‘Two.’
Abby looked at Commander Twining. ‘Two? I thought it was three?’
Twining nodded. ‘It was. Gibraltar received a report last night from an undersea boat that one of the Harridans had gone down and the pilot killed.’
‘Who?’
Twining turned to Gwen, who hadn’t been able to contain herself. ‘Sorry?’
‘Who was the pilot? Was it Drake?’
‘Uh, no. I think the man’s name was Lloyd. I’m sorry I don’t know his first name.’
While Gwen sagged in relief, Abby grimaced. ‘Lloyd Hughes?’
Twining nodded. ‘Yes, that’s him. Apparently it was mechanical failure. His Harridan was badly damaged in a scrap. It fell out of the sky while he was on approach and hit a stone wall.’
Abby looked to Dorothy Campbell, who was sitting silently next to the corkboards. She had known Hughes for more than twenty years, the two of them having been posted to the same squadron briefly in the twenties.
Campbell met her eyes and shook her head minutely - there was no need to say anything; there would be time to mourn later. In private.
Abby gave her an equally small nod, then went on quickly. ‘The Hal Far Fighter Force has been doing what they can, but as you can imagine that’s not much against up to seven raids a day with more than a hundred bombers, and the Prussians have been bombing almost with impunity. However, since there’s not much of strategic importance on the island, beyond the airfields, and Malta is only really important for its location, the Prussians and Italians haven’t seemed to care too much where they drop their bombs and the civilians have been taking the brunt of the attack. Especially in the capital, Valletta.’
‘Bastards.’
Abby didn’t respond to Mac’s muttered comment and went on as if he hadn’t said anything. ‘The War Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that we, and a single Spitsteam squadron who will join 261 Squadron, are all that can be spared from the defence of Britain. They did at least supply them with fifty Spitsteams and plenty of spares, though, so replacements shouldn’t become an issue for a while at least.’
‘Will they be joining us for tomorrow’s navigation exercise?’
Abby smiled at Derek’s refined voice and well-phrased question which managed to convey his misgivings about the mission in a quintessentially British manner.
‘I’m afraid not; there was no room on the Arturo or the Heart of Oak for their Spits to be carried assembled, so they will be delivered along with C flight.’
‘Bloody typical. As always we’re the poor fools who get to stick our necks oot.’
Again, Abby ignored Mac and just kept her gaze firmly on Derek. ‘Don’t envy them, though; while we’re here being wined and dined, they are stuck on a troop ship with a couple of thousand soldiers... Welsh soldiers at that, so I think you can imagine what it smells like.’
‘Hey!’
Abby winked at Owen, who crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out. She chuckled at her friend’s antics, then moved back to the first corkboard and tapped a map that showed Malta, Sicily and some of Southern Italy. ‘Considering what we faced in Britain and Muscovy we should be used to these kind of odds by now, but this is a whole different prospect.’
She ran her finger from Malta to the neighbouring island of Sicily. ‘The enemy are based here in Sicily, between sixty and seventy miles away. That means they can be over our heads in less than twenty minutes.’
Gwen grimaced. ‘So, even if it only takes us a few minutes to spot them and take off, their fighters are always going to have a height advantage.’
Abby nodded. ‘Quite right. Which is why we’re going to divide our forces in two and have half our fighters in the air at all times. I’ve already spoken to the officer commanding the Spits, Squadron Leader Tiffin, and he has agreed not only to put his squadron under my command, but also to split it in two. So, Derek, you’ll lead one flight with Kitty, Bruce, Monty and six Spitsteams and I’ll be taking the rest. Any questions?’
When there were none, she returned to the larger scale map. ‘The Ministry is confident that we can regain air superiority in a matter of weeks, at which time the bombers will come out of hibernation and we will begin to make our own attacks, not only on their airfields, but their ports as well.’
