Our radio was on open broadcast so the crew could speak over it, and we could now hear the flap that Control was getting into. Apart from that, it was peaceful sitting there on the taxiway with the engines off.
It was just about then we heard a very American voice from somewhere in the line behind us say over the air, ‘Ahm fucking bored.’ He must have pressed his transmit button.
Before the Tower had time to respond, the German aircraft up ahead joined in. I heard, ‘Wie lange muss ich warten, bis dieser niederlandischen Narr?’ after the new Lufthansa call sign and flight number.
Our pilot called back into the cabin, ‘Anyone speak any German?’
I did, a bit, so I shouted back, ‘I think he asked, “How long must I wait for this Dutch fool?” or something like that.’
‘Thanks.’
That gave the Tower a dilemma, because the Lufthansa pilot was obviously looking for some Teutonic solidarity here, but English is the international language of flight, and the poor sods in Flying Control had a host of international witnesses earwigging the exchange.
Control played it straight: after calling back Lufthansa’s identifier, he said, ‘Lufthansa flight; you know the international language for flying is English. You must speak English.’
The German pilot came back in heavily accented English with, ‘Control, control; I am a German pilot, in a German aircraft, in Germany. Why can’t we speak German?’
Then the American who started it all chimed in before Control could respond,
‘Because you lost the fucking war!’ and all hell broke loose.
Control made a final attempt to restore order, ‘Unknown aircraft, unknown aircraft – identify yourself!’
‘Ah may be fucking bored,’ the American drawl came back, ‘but ahm not fucking stupid.’
Twenty minutes later a tractor towed the Dutchman away, and we all began to move.
Malta was only another five hours away.
I slept, missed the vomiting competition and the turbulence that spilled the Elsan, and only woke up when we were in the circuit at Luqa. I hadn’t felt sick, so I began to like the old Wimpy after all. It was dark. Early evening. Valletta was a ring of lights and the harbour was full of illuminated grey ships, and of purposeful little launches that trailed white tails in the mirror of the sea. As the pilot slid Jack down towards Luqa, I could hear the murmuring voice of the radio operator talking to the ground: he sounded like a Westcountryman. It was like going back ten years.
Chapter Seven
The Beguine
We had a day in Malta.
You’ve heard all about the George Cross island, haven’t you? Plucky little Maltesers holding out against the full might of the Luftwaffe for a year or more? The Pedestal convoy and all that guff, and that oil tanker which saved the day – the Ohio, I think she was called. An island, we’re told, more British than Britain: more English than the English.
Well, fucking forget all that.
M’smith and I got off the Navy bus from Luqa to Valletta in front of the cinema. On our one night in town we’d come to see a double bill from last year: Ivanhoe because M’smith was in love with Elizabeth Taylor, and Man Bait, because I wanted a gander at that new girl, Diana Dors, all the squaddies were talking about.
The first things we saw as we stepped down from the bus were four paper posters plastered on the cinema wall. Two, on either side of the door, read BRITISH GET OUT. A small one high above the door read HUMANITY IN CHAINS, and the whopper below it read MALTA WANTS INDEPENDENCE. This last one also had the picture of a fiery torch, which was the symbol of an independence party. We’d already read in the papers about British soldiers being beaten up in bars, and spat on in the street. Our friendly Mr Bates hadn’t cautioned against leaving the billet; he just told us to keep our wits about us.
‘Look on it as a bit of practice for Egypt,’ he’d told me. It was more than eighty degrees F in the early evening, so maybe he had a point.
Most of the Brits were in mufti, but they stood out because of their short hair, and pale faces. A few were in crumpled KDs, like M’smith and me – and probably for the same reason, our civvies were still stowed away. The Shore Patrol was outside in a jeep as we left the cinema. Someone jostled a Malteser who drew a knife, and a riot sprang out of absolutely nowhere. For ten minutes it was like World War Three. M’smith kicked open a locked office door behind the ticket kiosk, and we hid there in the dark until the fight moved down the road. It wasn’t until we decided to go that the person under the desk gave themselves away by moving.
