The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  The room had been quiet before, with voices being kept down out of respect for the Misfits, but when the two officers came in all noise faded until the only sound was the faint chirping of the birds flitting through the trees.

  The silence continued as everyone in the room watched the two women grab plates of food before making their way over to the Misfits’ table. Abby immediately slipped into a seat and began munching on a bacon sandwich, giving nothing away, but a stone-faced Campbell remained standing, looking down at the pilots, who looked back at her expectantly.

  Suddenly, she grinned. ‘Owen has Bertha on his scopes. The mission’s on!’

  A silent crowd of men and women, both British and Maltese, gathered by the side of the airfield in the moonlight. Knowing that the mission could well determine the fate of the island, they had wanted to be there to watch the Misfits take off.

  Dreadnought was the first to go, her six powerful engines deafening in the quiet of the early morning as they fought to pull the huge aircraft into the air. It was the first time she had flown over Malta and the islanders had never seen the like - even the Italian Grand Eagle bombers didn’t come close. The RAC personnel were equally awestruck; they had heard of Dreadnought - everybody who had picked up a newspaper in the last nine months or so knew of her - but the reality was far more impressive than what could possibly be put down in black and white.

  The sound of the massive machine’s engines took several minutes to die away completely and then it was the turn of the single-engined fighters. They were far quieter than Dreadnought, but no less impressive, as they accelerated down the airfield in their flights and leapt into the air with an agility that was breathtaking, even fully laden.

  In moments they too had disappeared into the darkness and along with them the buzzing of their airscrews. The men and women remained, though, gazing up into the sky as Father Bugelli led the islanders in a hymn of hope which many of the British joined in with.

  Owen had found Bertha as soon as he’d switched on his radar equipment. The airship was sitting at thirty-five thousand feet, two-thirds of the way along the direct flightpath between Malta and Sicily. That was higher than they’d hoped for and the Misfits’ job was going to be tough, but at least they didn’t have to worry about the airship being out of range, or any anti-aircraft fire from the ground.

  Campbell had ordered radio silence after Owen’s report on the position of Bertha, in case the Prussians were listening, so the Misfits climbed in silence, each of the pilots left with their own thoughts. While most contemplated the coming battle and how they would face it, Gwen was more interested in the physics of flying so high and, as she divided her attention between the red-lit instruments on the panel in front of her and the barely visible shadow of Dragon on her wing, she tried to calculate what effect the weight of the weapons would have on the service ceilings of Excalibur and the other Misfit aircraft. In the end she was forced to admit that she had no real idea and resigned herself to finding out when the time came, which was something she never liked to do.

  After fifteen minutes of steady climbing, with the sky to the east growing steadily brighter, the Misfits reached thirty-five thousand feet and pushed onwards and upwards. At thirty-seven thousand feet, the Spitsteams began to lag behind and just before thirty-eight thousand the cockpit lights of the four Spitsteams flashed on and off; the signal that they were as high as they were able to go. As had been agreed before takeoff, they descended a few hundred feet until they were comfortable again, while the rest of the aircraft continued to climb. At just over thirty-nine thousand feet it was the turn of Drake and Tanya to blink their lights and sink down slightly, but Wraith, Ghoul, Dragon and Excalibur were easily able to make it to forty thousand feet, where they finally levelled off.

  The Misfits had timed their takeoff and rate of climb so that they would reach their maximum height fifteen miles from Bertha, just as the world around them became bright enough for them to see their target, and Gwen slotted her most powerful lenses into place to scan the sky in front of them. She was sure that there would have to be a shadow or a telltale glint of light off metal to give away its presence, but she couldn’t spot anything. She did however find Dreadnought a few miles ahead of the fighters and at least ten thousand feet below, far lower than she should have been given her rate of climb. She must have reached her ceiling already and unless the Misfits could quickly knock out a couple of envelopes and get Bertha to descend, it didn’t look like the big machine and her devastating armament would be joining the fight.

  ‘Badger Leader, this is Watcher, target is rising, they must have spotted you. Suggest you get a move on.’

