Before he put pen to paper, Roald Dahl was a fighter pilot.

Looking for adventure, Dahl set sail from England to Dar es Salaam in 1938, aged 22. He learned Swahili, encountered the deadly black and green mambas, breakfasted on lime-drenched pawpaws. What a life!

‘Do you play the violin?’ I had once asked him.

‘Don’t be daft,’ he had answered. ‘I don’t even play the gramophone.’

Following Britain’s declaration of war, Dahl drove to Nairobi to join the RAF. He chases zebra from the runway and learns to fly Tiger Moths. It’s all jolly, until he crashes.

Dahl’s account zips along, and is interspersed with letters to his mum, flight details from his Log Book, telegrams, maps, and photographs. There are humourous moments, but the standout feature is Dahl’s unfussy, unassuming narrative of a junior Hurricane pilot assigned to a tiny squadron in Greece quite unprepared to thwart the rising German air presence.

A light, quick read which ends at exactly the right (and very touching) moment.