As they came out of the turn, Richter saw a lone aircraft several thousand feet above, heading in the same direction as themselves, and felt momentary relief, thinking that it was Weber on his way to rejoin the others. Then the relief died inside him, for the other machine had the distinctive elliptical wing shape of the Spitfire. He called up Schumacher, alerting him, and the two Messerschmitts bounded upwards, their pilots aware that they could outclimb the British fighter.
‘We’ve got this bastard, Johnny,’ Richter said. ‘You take him. He’s all yours.’
Their intended victim, meanwhile, had sighted the Ju 88 formation, crawling across the sky over St. George’s Bay after bombing Valletta, and was determined to cut it off before it got too far out to sea. The other members of his squadron had been scattered all over the sky after the short, sharp battle that had cost Powell his life, but he had managed to make radio contact with them and they were now racing towards a rendezvous over Mellieha. The Spitfires from Takali were apparently engaged in a fierce fight off Comino with a second incoming enemy formation.
It was an anonymous voice over the radio that saved Yeoman.
‘Spit by itself, look out!’
The call might have been intended for anybody but Yeoman reacted to it instinctively, pushing stick and rudder bar and standing his fighter on its side, thin condensation trails streaming from his wingtips as he hauled the Spitfire round in as tight a turn as he had ever made. He saw the two Messerschmitts almost at once, rocketing up to meet him, and in that same instant the leading aircraft opened fire, its tracers passing through the bit of airspace he had occupied only a moment before.
The 109s shot past and he turned in behind them, but more Messerschmitts were coming up hard on his starboard quarter and he turned towards them instead, seeing them break to the left and right as he held the Spitfire steady, snapping off a shot at one of them but missing by a long way.
It was hopeless. A glance in his rear-view mirror revealed half a dozen enemy fighters spearing down at him, queueing up to shoot him out of the sky. The bastards were sweeping over the island in relays, making sure that the few remaining Spitfires had no chance of taking a real crack at the bombers.
All right, you sods, he thought, you might nail me, but I’ll give you a run for your money.
He pushed the Spitfire’s nose down and headed flat out for Takali, the nearest airfield. He swept over Rabat at a hundred feet, with three Messerschmitts astern and closing fast. The airfield perimeter swept under him and he stayed low, consciously holding the Spitfire a few feet off the ground, praying that the Bofors gunners were on the ball.
They were. Behind him, between his fighter and the speeding Messerschmitts, the sky over the field became alive with black blotches as the gunners hurled strings of shells at the 109s. One of them, half its tail torn away, hit the ground and bounced upwards in a shower of wreckage, described a graceful parabola over the field and crashed near the sandstone cliffs in a gush of blazing fuel. The others came through the barrage unscathed, but almost immediately the first flak-bursts from the Luqa defences blossomed out in front of them and they broke away, turning across Zebbug to head outwards over the west coast of the island.
Richter looked back as he climbed, with Johnny Schumacher’s Messerschmitt sliding into place astern and to the right. Behind them, he could see a tall column of smoke arising from the funeral pyre of the 109 that had crashed on Takali. There would be no birthday party for Willi Christiansen that night, or any other.
Yeoman, circling to the south of Luqa, saw that the sky was suddenly empty. Turning over Kirkop he began his approach to land, lowering undercarriage and flaps, floating over the pock-marked lunar landscape of Safi. He touched down effortlessly, turning aside from the runway towards his blast pen, passing landmarks that were now as familiar to him as the lines on his hands.
He swung the Spitfire round, tail-on to the sandbagged pen, and closed down the engine. The all-clear was sounding as he climbed from the cockpit. Two airmen — strangers to him, not the cheery faces of Sykes and Tozer — came running up to manhandle the fighter into the pen, assisted by a couple of soldiers. He ignored them, walking slowly to the edge of the sandbags, looking out across the field and noticing with tired satisfaction that both Randall and Taylor had got back safely.
