‘We got hit badly at Ta’Qali yesterday.’ Bryan leaned close to the sergeant to make himself better heard. ‘We got no warning at all.’
The sergeant nodded sadly. ‘Our RDF station is on the other side of the island. Telephones went down for an hour. Sorry.’
‘We’re newly posted,’ Bryan continued, ‘what warning will we normally get?’
‘Not enough.’ The sergeant grimaced. ‘So, once you’re up, we generally send you south, away from the raid. That way you can get some altitude without being bounced, then we bring you back in to meet the bombers.’
Bryan raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ll engage the raiders over the island?’
The sergeant nodded.
Bryan gestured at the near-empty ‘available’ blackboard. ‘Is it always as bad as this?’
‘It gets better occasionally. But we’ve got nowhere to hide the aircraft, so the enemy always knows where they’ll be.’ He pointed at the map. ‘They only have to fly sixty-odd miles to get here. At that range you could fly three sorties a night if you fancied it.’
****
The pilots emerged blinking into the sunshine.
‘What now?’ Ben asked.
‘Well…’ Bryan stood for a moment, hands on hips. ‘I suppose we could gather some intelligence on the state of the bars.’
‘Amen,’ Ben breathed. ‘Let’s go.’
The two men wandered north, away from the quayside. The road curved lazily upwards, its incline lending a brutal weight to the sunshine beating at their backs. The harbour, its glittering water and the ships with their primed defences, slid away behind them as the hot ground beneath their feet straightened into the grid-like pattern of Valletta’s street plan. They moved with relief into the shadows cast from the buildings on either side. A strip of vibrant blue sky topped this man-made sandstone gorge, and its narrow confines funnelled what breeze there was to kiss the men’s glistening cheeks.
The street was crossed by another, and at this intersection the corner block lay partly collapsed into itself, the broken edges of the stones glowing incongruously golden with fresh, un-weathered surfaces. On the building diagonally opposite, the statue of a saint stood in a niche ten feet above their heads, holding out its hand in supplication and tilting an imploring visage to the heavens, as if shocked from its placid stoniness by the violence of the bomb-strike.
They continued north. Above them, the sandstone walls sprouted stone plinths on which enclosed balconies perched, first and second floor living space stolen from void above the road. The incline crested into another crossroads and another statue – the robed Virgin holding the Holy Child, her face serene and forgiving.
The men turned left and walked on. They passed cafés, but each contained only knots of dour old men nursing long-cold herbal teas.
‘There has to somewhere that’s got a bit more spice,’ Bryan said. ‘It is a port, after all.’
A large building caught his eye, a sign on its flat frontage declared it as the newspaper office. A couple stepped out of its arched entrance onto the pavement.
‘Ah, a journalist,’ Bryan muttered. ‘He’ll know.’
Bryan called out as he approached the man and spent a few moments absorbing the directions he was given. As the journalist turned to go, Bryan’s eyes fell on his companion. She wore her long black hair loosely bunched and pinned away from her face. Her tanned skin crinkled at the edges of dark brown eyes as she waited for her friend to re-join her. She caught Bryan’s gaze and the ghost of a smile flickered across her face. Then she turned and the pair walked off. Bryan watched her move across the dusty stone pavement with an easy, animal grace and felt the memories of dead feelings he’d intended to leave behind stir in his chest.
‘Christ,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘I’m getting thirsty.’ Ben’s voice snapped the moment. ‘Do we know where we’re going now?’
‘Yes,’ Bryan said, ‘Strait Street. Back this way.’
After taking a couple more doglegs at crossroads overseen by the blank-eyed stare of saints and martyrs, and walking down several narrow streets where Italian bombs had punched gaps into the terraced buildings, they arrived at Strait Street. A faint undercurrent of evaporating urine edged the air with vinegar and a man walked past them with the exaggerated nonchalance of the morning drunkard.
‘Here we are,’ Bryan murmured, looking at the pub signs sprouting from the walls down what was more an alley than a street. ‘Let’s try this one.’
