‘The Spit will be lightened as much as possible by removing the guns and ammunition and as much of the armour as we can without weakening the structure. That will give it increased range to cover most of Sicily and increased speed to outrun any pursuit. We will then place a couple of the smallest cameras from Vulture in the middle of the fuselage, as close to the balance point as we can, and point them downwards through holes cut in the Duralumin.’
‘Pointing downwards?’ asked Abby with a frown. ‘That means the pilot is going to have to fly directly over the airfields one by one.’
Chalky nodded. ‘They will, yes.’
‘Can’t you mount them at an angle, like they are in Vulture?’
He shook his head. ‘No, the platform isn’t steady enough, this is the only way to get a decent picture.’
Abby grimaced. ‘Alright, then I suppose this will have to do. When can you have it ready?’
‘It already is.’
Abby blinked, then smiled. ‘And what if I’d said no?’
‘Then I seem to remember something about a chair bolted to the side of Hummingbird...’ Scarlet answered before Chalky could.
Abby pointed a finger at her. ‘I’ll bloody bolt a chair to Dragon for you if you ever try anything so silly. You got lucky in Muscovy, don’t push it, please.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
Scarlet’s answer didn’t convince Abby, but she had other, more pressing, matters to think about. ‘How low does this have to be to get decent pictures?’
‘Well, obviously the lower the better, but to just get an idea of the general situation and see what aircraft are on the ground I’d say thirty thousand feet will be alright.’
Abby nodded. ‘Good, that’ll take away some of the risk at least; by the time they can get anyone up that high it’ll be on its way home.’
Scarlet gave her a look. ‘That was kind of the general idea, Abby.’
Abby smiled. ‘Right then. We’ll do it tomorrow morning when we go up to meet the dawn raid; the reconnaissance aircraft can go up at the same time as us and just keep climbing, that way the Prussians won’t realise anything special is happening until it’s too late.’
Charles shook his head. ‘We’ll get better pictures as close to noon as possible, that way the shadows won’t be as long.’
‘Alright then. And as for who to fly it.’ She looked around the table and was pleased to see universally eager faces, especially from the Navy pilots, who were always looking for an opportunity to impress. ‘Well, it can’t be me or Gwen, because the Prussians will expect to see Dragon and Excalibur. Unless you want to let Bruce fly Excalibur again, Gwen?’
Gwen’s eyes widened in alarm and she shook her head vigorously. ‘Not a chance! I’ve only just got her patched up after the last time!’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Abby said with a grin. She looked to Scarlet and Chalky, both of whom met her eyes expectantly. ‘Sorry, but it’s not going to be either of you; I want someone with experience in a Spit, in case things go sideways.’
Neither pilot was particularly happy, but they nonetheless nodded in understanding.
Abby looked at the rest of the pilots. ‘Which leaves you sorry lot...’ She weighed up the options. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Farrier, do you fancy becoming our high-speed reconnaissance expert?’
The fresh-faced nineteen-year-old girl’s face lit up. ‘Do I ever, ma’am!’
Bruce sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, to be that young and innocent again...’
‘You were never that innocent, Bruce,’ said Abby.
Bruce grinned. ‘Too right!’ He winked at Farrier, who went a bright red to match her hair and freckles.
The next day the Misfits, and Sub-Lieutenant Farrier especially, were keen to carry out the reconnaissance mission and make the first move towards striking back against the Coalition.
The weather had other ideas, though.
A storm moved in from the north overnight and with it came high winds, driving rain and low cloud that reduced visibility to as good as zero. There was no hope of carrying out the mission, but equally there was no way the Prussians were going to bomb the island, shrouded as it was from them.
It was the first bad weather since they had arrived, just over a week ago, but, instead of resting like they probably should have, the Misfits took advantage of the day off from flying, Abby’s first, to go visiting. Father Bugelli had arranged for the pilots who’d lost their aircraft and been grounded to show their faces around Malta a few times to raise morale, but they had been relatively unknown at that time - just names and faces in newspapers. Now, though, after the service and weeks of flying, everybody knew who they were. So, Drake contacted the priest and told him they were going to the hospital first, but after that their day was his.
Wendy had been spending as much time with her husband as the doctors would allow her, but they hadn’t let anyone else go to see him. However, he had come off the critical list a couple of days ago and no longer needed to be kept in sterile condition, so the Misfits could finally pay him a visit.
Wendy had been giving them regular reports on how he was, but it wasn’t the same as finding out for themselves and, even though she had told them how badly hurt he was, they weren’t at all prepared for the reality.
RAC work coveralls were fire retardant and had protected his body quite well, apart from where shrapnel had ripped through them, but his head and hands had been uncovered and had been completely ravaged. His hands had been reduced to blackened claws and the doctors were worried that he might have lost the nerve endings and wouldn’t be able to feel anything ever again. The side of his face which had been turned towards the explosion was red and inflamed and his eye had been damaged, but the doctors expected him to recover at least some of his sight in it. His scalp was the worst, though, and had been the biggest worry; his hair had caught fire and the product he used to keep it in place had only fed the flames, making them burn far hotter. He had needed skin grafts and, when the Misfits caught a glimpse of the top of his head while the nurses changed the oiled silk dressings, it had looked like a crudely-sewn patchwork quilt.