But Gerry Powell would not be coming back.
Suddenly, the tension went out of Yeoman and he went completely to pieces, collapsing like a rag doll, falling to his knees behind the sandbags, mercifully sheltered from the eyes of the ground crew. Hating himself for the weakness, ashamed and at the same time relieved, he wept like a child. Between his trembling knees, his tears darkened the parched earth.
Chapter Ten
It was a sultry day, and the windows of the conference room of the Führer’s headquarters at Rastenburg were wide open. An electric fan attached to the ceiling hummed quietly, pushing out a faint stream of lukewarm air.
It had been a lengthy conference, with situation reports from the various fronts discussed in detail. Hitler was in a cheerful, almost boisterous mood, with good reason it seemed. On the eastern front, the Russians were withdrawing in the Donets Basin; they had already evacuated Rostov and Novocherkassk.
‘Everywhere,’ the Führer exclaimed, ‘our armies are victorious. Our summer offensive has been an overwhelming success. Sevastopol, thanks largely to the efforts of your Stukas, Richthofen’ — he nodded affably at General Wolfram von Richthofen, the commander of VIII Air Corps, whose dive-bombers had smashed a path for the Wehrmacht ever since the first campaigns in Poland — ‘has fallen at last. Manstein’s 11th Army and our Rumanian allies have taken 97,000 prisoners.
‘The offensive continues,’ Hitler went on, his voice vibrant. ‘Field-Marshal List’s Army Group A, consisting of Rouff’s 17th Army, Kleist’s 1st Panzer Army and Constantinescu’s 3rd Rumanian Army, is already moving into the western Caucasus, sweeping all resistance aside. Further north, covering this operation, Field-Marshal Weichs’ Army Group B — that is to say, Salmuth’s 2nd Army, Jany’s 2nd Hungarian Army and Gariboldi’s 8th Italian Army — is forming a defensive line along the Don, protecting List’s flank, while Paulus’s 6th Army is pushing on towards the Volga.’ He tapped the map, spread in front of him on the table. ‘Paulus’s objective is here: the city of Stalingrad.’
Hitler spoke for a good three-quarters of an hour about the latest situation on the Russian front, occasionally throwing questions at the staff officers who were gathered around him. The conduct of the war in the east was his main obsession, and he seemed reluctant to move on to other items on the agenda. At length, however, he turned to Rommel’s campaign in North Africa. Here, too, all appeared to be going well; Tobruk had fallen in June and the Panzers had raced on into Egypt. Rommel’s armoured spearheads were now probing the British Eighth Army’s defensive positions between the Qattara Depression and a village on the coast called El Alamein. The British, disorganized by the speed of Rommel’s advance had had no time to form a defensive line in the true sense of the word; the gap between the Qattara Depression and the sea was filled by no more than a series of infantry ‘boxes’, surrounded by barbed wire and mines and supported by some artillery. Rommel was currently bringing his armour and infantry back up to strength after the battles of the previous weeks; once he had done so, he would launch the offensive that would take Panzer Army Africa into Cairo in triumph.
After dismissing North Africa, Hitler moved on to the question of the air defence of the Reich. In May and June the RAF had carried out three massive night attacks on Cologne, Essen and Bremen, each one involving approximately one thousand bombers. Severe damage had been caused, and only a small percentage of the attackers had been destroyed. Clearly, it was time for a reappraisal of the whole defence system.
A man at the far end of the conference table cleared his throat suddenly, taking advantage of a pause in Hitler’s monologue.
‘Excuse me, mein Führer,’ he said, standing stif
fly to attention.
Hitler looked up, an annoyed expression on his face.
‘Yes, Student,’ he snapped. ‘What is it?’
‘Mein Führer, forgive me, but we appear to have missed an item on the agenda. The item dealing with Operation Hercules.’
Hitler looked blank. ‘Hercules?’ he said, as though he had never heard the name before.