  After flying in silence for so long, Owen’s voice was startling and unexpected and Gwen jumped, letting out an involuntary squeak.

  With no more need for secrecy, Abby immediately replied. ‘Thank you, Watcher. I still don’t see it, are we on course?’

  ‘Roger, Leader. Target is at eight miles directly ahead. Approaching thirty-six thousand feet.’

  ‘Keep us updated, please, Watcher.’

  ‘Roger, Leader.’

  ‘All Badgers, three minutes to target, begin evasive manoeuvres. And make your shots count, please, because unfortunately it looks like we’re not going to be able to rely on Dreadnought liberally spraying everything.’

  Just as Gwen was acknowledging Abby’s order and beginning what little manoeuvres she could with her heavy machine in the thin air, the first black cloud of flak burst next to her right wing. Milliseconds later there was a loud clatter like hail on a tin roof and a sharp crack as a fragment of sharp metal penetrated the glass of her canopy. Her head was thrown to the side and she screamed as something ripped across her forehead, but the pain was gone immediately as everything went black.

  ‘Gwen! Are you alright? Gwen?’

  Gwen was dragged slowly back to consciousness as Kitty’s voice penetrated her awareness and she opened her eyes to look around, unsure where she was. The sight of Excalibur’s cockpit instantly snapped her back into focus, though, and she instantly took in her situation.

  She was in a lazy spiralling dive, the sea and sky revolving sickeningly round and round and up and down in front of her. Out of pure instinct, before she was even aware of what she was doing, her hands and feet worked the controls and brought her back level.

  It was only then that she realised she couldn’t see out of her right eye.

  ‘Gwen!’

  ‘I’m here, I’m alright.’

  Gwen looked around, but there was no sign of Kitty or any of the other Misfits in her immediate vicinity and a glance at her altimeter told her why - she was at twenty-eight thousand feet. She had fallen more than two miles while she had been unconscious.

  ‘Watcher here, Target at four miles, approximately thirty-seven thousand five hundred feet.’

  Praying she wouldn’t be too late for the attack, but just knowing that she would, she struggled to put a suddenly reluctant Excalibur back onto her previous heading before pushing the throttle through the stops to emergency unwind and pulling her nose up into a maximum rate climb. The aircraft balked a couple of turns, lurching in a disconcerting manner, but finally she seemed to settle down and Gwen was finally able to turn her gaze upwards.

  Her hands and feet went rigid on the controls as she took in the violence of the anti-aircraft fire that was being brought to bear against the Misfits. The sky was black in a wide swathe around the tiny cross shapes that were her friends as dark flowers bloomed and blossomed, while red, green and orange tracer rounds slashed past, creating a seemingly impenetrable web around them. It was a wonder they could survive for even a moment and she watched, unable to breath, expecting at any moment one of them to fall from the sky. When several seconds had gone by without producing the disaster she feared, she raggedly drew in air and, after a last look at the Spitsteam she knew was Kitty’s, tore her eyes away from them to follow the lines of tracer back to their origin.

  Her jaw dro
pped when she got her first sight of the immensity of Bertha.

  There was no real need for Owen to call out the distances anymore, because the airship was now clearly visible, wreathed in the smoke of the discharge of the dozens of anti-aircraft guns and lit up by their flashes.

  The Misfits seemed so close to it that she wondered why they didn’t open fire, but then she realised that her hazy mind hadn’t taken into consideration that the monstrosity was more than two thousand feet long. The Misfits would have to close to about half that length before they could launch their rockets.

  The huge explosions and the tiny aircraft they were chasing, as they weaved almost drunkenly across the sky, crept closer and closer to the airship, but still the Misfits didn’t open fire.

  ‘I’m hit!’ Derek’s cry came just as one of the Spitsteams started spinning out of control, falling from the sky. ‘Bailing out!’

  His shout was followed only seconds later by Drake’s, reporting that he’d sustained damage to his wing and couldn’t hold his altitude, then three more as the other Spitsteams reported that Bertha was now too high for them to attack.