A girl crawled out: quite a looker in a dark way, although nothing on Elizabeth Taylor. And I was still quite gone on Diana Dors, who had hair like a platinum-gold waterfall, and tits like Mum’s steamed puddings. This girl wore a simple dark blue shirt, and voluminous black trousers.
She pushed her black hair back as she crawled out and said, ‘Please don’t rape me.’
I’ve heard better chat-up lines than that.
M’smith laughed. I think he laughed at everything. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re the ticket girl aren’t you? You sold us our tickets.’ She nodded. He stuck on, ‘We’re not rapists, or anything like that.’
‘British sailors want to rape Maltese girls. It’s in all the newspapers. Everyone knows.’
I haven’t really got a lot of patience with fools; never had. I told her, ‘Only stupid people believe that. Anyway, we’re airmen: RAF.’ I watched her face. I don’t think that reassured her.
M’smith said, ‘You’re better off with us here than with that lot outside, but you can go if you want.’ He stood aside from the door, and I copied him.
She looked undecided, asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Smoke a cigarette, wait until the coast is clear, and scarper. You can wait too if you want.’
She nodded and she waited. She accepted the cigarette M’smith offered her – Woodbine Exports – and smoked it like a true professional. I filled and lit my pipe, so we had a nice little fug building up in the office. At least she smiled timidly a couple of times, but made no attempt at conversation.
We left together. I wanted to head straight for the Navy’s military transport back to Luqa, but M’smith asked her, ‘Will you be all right? Where do you live?’
‘Less than ten minutes’ walk away.’
‘Would you like us to walk with you?’
She was obviously reluctant, but looked up the road to where the sound of the riot was no longer diminishing. It might have even been drifting back our way. Glass breaking, and wild shouts. I suppose that the alternative to us might have been worse.
‘OK. Thank you. That would be kind.’ I think she said that more from hope than conviction. ‘This way.’
The streets were cobbled, steep and unlit. Some had more rubble in them than houses. The war had left Malta scars that were bigger and longer-lasting than many of the towns I had seen in Germany.
‘I’m M’smith,’ he told her, ‘and this is Charlie. He’s not a bundle of fun tonight because he doesn’t like fights and he wants Diana Dors.’
‘At last, a sensible Englishman; but your M’smith is a peculiar name.’
‘Yes, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.’
She laughed at that, and some of her tension seemed to blow away with it.
‘My name is Suyenne. Suyenne Hansen.’
‘Is that a local name?’
‘No, I’m from Gibraltar.’ She must have been about twenty, and already wore an engagement ring. ‘I came with my father soon after the blockade was lifted.’
I calculated back: she must have been about twelve when she arrived, and this smashed-up garrison town must have scared her half to death.
‘What is your father?’ M’smith tried. She didn’t react. I’m not surprised because it was a stupid question. He tried again. ‘What work does he do?’
‘He’s a policeman.’
‘He’ll be glad we escorted you home,’ I said.
&nb
sp; ‘No. No, he won’t. He’ll think you wanted to rape me.’ Full bloody circle, but we were now outside a tall old tenement on a narrow street and she stopped as if it was her destination. She said, ‘Thank you. It was kind of you – I was frightened.’
M’smith chucked that away. ‘Don’t be silly; we were frightened too. Anyway; it wasn’t far out of our way.’
‘What will you do now?’
My turn. ‘Walk down to Grand Harbour, and catch the military bus back to Luqa. Tomorrow we’ll be in another country.’
‘Which one?’
‘If we tell you that, we’ll have to kill you.’ I told her. At least she smiled, but I know she’d heard the joke before.
‘You know how to get to Grand Harbour?’ she asked us. ‘It’s like a maze up here: you could get lost.’
‘If we keep following the roads leading down,’ I responded, ‘we’re bound to get there eventually.’
She suddenly froze, and stared at my face as if she was trying to look into my very being. I actually saw a decision being made; it was in her eyes. She pointed down the road, the way we’d come.
