The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  The green light on the wall went on and Gruber let one of his pilots spin the wheel on the door and push it open, but then shoved him aside and ran towards Hölle.

  ‘Is it ready?’ His voice training allowed his shout to carry to his mechanics, even though he was still thirty metres away in a hangar that was loud with working repair crews, but his crew chief’s reply was lost. The man’s nod was enough, though and Gruber leapt up onto Hölle’s wing and clambered into the cockpit.

  His hands flew over the controls and his eyes darted from one instrument to the next as he ran through his pre-flight checks.

  Friedrich arrived with his things and he shrugged into his flight jacket - he wasn’t going to bothering with a flightsuit just for a few bombers and besides, there was no time to put it on - before donning his helmet and goggles and plugging himself into the radio.

  The headset built into his helmet came alive with chatter, but he immediately broke into it, not caring who or what he was interrupting. ‘This is Star Leader, get the damn hangar door open now! I’m ready to take off.’

  He didn’t bother listening to whatever response came, he just opened his throttle a crack and moved Hölle forwards onto the runway. He wanted to have as much airspeed as possible, so he turned towards the bow of the airship and accelerated away from the hangar door, not caring that he was breaking every rule by doing so on the runway and not using the taxiway. He turned at the very end, his rudder only centimetres from the far bulkhead, and came to a halt facing back the way he came.

  The horn, announcing the opening of the hangar door, blared three times, loud even in his covered ears, and the red warning lights flashed. There was a thunk, a vibration which he knew could be felt through the entire airship, as the huge flap, several tons of reinforced Duralumin, started to move, but then there was a squeal of tortured metal and it ground to a halt with a deafening clang, sending another, larger shockwave through the metal beneath Hölle, rocking the aircraft.

  ‘Get that damn door open!’ Gruber shouted, silencing the chatter on the radio momentarily.

  After a few seconds a new voice came over the airwaves which Gruber recognised as the admiral. ‘Stand down, Generalleutnant. The hangar door mechanism is fused. You will not be able to take off.’

  Gruber swore and slapped his hand against the instrument panel, smashing the airspeed indicator, before leaning over the stick and curling his fingers around the triggers of his cannon. He barely stopped himself from firing at the distant hangar door in time and released the stick with a growl. He threw his canopy back on its slides and stared up at the ceiling, high overhead, as he took several deep breaths. Eventually he calmed enough to click on his microphone and speak in a normal tone. ‘Acknowledged, Admiral. Star Leader standing down.’

  As the first huge impacts hit, sounding deceptively innocuous through the thick metal, but powerful enough to send tremors through the enormous airship, Gruber climbed out of his aircraft. He left it to be collected by someone else and stalked past the long line of Blutsaugers with their pilots, ready to take off, heading back towards his quarters.

  Someone was going to pay. If anyone was left alive after the British had finished with them.

  The enemy had been taken completely unawares and only when the first bombs were falling did the first fighters get off the ground. There was no way they would be able to catch the raid, though, because the Nelsons were already turning for home.

  The Misfits watched from twenty thousand feet, ten thousand feet above the bombers, as flowers of flame bloomed in the half-light of the Sicilian dusk. A huge explosion flared brightly, making the pilots recoil involuntarily and there were cheers over the radio as an immense cloud of black smoke obscured the view.

  ‘So long, Bertha!’ crowed Bruce. ‘Nice knowin’ yer!’

  The Australian’s simple rhyme drew a few laughs, despite not being particularly funny, but Derek’s voice immediately silenced them. ‘Badger Leader, Nine here. Requesting permission to engage the incoming fighters.’

  Abby looked down, searching for the enemy airfields west of them, assessing the situation. There were three bases on Sicily dedicated to fighters and each of them were undoubtedly putting their aircraft back into the air to face the threat. Two were on the south coast, one more than fifty miles away, the other almost a hundred, but the third was only ten miles from the Prussian airship and she could see a couple of squadrons of MU9’s on their way up, climbing hard towards the retreating bombers, with a third squadron of MU10’s only just taking off.

  ‘Why the hell not, Badger Nine.’ Abby said, more than eager for a fairer fight than usual. ‘All Badgers, attack by pairs. Tally ho!’

  Eleven aircraft dipped their left wings and fell from the sky, closing the ten miles to the enemy MU9’s in just over a minute and blasting through them with cannons blazing. The Prussian pilots had been so fixed on the bombers that they hadn’t even realised the Misfits were there until it was far too late and half a dozen of the small and far too fragile single-spring fighters were ripped apart and sent tumbling to the ground in just that pass with not a single shot fired in reply.

  The Misfits, in a tried and tested manoeuvre, pulled up from their dive and went streaking back skywards, their momentum sufficient to take them several thousand feet above the enemy and putting them in an ideal position to strike again. However, when they banked around to do so, they found that the Prussians had already turned tail and were diving away for their base.

  Not wanting to brave whatever anti-aircraft defences there were around the airfield, Abby called off the attack and ordered them home.

  The RAC didn’t lose a single pilot or machine in the raid, something that was almost unprecedented in the history of aerial warfare; even if there weren’t enemy fighters defending the target there were usually anti-aircraft batteries in their droves around anything strategically important, yet there had been nothing protecting Bertha.