They stumbled to a halt inside the tavern doors, the dimness inside robbing the vision from their sun-narrowed pupils. As their eyes adjusted, figures and furniture coalesced from the dissolving gloom and they moved to a free table by the shuttered window. A waitress followed their progress across the room and took their order for beer.
On the table next to theirs, three seamen sat, empty glasses littering their stained wooden tabletop. One man was engaged in a hissed conversation with one of two women at another table across the room. The girl listened to the sailor and shook her head, listened once more and shook her head again. Throughout this exchange the girl’s companion examined her fingernails with an expression of resigned boredom that had long since flattened the sparkle of her young eyes. The sailor whispered something else. The girl relayed the information under her breath to her bored friend. She nodded once and both women stood to leave. Two of the sailors tipped the remains of their beer down their throats and hurried out after their business deal.
Bryan caught the remaining matelot’s eye. ‘Not enough entertainment to go around then?’
The man turned his stubbled face to Bryan and held up his left hand, brandishing a silver wedding ring. ‘I have recently forsaken all others.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘No regrets.’ He chewed at his lower lip for a moment.
‘What sort of ship are you on?’ Bryan asked.
‘Not a ship, a boat,’ the man said. ‘A submarine, based across the harbour.’
Bryan’s eyes widened. ‘We had a brush with a submarine on the way out here, damn nearly got us. The navy gave those poor bastards a pounding.’
The submariner nodded. ‘The water is too clear for submarines. Once they see you, it’s hard to sneak away.’
Ben leaned over to interrupt. ‘Is there anything to do around here, other than drink?’ he asked.
‘There are dances around and about the place on a Saturday night. Nowadays they wind things up before eleven o’clock so people can get away before the night raids start. There are a few British girls on the island, they generally turn up for a dance if they can. The other good place to meet them is the Mtarfa hospital.’ The submariner treated them to a wry smile. ‘Although since the Luftwaffe shipped out, not so many of you Brylcreem-boys are ending up there.’
****
Bryan and Ben stepped from the bar’s gloom into the unrelenting glare of the afternoon sun. Flies dipped and wheeled around their faces, hungry for the fresh, salty sweat that budded and bloomed on their foreheads. They paused at the sound of hooves against stone, flattening themselves against the wall at the sight of an approaching cart.
A single white horse leaned into its harness; its lean flanks were serried by ribs that pushed their curves into its grey-tinged hide. Its head bobbed low against the weight of its load as it laboured up the slope. A red felt cap, stitched carefully to fit snugly over its ears, gave it the aspect of a horned beast and a red wool band fixed across its nose flashed like a battle wound.
The carriage it pulled stood taller that it was long. The driver perched on a narrow ledge directly behind the horse’s emaciated rump. Behind him, under a delicate fringed canopy, sat a young girl in a satin wedding dress next to an older man in a black suit. Her face was tinged with sadness, his was lined with belligerent determination. Neither looked at the pilots as they rattled past on the clatter of the cart’s iron-rimmed wheels.
Chapter 3
Friday, 13 June 1941
‘What is that? A lucky mascot?’ Ben
nodded towards the shelf above Bryan’s cot as he laced up his dust smirched desert boots.
Bryan paused in checking the connections on his oxygen mask and glanced up at the knitted pilot figure sitting atop the rough wooden ledge.
Bryan pulled a wan smile. ‘He was a Christmas present from a lady I once knew. It’s as easy to keep him as throw him away.’
‘What was the lady’s name?’
Bryan ignored the question. ‘Come on, we’re due on readiness in five minutes.’
They walked out into the waning afternoon sun, its fetid heat wafted into their faces on desultory breaths of breeze. They joined two other pilots at the readiness tent. Ben jumped into the card game that was already well underway. Bryan dropped his helmet onto a tattered deckchair and wandered away from the group, kicking at loose stones in the dusty soil as he meandered away from the tent. Looking up into the blue bow of the crystal-clear sky, he pushed away the reawakened ghosts that flapped unbidden around his heart and replaced their yammering with the cold, glassy desire for combat.
****
The hours trailed past. A bead of sweat blossomed on Bryan’s forehead, trickled down around the end of his eyebrow, diverted along the toe of his crow’s foot and delivered its salty sting into the corner of his eye.