  As always, Abby was calm as she replied - in perfect control, even in the face of the burgeoning disaster. ‘Three, Four, Five, Nine, get clear. Seven, Eight, Ten, spread out.’

  Gwen was now close enough to clearly make out the battle without needing lenses and she watched as four fighters dived away, leaving only four to continue the attack. It seemed like the situation was hopeless, but if just a few of them made it to the airship and managed to do some damage, then Bertha might be forced to descend into range of the devastating assault of Dreadnought.

  Even as she had the thought, the lead fighter was rocked by a near miss and slewed sideways.

  ‘Bugger! I’ve been hit!’ Abby’s voice was strained as she fought for control of Dragon and a note of dismay had crept into it for the first time.

  ‘Me too, Leader. I’m going down.’ Tanya’s voice was so emotionless and impassive that Gwen almost thought she was joking for some reason, but then a huge chunk of wing separated from one of the fighters and what was left began to spin lazily, describing a ballistic path as it tumbled from the sky.

  Abby cursed. ‘I can’t stay. Retreat! All Badgers return to base.’

  ‘No way, Boss! We’re almost in range!’ Bruce called out. He laughed. ‘Come on, Monty what do you say?’

  ‘I’m with you, Bruce, old boy.’

  ‘Seven, no! It’s not worth the risk!’

  ‘I disagree, Abby,’ said Monty seriously. ‘Ask Derek when you pull his arse out of the sea, but for now, if you don’t mind, clear the bloody air! We’ve got a job to do, right, Bruce?’

  ‘Too right, Mate!’

  There was silence for a moment, but then Abby came back over the air, her voice soft, almost a whisper. ‘Happy hunting, Badgers.’ Her wish was echoed by all of the Misfits and then everyone who could turned their eyes on the two aircraft to watch.

  It seemed almost impossible that the two could survive the full fury of the barrage, but they did, and after what seemed like an impossibly long time, four brilliant lances shot from them, connecting them to the airship with a line of fire.

  The explosions seemed pitifully small, but they were in exactly the right place at the root of one of the fans.

  ‘Nice one, Monty! Now, come on, let’s get our arses out of here!’

  Bruce immediately began turning Wraith away, but Ghoul kept going.

  ‘No, I can get this!’

  Gwen watched as the grey machine closed the gap with the airship, the thousand yards seeming to take forever to cover. With the rockets gone the aircraft was a bit lighter and slightly more manoeuvrable and Monty was using every trick he knew from his time as a stunt pilot to outfox the gunners, rolling and swerving, using every bit of agility he could squeeze out of Ghoul to the utmost.

  The tiny cross had almost converged with the huge airship and it seemed like, against all expectations, Monty was going to pull it off, but at the last moment Ghoul seemed almost to halt in the air and then she was diving.

  A second later she plunged into the side of Bertha and disappeared in a flash of yellow light as the bombs detonated within their pod.

  ‘Monty...’ Bruce’s stunned voice was soft and mournful and Gwen looked to him, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t try to do something stupid to avenge his friend and long-time partner. He didn’t have the chance, though; the guns which had killed Monty found him and his aircraft all but disintegrated, then began the long journey to the sea.

  The sight of one of the fans breaking free from the huge machine and following him down was no compensation.

  The civilians and servicemen and women had waited on the airfield for the Misfits to come back, and a great cheer when up when the sound of Dreadnought’s engines was heard. It died out very quickly, though, when the other returning aircraft straggled into sight one by one and they saw that there were only six fighters, all still carrying the long thin tubes of the rockets beneath their wings.

  Hopeful that there were going to be stragglers arriving, they continued to watch the skies, even as the first of the battered aircraft began to land but, when a servicewoman who worked in the communications room came back with the news of the losses the squadron had sustained, heads drooped and tears began to fall.

  Abby climbed slowly out onto her wing and stood staring numbly at the scraps of twisted metal that were all that remained of the tail of her aircraft. She wasn’t really seeing it, though, because all she could see were the faces of the friends she had led to their deaths that morning.

  ‘Abby.’

