1950s: A mirage No it was Santa flying in for Christmas in the desert

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It was Christmas 1956 and the Suez Crisis was about to erupt. June Kane, a former ATS girl from Mickleover, was in Libya at the Jala Barracks just outside Tripoli with her husband, Robert, who had been posted there. It looked as though it was going to be a dull affair until the Americans invited the Brits over to their Wheelus base out in the desert. There was no snow, no holly, no robins and no Christmas trees but there was a Santa and he did come out of the sky – but not in a reindeer-drawn sleigh, as June, of Onslow Road, Mickleover, recounts.

Desert Christmas: It’s a bird, it’s a plane. No, it’s Santa Claus. Cartoon by Dave Hitchcock

DO we celebrate Christmas on the right day? This question nagged at me in the 1950s when I was far from my Derby home, living in an Arab world.

My husband, soldier Robert was posted to Tripoli, Libya, which takes me back to the Christmas of 1955. Both myself and daughter Julia joined him there, and we soon settled in. But our Arab friends – staunch believers in the Koran – used to tease us about Christmas.

“It is in May, ” they would say. “Missi (me) is wrong. There are no shepherds on the hills in December. The lambs are not born until the spring. You are wrong.

“The shepherds guard their flocks by night to keep the wolves from stealing their lambs. You can’t be right. And the star rises in the East over Judea in the spring.

“When the Angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds and told them of the news and that the star would lead them to Bethlehem, it must have been spring.”

So were they right? Had we got it wrong? But surely it was better to celebrate the birth of Jesus in December, even if we had got it wrong, rather than not at all?

Anyway, we were determined to celebrate Christmas come what may and, with the help of our American friends at Wheelus airbase on the outskirts of Tripoli, we enjoyed the most wonderful Christmas Day.

They invited us over and I have to say that the Americans wanted for nothing. Fresh milk was flown in daily from Australia, whereas we poor Brits existed on tinned Carnation evaporated. They certainly did us proud. I often think of the moment we arrived. It was more reminiscent of a fairground than the promised festive picnic.

All we had to do was avoid the bright green sand lizards, like glass bottles darting in and out of the sand. I found myself wondering where all the glitter, food and equipment had magically come from. They didn’t do anything by halves.

I can still hear the cheers of the children, skipping about in the heat, nibbling ice lollies in a vain attempt to keep cool. There was a quite large oasis not too far away. Stray camels rested on their knees in the shade of a few palms.

Away on the horizon, there was a long twisting train of caravans of traders or nomads. Accompanying this was the music, Que sera, sera. What ever will be, will be. What a memory.

The little ones had found a rubber swimming pool, complete with rubber ducks, and were paddling happily. Everyone seemed content.

Dates and oranges and sandy sandwiches were being consumed. The grown-ups were lolling around enjoying the relaxation. Lemonade and stronger drinks for the mums and dads were being consumed, along with salads and chickens served on cardboard plates. Such a variety.

Then, abruptly, the music stopped and the microphone took over. “He’s coming! Father Christmas is coming!” came booming across the air.

“It’s time!” said one of the organisers, glancing at his watch and pointing to a dot, far away, high up in the sky.

As the whirling rota blades of the helicopter became plainer, the children stood mouths agape. Then, covering their faces to protect them from the sand, they watched as best they could as it descended lower and lower, evenutally landing.

The blades came to a standstill and then, with a “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas everyone!” the door slid back and Father Christmas stepped out.

The children surged forward, the excitement reaching fever pitch.

There were cries of “Hello Santa” and “Are you real?” as his hat and whiskers were lost in the sand. Out followed his elf helpers with sacks of toys. There were bicycles with wheels that wouldn’t turn in the sand, games, even doll’s houses for the girls.

All at once, seemingly hundreds of balloons of all colours filled the air and someone hoisted a Union Jack and a Stars and Stripes over the tent.

Eventually Father Christmas and his entourage made their escape into the tent for refreshments.

I often wonder if there is anyone who remembers that special occasion – children now grown up with families of their own here in England, or somewhere in America, perhaps?

It certainly was different. No snow, no holly, no usual Christmas fare and no robins, though there was a stork or two.

Oh, and we did sing a few traditional Christmas carols before we went back to the city.

And there were a few tears here and there from the children as Santa and his elves lifted off and flew back to Lapland.

He told them he’d given his reindeers the day off.

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