‘Damn,’ Bryan muttered. He hauled himself out of his deckchair and stepped into the tent. ‘When are we off readiness?’
The orderly at the desk checked his watch. ‘A little over forty minutes.’
‘Right,’ Bryan said, ‘we’re taking off.’
The orderly’s chair fell backwards as he jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t do that without an order from control, sir.’
Bryan ignored the man’s exhortation. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said, ‘let’s go for a spin.’
The four pilots strode across the hard earth towards their dispersed Hurricanes. Ground crew, spotting their approach, hauled themselves out from the shade under the fighters’ wings and plugged in starter batteries.
Bryan’s Hurricane roared into life. Squinting against the dust-laden prop-wash, he pulled on his parachute, clambered onto the wing and replaced the airman who scrambled out of the cockpit.
Bryan gunned the engine, fishtailing the fighter out onto the landing strip and waited for Ben and the other two to form up behind him. Once all was ready, he pushed the throttle forward and his aeroplane clawed its way into the cooling air of the approaching evening.
Bryan swung the flight due south and climbed hard, watching the turmeric ground drop away as his altimeter ticked up. The cliffs of the south coast slid away underneath them and Bryan held the climb, exulting in the buffeting breeze that rattled through his open cockpit.
At 8,000 feet, Bryan pulled the formation into a wide climbing turn to head north, back to the mainland. They made landfall at Kalafrana, set on the mouth of Marsaxlokk Bay, and continued their climb across the island’s rump. As Grand Harbour and the huddled roofs of Valletta shimmered out of the heat haze, the tone of static in Bryan’s headphones compressed, presaging a transmission.
‘Fighter Control to Falcon Leader. Who requested your scramble?’
‘Hello, Fighter Control,’ Bryan answered. ‘I’m sorry Control, a misunderstanding, obviously.’
A long pause crackled with more static, then the controller’s voice sounded again. ‘We have twenty-plus bandits climbing away from the enemy coast. Vector zero-one-five to intercept.’
‘Roger Control,’ Bryan answered. ‘There’s a bit of luck.’
Veering starboard to correct their course, the four Hurricanes overflew Grand Harbour and headed out to sea.
The minutes ticked by and the sun sank lower in the west, painting tendrils of purple across the blue. Bryan squinted ahead, sweeping the sky for movement.
‘Falcon Two to Falcon Leader,’ Ben broke in, tension stretching his tone. ‘I see something dead ahead and a fair bit above us.’
Bryan concentrated on that patch of sky and the small profiles of lumbering aircraft spattered the previously blank void.
‘Thanks, Ben. I see them,’ Bryan answered. ‘Let’s continue the climb. Watch out for escort aircraft.’
The engine droned its monotonous clamour into the cockpit and the approaching silhouettes grew larger as the Hurricanes clawed away their enemy’s height advantage.
‘They’re breaking!’ Ben’s voice again.
The edges of the formation peeled into wide turns, dark motes dropping away beneath them. In less than a minute the whole gaggle of bombers completed an about-turn, their loads falling impotently to waste and exploding in the sea.
Bryan speculated for a moment on their altitude deficit, the progress of the setting sun and their proximity to the Sicilian coast, then made a decision. ‘Falcon Leader here. Break-off. Return to base.’
****
Bryan taxied into a blast-pen beyond the perimeter, waited while the groundcrew arriving at his wingtips swivelled the aircraft to face across the field, shut down the engine and locked on the brakes. Leaving his parachute on the wing, he walked back towards the readiness tent through the rapidly failing light. The squadron leader stood at the tent’s entrance watching his progress and ducked into the tent as he got closer. Bryan followed Copeland inside and found the officer sitting on the edge of the trestle desk.
‘Sit down, Hale.’ He gestured at the wooden chair in front of him. ‘Exactly what do you think you’re doing? The fighter controller is bloody furious.’
‘We turned back a bombing raid before it got anywhere near the island.’ Bryan lit a cigarette and blew the smoke down at his boots. ‘So, I suppose the answer to your question is saving lives.’
‘You can’t take matters into your own hands. You know full well there’s a system that must be respected.’
