunning, he anticipated it.

He defeated me without once raising his voice or breaking into anything resembling exertion.

At the end, he bowed again and placed his racket under his arm.

“You play with great strength,” he said. “Strength is very useful when one also knows patience.”

I laughed — partly from exhaustion, partly from embarrassment.

“Where did you learn?” I asked.

He gestured vaguely toward the town. “I have played since before your father was born, I think.”

He left me with a handshake and a lesson I would carry long after I forgot individual matches. Skill was not merely power or speed. Skill was observation, restraint, timing, and the quiet confidence of experience.

From that day, I trained differently. I watched my opponents more closely. I listened. I learned to wait.

It was a lesson I never expected to require in the air.

The political climate deteriorated gradually, then suddenly. Tensions between Britain and Egypt thickened into open hostility. Communications grew formal. Familiar faces at local markets disappeared. Patrol flights increased. Briefings adopted tones that replaced speculation with operational clarity.

War, when it comes, rarely announces itself with drama. It arrives disguised as administrative procedure.

I remember the morning it became real.

The desert air was unusually cool. I had just landed from a routine patrol when I climbed from the Mosquito and removed my helmet. The control tower — squat, glass-lined, permanently dust-coated — stood against the bright horizon like an observation post over an empty sea.

Inside that tower worked Arthur Bellamy, our senior air traffic controller. He was a meticulous man, fond of terrible jokes and immaculate handwriting. Two nights earlier, over whisky, I had asked him to be my best man when I returned home to marry Patricia.

He had accepted with theatrical solemnity.

I was still smiling about it when the siren began.

Not the drill siren. Not the routine alert. The full, continuous wail that stripped humour from the airfield in seconds.

Ground crews sprinted. Vehicles scattered. The tannoy crackled with overlapping instructions. A runner approached, breathless.

“Hostile aircraft inbound from the west. Multiple contacts. Scramble orders issued.”

I did not think of strategy. I thought of the tower.

I ran.

My navigator, Flight Sergeant Peter Langford — calm, methodical, infinitely reliable — was already climbing aboard. He handed me my helmet without speaking. We had flown together long enough to communicate through economy.

Engines fired. The Merlin engines coughed, roared, and settled into that deep, confident thunder that vibrated through the entire airframe. The scent of oil and hot metal filled the cockpit. I taxied with urgency restrained only by procedure drilled into muscle memory.

The radio burst with voices: scrambled instructions, altitude reports, requests for confirmation. Through the canopy, I saw anti-aircraft crews swinging their guns toward the horizon.

“Tower reports fast movers approaching at medium altitude,” Langford said quietly behind me. “Numbers uncertain.”

I acknowledged and opened the throttles.

The Mosquito surged forward, tail lifting, runway racing beneath us until gravity surrendered. We climbed steeply into the bright morning sky, banking toward the approaching threat.

For a moment, there was only blue and sun glare. Then shapes resolved against the haze.

Two aircraft. Single-engine fighters. Sleeker, faster silhouettes than ours.

Langford confirmed what my eyes already suspected. Egyptian Air Force.

I felt no shock. Only a narrowing of focus.

Below us, the airfield spread like a vulnerable map — hangars, fuel depots, the tower where Arthur would be coordinating defence, perhaps watching our climb with his usual unflappable calm.

The fighters descended toward the base with clear intent.

“Ronald,” Langford said, voice measured, “they’re lining for the tower and dispersal.”

I adjusted course, climbing to intercept. The Mosquito was not designed to out-dogfight modern single-engine fighters in sustained turning combat. But she retained advantages — heavy armament, high speed in a dive, and exceptional stability as a gun platform.

The lesson from Hassan surfaced unexpectedly. Do not rush. Observe. Let the opponent reveal his rhythm.

The Egyptian pilots split, one climbing, one diving toward the airfield. A coordinated attack.

I chose the higher aircraft first. The diving fighter would require time to re-climb after its run. The climbing pilot posed the immediate aerial threat.

I banked sharply, pushing the Mosquito into a climbing intercept. The Merlin engines protested slightly but held steady. The Egyptian pilot spotted us quickly and rolled into a tight turn, attempting to force us into overshoot.

He was skilled. His aircraft turned inside ours easily.

I resisted the instinct to follow directly. Instead, I widened the turn, preserving speed. The Mosquito shuddered slightly as we pushed her beyond comfortable limits, but she responded faithfully.

The Egyptian tightened his circle, expecting pursuit. I climbed slightly above his arc, then rolled down across his flight path, using gravity to increase closure speed.

“Guns ready,” Langford said.

The moment aligned — not by force, but by patience. The fighter crossed our sights. I fired.

The Mosquito’s nose-mounted cannons erupted, the recoil vibrating through the controls. Tracer lines stitched across the Egyptian aircraft’s wing root. Smoke burst from the engine cowling.