  Dorothy Campbell’s voice coming from by her feet brought her back to herself somewhat and she glanced down to find the Sky Commodore looking up at her.

  She hopped heavily down from the wing and leaned tiredly against Dragon’s scarred fuselage.

  ‘Dot... Tanya and Derek...’

  Campbell reached out and put her hand on Abby’s arm. ‘I know, the naval launches are already on their way to get them, don’t worry.’

  Three of the small and fast naval boats had been standing by to pick up any pilot that had been forced to take to their glidewings. The two Misfits would know to head for them.

  Abby nodded. ‘Yes.’ She looked around the airfield, taking in the glum crowd on the far side and the battered aircraft being wheeled down the ramp into the hangar. There was no sign of the pilots, though, they had already gone, not waiting for the commanding officer who had gotten two more of their friends killed. ‘It’s over, Dot, we can’t...’

  ‘It’s not over!’ Campbell hissed, the hand on Abby’s arm turning hard and pulling the dejected woman around to face her. ‘This isn’t the first time pilots have been lost in war and it won’t be the last. It probably won’t even be the last time you lose pilots either and if you give up you just make a mockery of their sacrifice, so bloody well pull yourself together! Yes, today’s fight didn’t go our way, but that doesn’t mean the war is over, it doesn’t even mean this battle is over and the people who are left need you.’

  Abby stared at Campbell for long seconds, but then she swallowed and nodded. ‘You’re right, sorry.’ She looked around the airfield again with new, assessing eyes, seeing the Harridans and Spitsteams lined up, ready for takeoff, their pilots on their way out to them. ‘Is there a raid incoming?’

  Campbell nodded. ‘Yes, Owen reported it taking off five minutes ago.’ She grinned. ‘Looks like we’ve got an early warning system again.’

  Abby grunted. ‘And he won’t be as vulnerable as Charles.’

  ‘He won’t, but we’ll keep an eye out for him anyway.’ Campbell slipped her arm around Abby’s shoulders and began pulling her away. ‘Come on, let’s leave the fitters to get repairs started and go have some tea.’

  The grin plastered on his face was starting to make the muscles in his cheeks and jaw ache more than they did when he was trying to look like he was having fun, while one of
the vapid starlets he was forced to act with in Hollywoodland fouled up take after take. He wasn’t able to stop himself, though; the memory of how the guns of his airship had ripped apart the Misfits was just too delightful. It was a pity he couldn’t ask for trophies from the downed aircraft - that would have really rubbed his victory in the Misfits’ noses. Especially since all Bertha had suffered in return was the loss of a single fan and wouldn’t even have to set down to make repairs.

  His butler was kneeling in front of him, doing up the laces of his flight boots. When the man finished he stood and took the gloves from their place on the stand next to his helmet, then held them out one at a time.

  Gruber slipped his hands into the thin, armoured gloves, the best that Herr Gerber in Berlin had ever produced, and looked at the man while he made sure that his fingers were seated properly.

  ‘You seem particularly dour today, Lang, what’s the matter? Are we out of starch for my collars?’ Gruber chuckled, but didn’t expect or wait for an answer, he just stalked from his private ready room and went through the pressure room into the hangar where Hölle was waiting for him.

  The Misfits had blundered, just as he’d known they would. They were weakened and would be licking their wounds, feeling sorry for themselves.

  There was no need to keep playing games with them; they were ripe for the picking.

  Chapter 22

  Gwen was barely able to get back to Malta. Excalibur had sustained more damage than she’d realised and was proving more and more difficult to control with every passing moment, a difficulty which her injuries were only compounding - her right eye was gummed shut with blood, which no amount of wiping with the back of her glove would clear, the left was blurred with tears which wouldn’t stop coming, her head was throbbing fit to burst, and she was fairly sure that she was slipping briefly in and out of consciousness every so often.

  She made it back to Malta easily enough, but there were a few moments during her landing when she thought she was going to give the airfield repair crews another hole to fill in. Both she and Excalibur survived intact, though, which was good enough for her under the circumstances.