There were a few chuckles and scathing remarks at the Ministry’s optimism and she waved her hands to quieten them. ‘Yes, I know it’s a tall order, but I cannot stress enough, just how important Malta is to the war. If we lose the island, then the Prussians have a clear path to supply their forces in North Africa. That will likely result in us being pushed out of the only theatre where we actually have a chance to fight back and it will also render the Muscovites extremely vulnerable from the south.’
‘Then why hasn’t the Ministry sent more people?’ Owen asked simply.
‘Don’t forget Britain still has to be defended. Aircraft are being produced as quickly as possible, but until enough pilots are trained up to fly them then Britain is going to be vulnerable. This is all that could be spared.’ She grinned. ‘Besides, we’re Misfit Squadron - this is a piece of cake for us.’
Bruce and Monty simultaneously blew raspberries and, because the briefing was coming to a close, Abby let them get away with it. ‘There is one vaguely positive piece of news, though, and that is that there has as yet been no sign of the Crimson Barons, although we know from the intelligence provided by Squadron Leader Drake that they will be joining the assault on Malta at some point, so don’t let down your guard.’ Abby rubbed her hands. ‘Well, that’s all people - after you’ve packed your bags and made sure everything is ready for tomorrow, then you’re free until first light. And try to get some rest for once, please!’
Gwen and Kitty went directly to the hangar deck after the briefing to check on their aircraft. Despite the fact that all of the aircraft were in tiptop condition, completely repaired after the damage they had sustained in Muscovy as well as repainted and polished to a high shine, the fitters were there, fussing over them. They had been informed of the morning’s flight at the same time as the pilots and, being the elite group of men and women they were, couldn’t help but give their machines another look.
Excalibur’s wings were designed to fold up on a carrier to save space, but with the cavernous hangar given over entirely to the Misfits there had been no need to do so and Gwen found her fitters, along with a couple of Navy mechanics who often helped out, standing on them, clustered around the cockpit, her chief fitter, Sergeant Jenkins, sitting inside.
They hadn’t noticed her arrival and she didn’t bother them, but instead just stood back to appreciate the sight of the aircraft she had been gifted with for Midwinter. Seeing one of her designs come to life was always a very special experience, but the fact that her entire squadron and the King himself had wanted to construct the aircraft for her as a present made it unique and every time she saw Excalibur her insides warmed with a glow that she’d thought only Kitty could ignite.
Having said that, the aircraft hadn’t turned out to be quite as perfect as she’d been in her mind. Very early on in testing it had become very clear that, while she was just as fast and agile as she’d known she would be, she also had a few foibles. Most of them were easy enough to compensate for and she quickly discovered she could live with them, especially because they were a direct result of the aircraft’s high-performance, but one - the tendency the aircraft had for one wing to stall before the other - was potentially fatal and needed to be put right.
The only trouble was that Gwen was too used to her designs being as good as flawless and she’d had no idea how to do so.
She had spent days in the design shed at Bagshot Hall, trying to find a solution, but no matter what she came up with it never seemed to work in her head. She had almost become resigned to the fact that she might have to completely change the wing shape, or do something else equally drastic, but when she mentioned the problem over dinner it had taken Lady Penelope
Bagshot less than a heartbeat to suggest simply installing a stall strip. That strip, a simple, six-inch, triangular cross-sectioned piece of metal on the front edge of Excalibur’s right wing, had not only made the stall much more predictable but had taught Gwen a valuable lesson - that even though she might be arguably one of the best designers in the world there were others who had far more experience than her and it was foolish to insist on working on her own out of pride and not ask for help when she needed it.
‘Ma’am?’
While she’d been lost in her thoughts, the fitters had finished what they were doing and Sergeant Jenkins had come over to see what she wanted.
‘Morning, Sergeant. Is something wrong in the cockpit?’
The grey-haired veteran grinned and shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, nothing wrong, but I think you should come and have a look anyway.’
Gwen frowned, not sure why she would need to look if nothing was wrong, but nonetheless did as he asked.
She jumped up onto the back of the wing then made her way along to the cockpit and climbed in.