‘Why don’t you walk down to that corner, and wait for the civilian bus instead? It will only be about five minutes, and will get you to Luqa quicker.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ I started.
‘It will be empty at this time of night, and the driver won’t charge you, but will be delighted if you tip him with English money.’
‘. . . I don’t know.’
She shrugged, and added, ‘It’s what I would do in your shoes, but it’s your decision anyway. Now I will say goodnight and good luck. I didn’t expect to be rescued by two Englishmen.’ Then she surprised us by giving us each a kiss on the cheek, before slipping into the dark.
M’smith made a production of lighting another cigarette, and asked me, ‘What do you think?’ while glancing at the street corner she had indicated. ‘Shall we take a chance?’ One of those decisions that change your life.
I shrugged just the way she had, and said, ‘Why not?’
So we slouched down to the corner to wait in a doorway for one of the island’s ancient buses.
Two hours later I was lying on the bed in my temporary accommodation, trying to slow myself down to sleep with that Hank Janson novel. I felt nervy; just like after some of the long trips while I’d been on the squadron in ’44. I gave up on the book and lay back, calculating the odds against being able to date Diana Dors . . . then gave up on that when I reached the several hundred million to one against.
The Navy bus we had been supposed to get wasn’t in yet. The Pongoes had been running the blue Off-Duty Personnel bus around Malta for some time, and called it the Liberty Bus – that’s because the Navy has always been crap at naming things. When I heard a bit of commotion outside, I yawned, stood up and went to the door. A RAF Regiment bod was going down the corridor from door to door, doing a quick head count.
‘What’s up, chum?’ I asked as he hurried by.
‘The bastards blew up the Liberty Bus: four dead so far.’ Ah.
Jack lifted off at a quarter to ten for a leisurely five-to-six-hour drag to Cyprus. It would depend on the head or tail winds. I stood with our pilot as he smoked his last fag: he explained that he usually got tail winds in the Eastern Med at this time of the year – it could give him another 30 knots. Only two of the AC conscripts were left now, and Mister Bates looked hung-over. They’d replaced the other erks with packing cases for the base at Akrotiri. I didn’t like the look of the way they were stowed, and made the Luqa handlers do it again. That had given them another half-hour’s work, and they gave me the look as they sloped off.
Bates said, ‘You seem to know what you’re doing, sir.’
‘They would have shifted with the first bit of turbulence, and started flying about all over the shop. I ran a small freight outfit at Lympne before they invited me back to the RAF. I know how to stow aeroplanes.’
‘And will they use your expertise in that when you get to Egypt, sir? No, they’ll probably put you in charge of motor spares or something. What were you in the war, if I might ask, sir?’
I turned so that he could see my half wing.
‘Sparks.’
‘Big jobs or small jobs?’
‘Big ones. Lancasters at Bawne. And you?’
‘I missed it. I joined from school in 1948. Now I’m a nursemaid.’ It wasn’t his fault but it seemed to me that half the RAF we had now had managed to miss the war.
He seemed curiously bitter towards the system this morning. Might as well be direct: so I asked him,
‘What’s the matter, Mr Bates?’
‘A couple of the lads we brought out yesterday were on that bus last night. Blown to pieces. Their great adventure didn’t even last a bleeding day, did it, sir?’
‘Not your fault.’
‘That’s what the CO said – I’d already handed them over to the base here. Doesn’t make a blind bit o’ difference though, does it?’
I knew what he meant. There were a couple of mornings on the squadron in ’44 that I looked around the empty chairs in the Sergeants’ Mess after particularly bloody raids, and felt guilty at still being there. I leaned over, and squeezed his shoulder.
‘No, it doesn’t make any difference. Some are lucky and some aren’t, and that’s all there is to it. Nothing to do with us. I fancy sticking a waxer in Mr M’smith’s coffee once we’ve settled down – how about you? You can ask those two lads to join us, if you like. They look scared to death.’