He attempted to break away, rolling sharply. For a second, our aircraft flew parallel, close enough that I glimpsed the pilot’s helmet turning toward us.

Then flame erupted along his fuselage. The fighter pitched downward, trailing black smoke as it spiralled toward the desert beyond the airfield.

There was no triumph in the moment. Only clarity. The engagement remained incomplete.

“Second aircraft commencing attack run,” Langford warned.

I rolled and dived toward the base. The second Egyptian fighter screamed across the runway line, guns firing. Dust and debris erupted near the tower. Anti-aircraft tracers clawed upward around him.

Rage did not guide me. Nor fear. Only a cold determination anchored by a singular thought: Arthur was in that tower.

The fighter pulled up steeply after his firing pass, climbing directly into our path. He saw us late. He attempted a defensive roll combined with a dive, using superior manoeuvrability.

This pilot was bold — perhaps younger, more aggressive. He executed sharp, unpredictable direction changes, attempting to exploit our heavier airframe.

I remembered Hassan again — the patient placement, the refusal to match energy with energy blindly.

Instead of chasing each turn, I anticipated the pattern. The fighter alternated high-G turns with brief straight accelerations to regain speed. I held slightly above his flight path, waiting for the straight segment.

It came after his fourth turn. He levelled momentarily, perhaps to assess our position or prepare another dive.

I dropped behind him and fired a controlled burst.

The rounds struck his tail assembly. The aircraft jolted violently, then entered an uncontrolled spin. He fought the controls desperately, levelling briefly before the aircraft rolled inverted and plunged downward.

I followed his descent only long enough to confirm impact beyond the perimeter. Then I pulled away, scanning for further threats.

The sky cleared. The radio settled into structured reports. Base defence confirmed no additional attackers.

I circled once, breathing slowly, allowing adrenaline to subside. The airfield below remained intact. The tower still stood.

“Tower reports minor damage,” Langford relayed after a pause. “No casualties confirmed.”

I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled.

The landing felt strangely ordinary. Wheels touched concrete. Engines wound down. Ground crew approached cautiously, faces searching for damage, then relief.

Arthur met me at the base of the ladder. His shirt sleeves were rolled, tie missing, hair dusted with debris.

“You’re still expecting me to stand as best man?” he said.

I laughed, though my hands trembled slightly as I removed my helmet.

“More than ever.”

He clasped my shoulder firmly.

The formal debrief occurred later. Reports were written. Engagement details recorded. Aircraft identifications speculated upon. Numbers, bearings, ammunition counts — the bureaucracy of survival.

Yet that night, sitting alone outside the mess, I found my thoughts returning not to victory, but to Hassan.

War had drawn lines across friendships, across markets and courts and conversations. Men who might have shared coffee or sport now flew toward each other with lethal intent. I felt no regret — only a heavy awareness of how swiftly roles change when governments redraw loyalties.

I thought of the Egyptian pilots’ skill. Their discipline. The courage required to fly directly into defended airspace. They had not been faceless enemies. They had been professionals, perhaps fathers, perhaps mentors to younger airmen as Arthur had been to us.

The desert night wrapped the base in quiet. Somewhere beyond the perimeter lights, life continued in villages and towns untouched by the morning’s violence.

Langford joined me eventually, offering two glasses of whisky without speaking. We drank in companionable silence.

“Good flying today,” he said at last.

“Good patience,” I replied.

Years later, when younger pilots asked me about that engagement, they expected tales of heroism or tactical brilliance. I told them instead about a squash court and an elderly Egyptian who taught me that strength without patience exhausts itself, while patience transforms strength into precision.

Flying, like sport, demanded reading an opponent’s rhythm. War demanded it with consequences no match could ever replicate.

I carried that lesson through every flight afterward. It shaped how I approached conflict, negotiation, and eventually life beyond the cockpit.

Egypt remained dear to me despite everything. The people, the landscapes, the laughter, even the scorching wind across El Adem’s runways — all of it formed part of my youth and my understanding of the world’s complicated loyalties.

I never spoke lightly of that morning again. Not from sorrow, nor from pride, but from respect for the fragile line between friend and foe, and for the strange ways life teaches its most important lessons.

And whenever I stepped onto a squash court for the rest of my life, I looked first for patience before strength, hearing Hassan’s gentle voice reminding me that victory often belongs to those who wait long enough to understand the game.

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Author’s Note

Some names have been changed. Ronald Walker (known to many as Johnnie Walker) died in December 2016 at the age of 87. Like many pilots with long careers, he shared countless stories with his family—this one among them. Although I have recreated and embellished elements of the narrative, the two central incidents at RAF El Adem—Ronald being comprehensively beaten at squash by a man nearly three times his age, and his shooting down of two enemy aircraft attacking the ATC—are events he himself described.