  Farrier, in the reconnaissance Spitsteam, was going to go up to take a look at noon the following day, but everybody already knew that, by the amount of hits and the secondary explosion everybody had witnessed, the damage on the airship had to be substantial.

  It was a satisfying conclusion to the first British attack on the forces massed against them and definitely something to celebrate. Which was exactly what the RAC did.

  Luqa was the largest of the three RAC air bases on the island and as such had the biggest mess, kitchens and storage facilities, so it was only natural that the party was held there.

  Every single member of the armed forces on the island, RAC, Royal Navy and Army - pilots, fitters, sailors and soldiers alike - was invited, as were many of the locals who had supported the British. In the end, more than two thousand people packed into the underground base, which was far more than it was designed to cope with, and the ventilation system struggled to cope, the fans whirring at an alarming speed, until someone had the bright idea to open the hangar ramp to let the air in, but cover it with a blackout curtain to keep the light from leaking out into the night.

  Dorothy Campbell had insisted on a full debriefing after the mission, so the Misfits were the last to arrive and the party was in full swing by the time they were deposited on the airfield at Luqa, at the top of the ramp into the hangar.

  A military guard had been posted to receive the guests and she saluted them. ‘They’re all in the mess. Go straight ahead between the Nelsons, then follow the noise to the left. Right old racket they’re making already, you can’t miss ‘em!’

  Abby thanked him then the Misfits tramped down the ramp, the metal echoing hollowly beneath their feet, then through the blackout curtain, held open for them by another pair of MG’s.

  The hangar was silent and lit only by the red lights used before nighttime sorties. It was completely deserted, all work on the aircraft apparently done for the evening and all personnel dismissed to join the festivities, aside from the few people on guard.

  Bruce grumbled and tugged
at the sleeve of his day uniform tunic. ‘I know they said this was going to be informal, but we’re Misfit Squadron, dammit! There should be someone here to welcome us!’

  Abby grinned at him. ‘I can go back to the guard and order her to salute you a few more times if you want?’

  ‘She was only a corporal, find me at least a group captain and then I’ll be happy.’

  They walked across the hangar towards the sound of music, past the shadowy forms of the bombers, seeming much larger than they actually were in the ominous red light.

  There were a couple more MG’s posted outside the mess and they broke off their conversation as the pilots approached and stood to attention.

  ‘Evening, ma’am.’

  The leader of the two saluted, then, as soon as Abby had returned it, spun on her heel and thumped on the door.

  For a second it seemed that nobody had heard and the Misfits glanced at each other, wondering why the guard wasn’t just opening the door, but then it swung open, blinding them with white light that was all the brighter because of the contrast with the red.

  The pilots walked in, squinting and shading their eyes with their hands, but then came stumbling to a halt when the upbeat jazz music stopped abruptly. It was only for a heartbeat, though, because the band immediately launched into a very different piece of music, one which the Misfits immediately recognised as September Skies.

  It was a modern, yet martial piece by Benjamin Britten, a young and upcoming British composer, who had created it to honour the bravery and sacrifice of the RAC over Britain the previous summer, although he had later admitted that the Misfits had been the real inspiration behind it. The Misfits, along with a dozen other pilots who’d taken part in the battle, had been invited by the King, as guests of honour, to the premier performance in St James’s Park. A huge, seven-tiered stage had been constructed for the occasion and the Royal Family and guests had sat in a special box to one side, in full view of the thousands of people who had filled both the park and The Mall. The event had been arranged not only to boost the morale of the British people, who travelled from all over the country to see it, but also as an exercise in disinformation, coming as it did two days before the squadron embarked for Malta, making it look like they were firmly settled in England and enjoying some well-earned time off.

  The full piece, which had been played that day, called for a one hundred and twenty piece orchestra, a dozen Duralumin panels to be struck by metal hammers, machine-gun fire, and a fly-past by twenty-four bombers, although, if the performance is indoors, the fly-past can be substituted by twenty airscrews powered by hydrogen engines.

  The full piece was over an hour long, but thankfully the band played only a few dozen bars of the reduced version for marching band before reaching a crescendo and coming to a crashing conclusion, which reverberated triumphantly around the mess hall.

  In the ensuing silence, Bruce’s whisper carried to all the pilots. ‘That’ll do, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Sheilas...’ The rest of his words were cut off by thunderous applause which filled the room.

  After a short speech by the Luqa base commander and another by Abby, the party resumed.

  Gwen tried to hold on to Kitty as they were swamped by bomber crews and sailors, but it was impossible, and they were swept away from each other on a wave of congratulations and shouted questions. Her only compensation was the pint of bitter that was thrust into her hand - thanks to Freddy Featherstonehaugh’s articles the whole world knew that was her preferred drink.

  Eventually the furore died down, but instead of immediately seeking out her companions or joining the dancing, she found that her attention was drawn by her surroundings.