‘What am I looking...? Oh!’ Gwen’s eyes widened when she noticed a new addition - a dark wooden slat, about two feet long and four inches wide, with Excalibur deeply carved on it in an ornate script, had been fitted above the main instruments on the panel.
A shadow looked over her and she looked up expecting to find Jenkins, but met the eyes of the captain of the Arturo instead. He was out of breath, but grinning even so.
‘Captain Hewer!’
‘Lieutenant Stone. I hope you don’t mind.’ He nodded at the piece of wood.
‘No, of course not, it’s beautiful!’ She gazed at the slat, taking in the dozens of shallower, nautically-themed carvings woven in and around the name. She couldn’t resist reaching out to run her hand over it, feeling its warmth, so different from the cold metal of the rest of the aircraft.
‘It’s one of the spokes from the Arturo’s wheel.’ Hewer said. ‘I had it trimmed to shape, then carved by our best scrimshaw artist. The last few days it’s been passed from hand to hand around the ship so that everyone could get a look at it, which is why it hasn’t been installed until now.’
Jenkins had appeared on the other side of the cockpit and he smiled sheepishly. ‘I hope you don’t mind, ma’am, but I gave them a Duralumin strut from the fuselage to replace it. I was going to ask you for permission, but the captain wanted it to be a surprise and I was ordered to silence. Sorry.’
Gwen gave him a mock serious look. ‘That’s alright, I’ll forgive you, Sergeant, as long as you put another one in its place.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Jenkins said, looking hurt. ‘I wouldn’t let you fly with a sub-standard aircraft, you know that!’
Gwen chuckled; Jenkins was very serious about his work, sometimes overly so and she should have expected him to take her literally. ‘I do, Sergeant. It was just a joke.’
Jenkins blinked, puzzled. ‘Oh. Alright. Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Never mind, it wasn’t a very good one.’ She smiled at him, then turned back to the captain. ‘So, Excalibur has a piece of the Arturo in her and the Arturo has a piece of Excalibur.’
‘Indeed! The entire crew wanted to do something to honour your new aircraft and this was the best suggestion they came up with.’ Hewer winked and leaned in to whisper to her. ‘And it also did a marvellous job of raising morale after we were told we were becoming a bloody merchant vessel.’
‘I’m truly sorry about that.’
Hewer shrugged. ‘No need; it was going to happen sooner or later. This old lady has had her day and Britain needs more modern weapons if she’s going to get survive the storm. At least we’ve been given a chance to be useful; they could have put us in mothballs or scrapped us for metal - Neptune knows we need as much of that as we can get these days.’
He gave the wooden slat a last look, then patted Excalibur fondly. ‘Anyway, I have to get back to the bridge. Good luck tomorrow, Lieutenant, happy hunting and we’ll see you on Malta in a few days.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
Hewer jumped heavily down from the wing and stomped away towards the bow, greeting those of his men who called out to him as he passed, leaving Gwen to wonder at the high regard in which she and her fellow Misfits were held and the effect they had on the British people’s lives, far beyond their accomplishments in the war.
The bar in the officer’s mess on the Arturo began serving drinks as soon as the sun was above the yardarm and Mac made sure he was there every day.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have plenty of alcohol stashed among his personal effects, because he did, but rather he knew that he was going to need that on Malta, which by all accounts had become a bit dry for his liking due to the blockade.
The briefing had delayed his trip down to the fifth deck a bit, but he’d made up for the lost time by putting a little something in his coffee. However, it wasn’t nearly enough and as soon as it was finished he rushed out of the Misfits’ quarters, going through the bulkhead door and into the stairwell. He had to pause there, though, and clutch at the railing as the world spun around him and he became suddenly unsure as to exactly where the top step was - he didn’t want to come a cropper the day before he could finally start killing some Prussians. Or Italians. Whoever the enemy damn well was in the Mediterranean. He didn’t care, all he wanted to do was kill them and start taking his revenge for...
‘Mac, a word please.’