Bryan looked up at his commanding officer. ‘With respect, the system scrambles us too late and then sends us in the opposite direction to gain height. By the time we get some altitude and head back, the bombers are over their target getting their job done. We need to be patrolling at the right height to intercept them over the sea. Just like my flight did today.’
Copeland leaned forward and jabbed a finger towards Bryan’s chest. ‘You were lucky the enemy made an appearance to validate your vigilante escapade, without that you’d be on a rocket right now.’
‘Why?’ Bryan held out his arms in supplication. ‘Why are we making it so difficult for ourselves? Why are we sacrificing the homes and lives of people with a so-called system that doesn’t work?’
‘Because,’ Copeland’s voice dropped to a hiss, ‘we’re on a bloody knife edge. There are next to no supply ships making it through from either Gibraltar or Alexandria. Every single drop of fuel we burn takes us closer to running out.’ He paused to allow the concept to sink in. ‘And when we run out, we’ll be forced to surrender this whole bloody island to the Italians. And you know what that will mean for our lads in Egypt.’
Bryan remained silent, dropping his cigarette on the floor and crushing its glowing tip under his heel.
‘Yesterday,’ the squadron leader continued, ‘a submarine arrived from Alexandria loaded with tin cans of fuel. I’m told it carries enough to give us three- or four-days flying time with every trip it makes.’
Silence fell between the men and Copeland stood, laying his hand on Bryan’s shoulder.
‘I recognise your good intentions, Bryan. But we are truly in the shit. So please, no more freelance scrambles.’
Saturday, 14 June 1941
Bryan paused, bent at the waist, and watched the sweat drip away from his nose. It fell onto the lump of sandstone he’d just heaved into place on the wall of the half-built blast-pen. The moisture darkened the stone’s surface for a moment, then the colour lightened, receding gradually to its own centre as it evaporated. Behind him, Maltese workmen dropped more stones from a donkey-drawn cart into a pile next to the wall.
‘Bloody God-forsaken medieval hell-hole…’ he muttered under his breath an
d heaved his shirtless back as straight as his protesting muscles would allow. Walking to the pile, he grabbed one end of a large rough-hewn block as Ben grabbed the other. The two men hefted the stone and tottered back to the wall, swinging it onto the top and shuffling it around to seat it steadily on top of its predecessors.
‘We’re like fish in a bloody barrel.’ Bryan wiped the sweat from his temples. ‘They know where we are, and they watch what we do.’
An airman walked past with a bucket of water and a ladle. Both men took a drink and splashed their grimy faces with the lukewarm water.
‘At least we’re not in artillery range.’ Ben smiled. ‘Always look on the bright side.’
The drone of aero engines interrupted their exchange and, shading their brows with outstretched palms, they watched a new squadron of Hurricanes circle the field, undercarriages dropped in readiness for landing. Here were the occupants for the new blast-pens they toiled over.
Bryan gazed beyond the arriving fighters, above them to the hazy clouds that edged the heavens over the island. ‘Somewhere up there, in his nasty bulbous bi-plane, is a little Italian joker, counting these lads in and calling them out to his bomber bases, he muttered. ‘How I’d love to wipe the grin off his face.’
****
Bryan stirred from the sweaty doze that counted for sleep in the humid, boxy barracks. He blinked at the dark ceiling in momentary confusion before the air raid siren penetrated his consciousness and pulled a groan from his chest. He rolled on his mattress, its rough cloth damp with his perspiration, and grabbed his shirt from the bedpost. The three other pilots stirred in the darkness around him.
‘Let’s get moving,’ Bryan croaked past furry, dry teeth. ‘No doubt they’ll be throwing everything they’ve got at the new kites.’
Outside, the faintest of breezes tickled the sweat on their cheeks as they trailed across to the slit trenches and dropped into their fragile shelter, joining those already huddled there. Spotlights lanced into life around the airfield, swinging skywards to probe the vanishingly deep, cloudless Mediterranean night. Bryan watched their slow sweep across the ebony dome, the familiar chill of helpless vulnerability tickling at the nape of his neck.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 54