According to Wendy he was rather down in the dumps because of the extent of his injuries and the Misfits had been hoping to cheer him up, but in the end he was barely even aware they were there; the medications he was on for the pain keeping him groggily drifting in and out of consciousness.
They did manage to cheer up just about everyone else in the hospital, though; they were spotted immediately on arrival and all but paraded from ward to ward by a succession of sailors, none of whom wanted their injured friends to miss out on meeting such important visitors.
Understandably, the Misfits weren’t exactly in the mood to put on a brave face for the islanders afterwards, but that was what they did.
Father Bugelli had arranged transport for them and they were dispatched in pairs to the far corners of Malta.
Gwen and Kitty were sent to a pleasant seaside town on the north coast called Saint Paul’s Bay and, for the second time in three days, found themselves in a religious building, this time the four hundred-year-old Church of St Paul’s Shipwreck.
They thought that they were going to be asked to make a speech or something and were dreading it, not because they weren’t used to speaking in public - both of them were, having presented papers in front of their peers - but rather because it would have to be something inspiring or uplifting and after the hospital they didn’t think they would be able to. Thankfully, though, the father had just arranged an informal gathering, with food and plenty of local wines and spirits.
It wasn’t only locals that were there to meet them, but also many injured sailors who had been sent to the town to rest and recover in its picturesque villas, which dated back to the 19th century. The two Misfits tried to dedicate as much of their attention as possible to the locals, but most of them only spoke the native Maltese language, which was a mixture of Italian and Sicilian, and Kitty’s limited Spanish prove ent
irely inadequate so they couldn’t help but keep gravitating back towards the British sailors.
Gwen and Kitty were plied with alcohol on all sides and, since they weren’t flying and despite neither of them being really big drinkers, they decided to take the opportunity to sample some of the local vintages. They found that the limoncello was especially tasty, like a sweet lemonade, and seemed innocuous, certainly not alcoholic. For some reason, though, they didn’t protest when the music began and they were pulled into the space which had been cleared in the centre of the nave to learn a local dance. Nor did they really notice when the energetic folkloric music gave way to something slower and more romantic, they just gave in to the sensations and, for just a short while, the only things that existed were the music, the dance and each other.
More limoncello found its way into their hands when the musicians took a break and they guzzled it down greedily to quench their thirst while sitting with a group of old men and women. It didn’t seem to matter that they couldn’t understand a word that was being said to them; the languages of laughter and happiness was universal. Even more limoncello was consumed during incomprehensible toasts, where the only words they recognised were “Malta” and a mispronounced version of “Misfit Squadron” and when the music resumed they found they were unable to stand up again by themselves.
That was when the woman, who had driven them there and been assigned to take care of them, discreetly pulled them into the sacristy and they all but collapsed onto the sofa within and started giggling like schoolgirls. She tutted, but smiled at them fondly, then brought them bread and goat’s cheese and made them drink plenty of water before sneaking them out of the side into the night.
They fell asleep on the journey home, despite it being only a half an hour drive, and only half-woke when they arrived at the house and were carried gently up to their room by the female half of the small army of locals, which had been organised by Father Bugelli to take care of the returning Misfits.
Knowing all too well that the pilots desperately needed to let their hair down and relax, he had organised the visits as much for them as for the beleaguered Maltese people.
The bad weather lasted two more, blissfully quiet, days, during which the only sign of enemy activity was the drone of a few engines going over the east coast one time and the dull thud of bombs detonating out to sea as whoever it was dismally failed with their dead reckoning.
Aside from a couple more visits to the hospital, the Misfits used the time to rest and polish off the designs for their new aircraft. Abby had never gotten around to telling her pilots about the message from the War Ministry and, after discussing it once more with Dorothy Campbell, she finally decided not to, at least not yet, and continue with the plan to rebuild. Not only would obeying the order destroy the morale of her pilots, but in both her and Campbell’s view it was completely irresponsible of the Ministry not to allow them to use all the resources at their disposal in such an important arena of the war.
With that weight off her mind, she was less hesitant about the amount of time that was being dedicated to the designs and she sat the Misfits down to have a serious discussion about which direction the squadron should go in.
The pilots had quickly come to the conclusion, some more reluctantly than others, that, with heavier weapons like Wendy’s cannons, which were now being mass produced, and recent advances in spring power, a single-spring aircraft was more than capable of taking down even the heaviest of bombers and there was no real need to have more expensive and less manoeuvrable twin-springed aircraft in a squadron with their remit.
Most of the pilots were fine with the decision, having already been in single-springed aircraft, and Derek and Chastity readily agreed to switch over, but Kitty protested vehemently. She had wanted to redesign and rebuild Hawk and she pleaded with Abby to allow her to do so, but the group captain stayed firm. It was only when Gwen took the American to one side and promised that they would rebuild her aircraft together when they were on leave that she reluctantly agreed.