Mac suppressed a groan as Abby’s voice came from behind him and managed to force a smile as he turned. ‘Abby. What c’n I do fer yer?’ He used the railing to help him stand as straight as he could and tried to focus on his friend’s eyes, but they kept slipping off to one side and he was having trouble not leaning to one side in an attempt to follow them.
‘We haven’t had much of a chance to talk since the New Year’s party and I just wanted to know how you were.’
‘Oh, grand, grand. Thank ye fer asking.’
He turned to go, preferring to brave the shifting stairs than to face the inquisition, but was pulled to a stop when she put a hand on his arm. She stepped in and looked up at him, staring into his eyes, scrutinising him with a frown. ‘You don’t look “grand”, in fact you look like something one of my cats dragged in.’
Mac scowled. ‘How I look doesnae matter, now, does it? It’s how I fly that makes me a Misfit.’
‘You’re right,’ Abby nodded, ‘and that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. I’ve turned a blind eye to your drinking up until now, but that ends now.’
‘What I do on my own time is my own damn business.’ Mac growled through clenched teeth.
Abby held his gaze, not backing off an inch in the face of his sudden belligerence or his breath. ‘But it is if it effects your flying. If you’re too drunk to do your job then it won’t just be yourself you kill but the people who depend on you to cover their arses as well. So, right here, right now, I’m letting you know that if I ever get even just a whiff of alcohol on you before a mission I will make sure you never fly again.’
Mac opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him and Abby just continued.
‘This is your only warning.’ Her expression finally softened and she stepped back. ‘Please, Mac, do the right thing. We need you.’ She held his gaze for a few second, then turned and went back through the bulkhead, leaving him alone in the stairwell.
Mac spun on his heels and stomped down the stairs, even more desperate for a drink than before. However, before he’d even descended a single flight, he stopped and leaned heavily on the safety rail.
‘Dammit...’
Chapter 2
Shortly after dawn, the pilots dressed in their flightsuits and gathered in the lounge area for breakfast.
Most of them looked and felt extremely tired, having become unused to the early mornings that were part and parcel of their lives over the holidays, but Mac’s hands were shaking, making his teacup chink against its saucer and he had to
rush out of the room after only a few sips.
When he came back, he caught sight of Abby staring at him and he growled at her, glaring at her defiantly. ‘Dinna fash yersel.’
When her expression didn’t soften in the slightest, he eventually deflated and muttered ‘I’m dry, alright?’ before turning away, grabbing a bacon sarnie and slinking over to an armchair.
Gwen sat with Kitty and Scarlet, nibbling a slice of toast and sipping at a mug of tea. She didn’t like to have too much to eat or drink before flying, not wanting the distraction of a heavy stomach or a sudden urge to pee. Her two companions didn’t concern themselves with such things, though, and both the American and the Irishwoman were stuffing their faces and gulping down their coffee and tea thirstily.
It wasn’t just the prospect of being uncomfortable during the flight that was preventing her from enjoying her breakfast, though; she was worried about the journey, not so much for herself, but for her two friends. Nine hundred miles really was pushing it for many of the Misfits’ aircraft, including theirs, and, even though the forecast for the morning was generally good, there was no telling what kind of winds there would be off the coast of Africa.
Kitty saw her frown and grinned, showing teeth encrusted with breadcrumbs and brown sauce. ‘Worry about yourself for once, darling.’
Gwen shrugged. ‘I don’t have to; Excalibur will make it with a couple of hundred miles to spare. You guys, though...’ She tutted and shook her head regretfully.
Scarlet laughed, but there was a note of nervousness in her eyes that wasn’t usually there and Gwen immediately regretted being flippant. There was no time to rectify the situation, though.
‘Alright, everybody, time to go!’ Abby called out from the door. ‘There are packets of sandwiches and a thermos in everybody’s cockpit for the journey in case you’re still peckish, no need to stuff yourselves now.’
Gwen brushed her hands off over her plate and took one last sip of tea before standing up. She took Kitty’s hand when she offered it and together they followed the rest of the pilots out.
The Maltese Defence Page 5