He heard Harry try and turn, and so sighed quite audibly to let the other two know he was still awake. No response. Lucky them, he thought. He wondered how he was going to get through the next few months – through even the next few days. He knew he would be flying some time very soon, but that American had put the wind up him, and he prayed that when he did fly, it would be in one of the new Hurricanes and not some wreck in which his engine was likely to seize. And although he now had plenty of flying experience and knew how to handle a plane, he and Harry were horribly untested in action. Adventure, action, excitement: it was what they had craved – he especially – and yet already he realised what a fool he’d been. A wave of despair swept over him. He no longer trusted his ability; he’d had no idea the front line could be like this. What a difference from England, where new Spitfires and new parts arrived regularly, where there was plenty to eat, and pubs to visit and girls to dance with at weekends. Where he could visit his parents every few weeks. He thought of his parents now, of his mother trying hard not to cry, and the swagger with which he’d told her not to worry about him, that he would be fine. Now he wasn’t so sure. And yet the AOC’s speech had stirred him, appealing to some of the romantic notions he had felt on leaving England; that they were on a crusade like the knights of old. They were even living within the bastion walls of a medieval fortress. All he had to do, he now told himself, was survive until the promised Spitfires arrived. Everything would be better then. In the meantime – well, they were here, and there was nothing they could do about it.
The air-raid siren suddenly burst into life. Again? And once more, the gap between beginning its wailing and the whistle of bombs was desperately small. The already familiar hum of aero-engines could be heard, then explosions from over the airfield, the thunder of the 3.7 inch guns and the pom-pom-pom of the Bofors. Lucky and Harry were awake now, cursing, Lucky ranting and swearing that he was going to make them pay. The explosions drew nearer, until they heard the whistle of the bombs falling from the sky, and felt the ancient palace tremble. ‘Best to stay where you are during a night raid,’ they had been told that afternoon. ‘Otherwise you’ll never get any sleep. In any case, the walls are as good as any shelter.’ What about the roof? Edward had wanted to ask, but had not dared. And so they stayed in their beds, Edward wearing his tin hat, clutching his sheets, and praying they might be spared.
Dust and bits of plaster clattered onto his helmet. ‘Who’s wearing their tin hat?’ asked Lucky.
‘Me,’ said Edward and Harry together.
‘I’ve got mine a bit lower down,’ he told them, ‘where it really matters.’ And then they all began to laugh.
‘It’s not funny,’ yelled Harry, as their laughter grew increasingly hysterical. A final crash nearby, followed by more plaster pattering down onto their steel helmets, and prompting a renewal of uncontrollable laughter. Overhead, the bombers whirred back into the night. A stillness returned once more to the besieged island.
Malta – March, 1942
Everything about Malta had shocked Edward – the toughness, the shortages of absolutely everything, the appalling conditions in which they were expected to operate. His first flight from the island had been two days after his arrival. Not in one of the new planes, but an old model, a relic of the last large batch the previous November. No form 700 to sign off – when he’d mentioned it, the fitter had looked at him blankly.
‘Form 700, sir?’
‘Yes, the form 700,’ he had said. ‘The form that you should tick when you’re going through the daily servicing.’
The erk had still looked blank.
‘You do service them daily, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, as best we can.’
The machine hardly inspired confidence. Paint flecked, squadron symbols roughly hand-painted over old ones, streaks of oil running down the cowling. The tyres on the wheels looked horribly flat. Edward took off, feeling every bump and jolt as he rumbled down the runway. Some bombers had been spotted taking off from northern Sicily. ‘Big jobs,’ Woody, the Ground Controller had told them. ‘Looks like just a handful. Four, I would say.’ The three of them climbed slowly. Edward kept the throttle as wide open as he could, but its sluggishness still took him aback, the engine screaming, and the airframe shaking violently as they struggled to gain height. Out over the sea, twinkling in the sunlight. Higher they climbed, into the sun, until they had reached twenty-four thousand feet, then they turned, sun behind them with Malta away below, tiny and insignificant.