The paratroop general looked uncomfortable, sensing the stares of the other officers around the table. They ranged from mildly curious to downright hostile. Nobody seemed to have much time for the paratroops, these days, and no wonder. It was fourteen months since they had undertaken an airborne operation.
‘Yes, mein Führer,’ Student replied, striving to keep his voice level. ‘The planned invasion of Malta.’
‘Well,’ Hitler said, turning to the map once again, ‘what of it?’
‘The preparations are complete, mein Führer.’ Student was beginning to wonder why he had been summoned to Rastenburg in the first place. Nevertheless, he continued doggedly with his report.
‘The British air defences on the island have been virtually wiped out,’ he said. ‘Marshal Count Cavallero and myself are in complete agreement that now is the time to strike, before the British have a chance to fly in more Spitfires. The plan is ready and our sea and air transport is standing by. We can mount the operation in one week from now, if we receive immediate authorization. We have also assembled sufficient reserves —’
Hitler cut him short with a peremptory wave of the hand. He looked directly at Student and gave a small sigh. Then he said patiently, as though explaining something to a small child:
‘Student, it appears you have not been listening to the situation reports. Let me, therefore, reiterate the salient points. One: our armies are pushing on into the Caucasus. Two: Panzer Army Africa will soon be in Cairo. Three: our grand strategy has now changed drastically as a result of these successes.’
Hitler made a grandiose sweeping gesture and then went on, his voice rising triumphantly:
‘It is obvious what our strategy must be now! Our forces in Russia must drive on through the Caucasus, turning south along the shores of the Caspian and then rolling on through Persia and Iraq to link up with Rommel in Palestine! Our agents in the Middle East are already at work, fermenting revolt and confusion in readiness for the great combined offensive that will bring the Mediterranean completely into our grasp.’
Hitler’s luminous eyes took on a faraway expression. His voice softened, assumed an almost dreamy quality, as though he were entering a trance.
‘And after the Mediterranean ... India. That is our ultimate prize. The whole of the majestic sub-continent, wrested from the hands of the British ... think of it! A great German Empire, stretching from the Arctic to the Indian Ocean, and perhaps even further ...’
He came back to reality with a start and his gaze fixed on the paratroop general once more.
‘So you see, Student,’ he said, ‘Operation Hercules will no longer be necessary. With our domination of the Mediterranean complete, the island of Malta will starve. It will be forced to capitulate without the loss of a single German soldier.’
‘But, mein Führer,’ Student began, ‘there is still the problem of Rommel’s supply lines. As long as Malta remains in British hands, there will always be the danger that —’
Hitler silenced him again, his voice taking on an angry undertone.
‘Enough, Student! The matter is closed. Malta is no longer of concern to us. Let time take its course. I do not wish to hear another word on the subject.’
Student stood where he was for a few moments, utterly dumbfounded. Then, sweeping together his papers, he begged the Führer’s leave to be dismissed, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. Hitler replied with a curt nod.
Student clicked his heels and drew himself up, saluting. Hitler did not trouble to acknowledge. The paratroop general turned and strode from the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Chapter Eleven
Yeoman pressed his face against the window, feeling the coolness on his forehead as he peered into the darkness beyond the port wing of the Hudson bomber. It was probably the last time he would ever see Luqa, and now that the moment had come he felt an infinite sadness.
Yeoman was going home. Behind him, between the metal girders of the fuselage, sat the shadowy forms of his companions; Randall, two pilots from Hal Far whom he did not know, and three soldiers. In a few hours’ time they would be in Gibraltar, and the following day, with any luck, back amid the greenery of an English summer.