He nodded and said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ before he turned away.
We droned east. The sea was a dark, deep blue and sparkled in the sun. We saw one large trooper gliding smoothly west, cutting the water and leaving a wake a mile long – full of lucky buggers going home, I thought. I went up to the office and talked to the crew for a while. The radio operator was an old sweat from Bristol. He’d done two full tours in the Forties, and had finished the war in his second OTU. We had some acquaintances in common, and had even flown on the same raid once.
M’smith slept with his cap over his face for a couple of hours. When he woke up he leaned over and tapped me on the knee to distract me from my book.
‘That girl, Charlie . . .’
‘Which girl?’
‘That one last night. She was a bit of a cracker, wasn’t she?’
‘She was a terrorist, Heck.’
‘Surely not, old fellow.’
‘She told us not to get the Liberty bus, didn’t she? Then some bastard blows it up. She was paying us back with our lives: one good turn deserves another.’
He thought about this for a few minutes, and then he tapped me on the knee again.
‘Don’t you think we should tell someone?’
‘I already did. You can go back to sleep.’
I liked M’smith, but fervently hoped that he would be posted to one end of Egypt while I got the other. He would be a great fellow to go on the skite with now and again, but not to work with. I didn’t want him watching my back. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even know what shape or size Egypt was these days, or the fucking Canal Zone to which I was bound. I’d have to find a library somewhere, and some old Brit who’d spent half his life there. There was bound to be someone who could tell me what was what.
Two hours later we were letting down over Cyprus in clean air: that odd staggered ber-bump as the main wheels dropped down – never together – and the odder moment when the pilot selects a hefty degree of flap, and the Wimpy seems almost to float motionless above the ground as he throttles back. I had been right about the stowage, although I felt no satisfaction about it. An hour out of Malta we had skirted one of those sudden Mediterranean squalls that come from nowhere, and Jack had been bounced about like a shuttlecock. Both the erks were sick, but their recovery times were short. They’d have a story to tell their families if they made it home.
We were collected from Jack by an AC2 in a strange six-wheeled wagon wit
h ten seats and a canvas top; prewar I’d say. He had his own idea about what should happen next, but M’smith soon put paid to that. He gave him a friendly poke in the shoulder and said, ‘Bars please, my man. Theirs first . . .’ indicating Bates and his two strays, ‘. . . and then ours. OK?’ He did seem to have a way about him.
The Officers’ Mess was a double Nissen hut with a bar running down one side. It was empty when we walked in, except for a solitary barman flicking away the flies with a wet towel – they were as big as wrens I’d seen in Blighty. He brightened up when we presented in front of him.
‘Mr Bassett and Mr Macdonaldsmith, sirs?’
Both of us said, ‘Yes,’ simultaneously. It was nice to be wanted.
‘Just some bumf for your attention, sirs, and then I can serve you a drink.’ Bollocks.
‘Where’s everyone else?’
He looked on me with the benevolence of a father to his youngest son. ‘Asleep, sir. It’s half past three.’
So it was. I walked back to the door, opened it and listened to the sounds of a working airfield: absolutely fuck-all. When I shut the heat out again all I could hear was the slow beats of an overhead fan. Yeah, you guessed it. I could cope with this. I initialled the forms the barman put in front of me – I could have signed away my pay for the next three months for all I knew.
When he took them back from us he wished us very gravely, ‘Welcome to Cyprus, gentlemen.’ Then said, ‘The bar is now open.’
If you haven’t noticed it by now, I should probably make it plain that drink has a moderately prominent role in my story. You meet a nice class of person in a bar. Two long glasses of Stella, produced now, without a fuss, confirmed in me the opinion that bar staff are God’s real representatives on Earth; bugger the Pope.
‘When will everyone get up from being asleep?’ I asked the steward.
‘When it’s time to eat usually, sir – about seven.’
‘I could get to like Cyprus.’
‘It’s a fine island when the Greeks aren’t shooting at us. They don’t want us here any more.’
Silent War Page 11