  The mess was huge, easily as big as the hangar at Hal Far, and within it had been recreated the main exhibition hall from the Crystal Palace, complete with the rounded metal and glass roof, through which could be seen a star-studded night sky. The creators of the space had even faithfully reproduced the exhibits from the Great Exhibition of 1851, for which the Palace had been constructed, and they stood in their places around the room, along with the statuary, the fountains and the fully grown trees which had famously been planted inside.

  Like most British children, Gwen had studied the Great Exhibition at school, and she had no need to actually approach any of the exhibits to know what they were, but she was actually looking forward to doing so later. However, at that moment she was more interested in finding out if something else that the exhibition had been famous for had been reproduced - the first ever pay toilets, which had given birth to the phrase “spend a penny”. She was just about to go in search of them, when she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find a grinning Kitty with her arm around Polly Ames, the medical orderly from the Arturo that the two of them had befriended during the journey back from Muscovy.

  ‘Look who I found.’

  The words were barely out of the American’s mouth before the young naval officer squealed and jumped at Gwen, knocking her back a couple of steps in her enthusiasm.

  Kitty shrugged, her grin widening. ‘She may have had a little to drink already.’

  ‘You’re not kidding.’ Gwen gasped as Polly all but squeezed the life out of her.

  The young woman pulled back slightly and smiled at Gwen from very close range. ‘Gwen! I’ve missed you soooo much!’

  Gwen struggled to breathe in the face of the rum fumes coming from the girl’s mouth, but nonetheless smiled warmly at her. ‘Polly! I’m so glad you’re alright! Where have you been hiding yourself?’

  ‘I’ve been working in the hospital.’

  ‘Really? We’ve been by a couple of times, but I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I know you have; it’s all some of the patients can talk about! And no, you wouldn’t have seen me; I’ve been put on the night shift.’

  ‘Oh, that must be hard.’

  The girl grinned. ‘Boring more like; now that everybody is safely under cover we barely have any new patients coming in and my job consists mostly of watching people sleep and helping people to the bathroom every so often.’ She laughed, but then pouted and shook her head. ‘Let’s not talk shop right now, though; it’s my first night off since the Arturo got in and I need to have some fun.’ She grabbed Gwen’s hand and started dragging her towards the middle of the room. ‘Come on! Let’s dance!’

  Since they were flying the next day, Abby had ordered her pilots to be back at the bottom of the ramp by midnight, ready to take the autocars back to Hal Far, and the party was showing no sign of slowing down by the time they slipped out unobtrusively.

  Polly had kept Gwen and Kitty on the dance floor most of the night, with only brief pauses for refreshments or when the band rested. They didn’t mind one bit; it had been too long since they’d properly let their hair down and they hadn’t been planning to drink much anyway, but it did prevent Gwen from finding the toilet or inspecting the exhibitions. When the time came to leave, Polly bid then a very noisy goodbye, kissed them both very enthusiastically on the lips and promising to use some of her time off to visit them at Hal Far.

  Bruce followed the two women out. He had put his experience in Muscovy firmly behind him and had not one, but two girls on his arms - a petite naval officer and a pretty, but decidedly beefy-looking woman, in an army uniform. However, while Gwen and Kitty went straight towards the group of pilots already waiting, he stopped before he got to them and said a rather noisy goodbye to the women in the shadow of one of the bombers. He finally slunk over several minutes later, a wide grin on his face and his lips smeared with red.

  He wasn’t the last to show up, though; that honour went to Derek who, uncharacteristically, showed up almost ten minutes late, just as Abby was about to send someone to look for him. He was accompanied by a tall RAC officer with a thin moustache and was looking more relaxed and happy than he ever did, except when he had a bottle of expensive wine in his hands.

  ‘Come on, Cinders!’ called Bruce with a laugh. ‘It’s past midnight
, you’re going to turn into a pumpkin!’

  Derek came to a sudden stop when he heard the Australian call out and even in the red lights they could see his face flush when he caught sight of the pilots watching him. He stared at them for a second, then seemed to draw into himself. He straightened and turned to the man with him, shook his hand brusquely, then moved towards the ramp. He came to a halt again after just a few steps, though, and seemed to speak to himself under his breath, then spun on his heels and jogged back, taking the man by surprise just as he was turning to return to the party. The man’s eyes widened in shock as Derek planted a kiss on his lips, but then closed as their arms went around each other.

  Derek knew what a spectacle he was presenting, though, so he pulled back after not long and gave the man a warm smile before leaving him again.

  There was a spring in the usually restrained pilot’s step and his fellow Misfits welcomed him with smiles, every single one of them thinking that it was about time he found someone. They said nothing, though, and just turned and went through the curtains into the night.

  It was a different MG on guard outside and he saluted them, but said nothing and just kept up his watch.

  The autocars hadn’t arrived yet, so the pilots huddled together, speaking in hushed tones.

  Mac’s will, on file with the squadron, like every pilots’, had been read out at the meal and, while his main possessions had gone to his relatives in Scotland, the few things he carried with him had gone to members of the squadron - his hip flask had been among them and he had left it to Chastity. The Misfits were fairly sure that he had meant it as a joke; his wingmate notoriously unable to hold her drink, but she had filled it with the best Scotch Whisky she had been able to find at the party and she passed it around now.