Bruce and Monty had decided to have identical aircraft once more, based on Excalibur, which Bruce had fallen in love with during his day flying her, and their design was ready by the end of the second day. It was sent to Luqa so that construction could begin using the Duralumin and other materials which had already been recovered or recycled from the Graveyard at Hal Far and stockpiled there. The others had to be put on the back burner again, though, when, on the third day, the weather cleared and the Prussians renewed their attacks. However, that also meant that the reconnaissance mission could go ahead and, at noon, Sub-Lieutenant Farrier took off with the rest of the squadron in the modified Spitsteam.
Abby had taken the aircraft up for a brief test flight between raids that morning, wanting to make sure it flew alright with all the modifications before letting one of her people in it. She had taken a few photographs of the island from thirty thousand feet to test the camera before putting the machine through a few evasive manoeuvres. The images turned out surprisingly well and Abby had been impressed with the handling of the Spit, so she had immediately given the go ahead for the mission.
As planned, the squadron climbed up to twenty thousand feet and circled around the island as they usually did, before turning to the north to intercept the impending raid leaving Farrier to continued circling and climbing. She was under orders to take the Spitsteam up almost to its service ceiling before heading directly towards the point of the boot of Italy, following the raid, which would be on their way home again by then. She would then descend to thirty thousand and fly a zigzag route over Sicily, which would hopefully allow her to spot all of the major airbases. It would be an extremely long flight of more than five hundred miles and she would be over enemy territory almost the entire time, but it was unlikely that the Prussians would even spot her. Just in case, though, she was under orders to break off and head for home at the first sign of pursuit, mission be damned.
The mission was timed so well that the last of the Coalition aircraft were back on the ground by the time she took her first photographs, which made it extremely easy to spot the airfields and pinpoint which were being used by the bombers and which the fighters. However, when the photographs were developed and blown up, there was something in the images which nobody had been expecting.
When the squadron returned from the final sortie of the day, Scarlet and Chalky were in the hangar waiting for them and Abby’s feet had barely touched the ground before the Irishwoman shoved a large photograph in her face.
Abby grabbed it with both hands and peered at it through tired, bleary eyes. ‘This is, what? The eastern coastline? This is Syracuse, right?’ She pointed at a town on the coast.
‘That’s right.’
‘I don’t see any air bases, though. What am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘Um...’ Chalky pushed his glasses up his nose as he peered over the top of the photograph. When he found what he was looking for, a fair distance south-west of the town and almost on the edge of the image, he tapped it with his finger. ‘That.’
Abby squinted at the object. It was an off-white rectangular shape and, if anything, it looked like nothing more than a blemish.
‘Maybe this will help.’ Scarlet grinned and handed her another photograph.
This one showed the object from much closer up and it became clear that it wasn’t a flaw in the film or the developing process, but rather a man-made object and, instead of an indistinct rectangle, she could now make out that it was actually five long sausage-shapes placed side by side.
Abby looked up and searched the hangar. ‘Drake! Get over here!’
Drake heard her tone and hurried over. Predictably, the rest of the squadron came with him, curious as to what all the fuss was about.
Abby shoved the photograph at him. ‘Tell me if this is what I think it is.’
Drake needed only a single glance to confirm what she already knew. ‘Bertha!’
‘Bertha?’ asked Lieutena
nt Smith.
Abby looked at her in surprise, but then realised that the three Navy pilots had of course never heard of the airship, or heard the tale of how Drake and Tanya had escaped from it - the War Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to keep its existence a secret from the British armed forces “so as not to engender panic or defeatist ideas”. She reclaimed the photograph and studied it while she came to a decision. ‘Alright, go get changed and grab some food. Drake, can you grab your sketches from the file room and give us a quick briefing?’
Drake nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. Briefing room in half an hour everyone.’
As the pilots moved away Abby held the photograph out to Scarlet and Chalky. ‘Is there anything you can do to this to get any more detail?’
Chalky shook his head. ‘No, sorry, this is blown up as much as it can be. If you want more detail you need to get closer.’
Abby grimaced. ‘Alright. We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.’ She looked around the hangar. ‘Can you find Sky Commodore Campbell, please, and ask her to meet us in the briefing room?’
Scarlet grinned. ‘I can smell a mission coming on!’
Chalky gave Abby a tired look as the tiny Irishwoman skipped away towards the administration offices. ‘She’s like that all day. Every day. Can you please find something that’ll use up some of her energy?’
Abby smiled. ‘I think I might be able to do just that. Remember what I said about bolting a chair to the side of Hummingbird...?’
She laughed at the blonde man’s horrified expression, then walked off towards the ready room to get changed.
‘The Bertha Berg or simply “Bertha” for short, is a five-hulled Zeppelin which acts primarily as the Crimson Barons’ mobile base.’
The Maltese Defence Page 15