It was 15 August. Five days earlier, in a desperate, do-or-die attempt to relieve Malta, thirteen freighters and the tanker Ohio had passed through the Straits of Gibraltar. To support the convoy, every available warship had been assembled; the escort included the aircraft carriers Victorious, Indomitable and Eagle, the battleships Nelson and Rodney, three anti-aircraft cruisers and twenty destroyers. Three more cruisers and fourteen destroyers were to make rendezvous with the convoy and escort it through ‘Bomb Alley’ on the last twenty-four hours of its perilous journey. The convoy included the old carrier Furious, which would accompany the main body to a point one hundred and fifty miles west of Malta and fly off thirty-eight desperately-needed Spitfires.
The convoy had sailed into the teeth of fearful odds. On the airfields in Italy and Sardinia the enemy had massed nearly eight hundred aircraft. Across the convoy’s route between Gibraltar and Tunisia, twenty enemy submarines were lying in wait. In the Sicilian Channel, a force of Italian cruisers, destroyers and torpedo-boats were lurking, ready to attack under cover of darkness after the main escort had turned away.
HMS Eagle was the first to die. In the afternoon of 11 August, torn apart by torpedoes, she slid to the bottom in just eight minutes, taking two hundred of her crew with her.
The convoy had pressed on, subjected to murderous air attacks. Shortly before sunset the old Furious flew off her Spitfires and turned back to Gibraltar, her mission accomplished. On Malta, hardened ground crews wept with sheer joy as the fighters slid down out of the darkness, touching down between the gooseneck flares; this time the Messerschmitts would have no chance to wipe them out on the ground.
Only five of the merchantmen reached Malta, yet the supplies they carried were sufficient to sustain the island for three vital months. The tanker Ohio also got through with her vital cargo of aviation fuel for the Spitfires and torpedo-bombers. Malta had become alive again, determined and on the offensive, ready to tackle the future with resolve.
No one knew what that future might hold, but there was hope. In North Africa, Erwin Rommel had been held in check and the Commonwealth forces had new leaders; General Alexander had been appointed Commander-in-Chief, and the Eighth Army had a new and dynamic commander too, a wiry, energetic man who did not believe in committing his forces to an offensive unless they enjoyed an overwhelming advantage. His name was General Bernard Montgomery.
The Hudson’s engines revved, the yellow tips of the propeller blades inscribing a luminous arc outside Yeoman’s window. The aircraft vibrated as the pilot taxied out towards the end of the runway.
Memories flooded through him, chasing one another through his mind. He had been on the island for a little over three months, and somehow it seemed as though he had been there all his life.
He wondered how he would look back on it all, in a few years’ time, assuming he survived that long. Would the images be as vivid as they were now, or would they be dulled and blurred with the passage of time? Would Lucia’s tears, on the night he had told her that he was leaving, remain sharp in his memory, or would they have become something remote and impersonal, thrust deep into the recess of his subconscious? He felt a pang of regret, hating himself momentarily, for he had promised to write to her, and in his heart he knew that he would not. There could be no promises, no vows. There might not even be any tomorrows; there had been none for Gerry Powell, and so many of the others. Graham ... McCallum ...
Wilcox ... Hazell ... Kearney ... and all those who, known or unknown, had fought and died in these skies.
The Hudson’s engines roared as the pilot opened the throttles and Yeoman tightened his seat belt, feeling the sudden surge of power. The bomber lumbered along the runway and Yeoman, used to the relatively short take-off of fighters, inadvertently clutched the edge of his seat. Then the tail came up, and a few moments later the Hudson was airborne, climbing and turning gently back across the island.
Malta, farewell. Will we, he wondered, stand by your courageous people in years to come as they stood so valiantly by us in our time of desperate need?
The Hudson came out of its turn and steadied on its course, climbing into the western sky. Yeoman craned his neck, looking back into sudden brilliance as the moon emerged from behind a bank of cloud, her rays tracing a path over the sea. And all at once, it was as though the darkened island was surrounded by a ring of phosphorescence, as the moonlight kissed the surf on the rocks and coves around the western shore, from Ras L’Artal to Ghajn Tuffieha.
And this, above all, was the memory he brought home with him, from the George Cross Island.
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