Chuck Cartwright was leading. ‘This is Tiger Leader. Can’t see a thing.’
‘Chuck, they’re at angels seventeen.’ Woody’s voice, rising up from Fighter Control, deep underground beneath Valletta, was calm, steady. ‘They’ve some little jobs with them, travelling fast at angels twenty so keep a good lookout.’
Edward looked around, but could see nothing. According to Woody, the bombers should be some seven thousand feet beneath them. Then way below, and almost over Malta, he spotted the distinct shape of four Junkers 88s.
Chuck had spotted them too. ‘OK, I see them,’ he said leading them into a dive. Go for the bombers, Hugh Pughe had told them that first night, always the bombers, but just watch your arses for the little jobs. So now they dived, engines screaming once more. Edward glanced at his dials, the arrows all flickering wildly. Once more the airframe shook violently. His heart was drumming, but even then he felt more concerned about whether his Hurricane would remain in one piece than he did about having to fire or be fired on.
They dived behind, apparently unseen, but by then it was too late. Both bombers and Messerschmitts were away from them before they even got close. Even with his throttle through the gate, Edward’s Hurricane was struggling to gain three hundred miles an hour. The enemy simply pulled away.
Soon after they were coming into land again, circling in from the south. An aircraft was on fire, thick black smoke billowing up into the sky and partly covering the airfield. Chuck came in first followed by the Rhodesian, Zulu Purnell. Edward lowered the undercarriage, but nothing happened. His manifold pressure was now rising violently, as was his temperature gauge. Ripping off his oxygen mask, his breathing quickened dramatically. Someone fired a flare – your wheels are still up – so he opened the throttle as much as he dared, and banking, turned again, pressing the undercarriage lever again and again, until at last – thank God – he heard the familiar whirr as the wheels dropped into place. Touching down, he closed his eyes, relief surging through him, then opened them again only to see, too late, a large pothole, the remains of a poorly repaired bomb crater, looming towards him. Braking hard he veered violently to one side but not before his port-side wheel had clipped the edge of the hole, causing the leg to collapse. As the aircraft toppled over and lurched to one side, a wing scraping angrily along the ground and the wooden propeller shattering and splintering before his eyes, Edward wondered whether he would survive. Utterly powerless to do anything about it, he felt surprisingly detached, as though it was happening to someone else rather than himself. As he continued to race along the ground, jolted and thrown about the cockpit despite his harness, he saw that the Hurricane was circling in a wide arc towards a parked Beaufort on the far side of the field. ‘Oh please, no,’ he said aloud, and shielded his arms to his face. Seconds passed, but finally the machine ground to a halt. Edward lowered his arms. The Beaufort stood directly in front of him, just fifteen yards away.
Harry had been one of the first to the scene, having run across the airfield along with a number of ground crew the moment Edward had lost a wheel.
‘My God, Eddie, are you all right?’ he said as Edward slid off the wing.
‘I think so.’ He felt something running down his face, and lifting a hand touched it and saw that his fingers were red with blood.
‘Let me look. Take your helmet off.’
Edward did so, and watched Harry as his friend peered at his head.
‘You’ve just nicked it, I think. Hurt
anywhere else?’
‘No – knee’s a bit sore, but no, otherwise, I think I’m fine.’
‘Jesus, you had me worried.’
Edward had not flown since. Butch had been as good as his word, although most days they’d been on standby – ‘A’ Flight in the morning, ‘B’ Flight in the afternoon, and then vice versa. Anyway, there were hardly ever enough planes to fly; more often than not only one section would ever get airborne. The rest of the time, they sat around the stone hut at dispersal, playing cards, writing letters, watching the lizards dart between the rocks. And when they were not flying, they were frequently ordered to help build aircraft blast pens, filling disused four-gallon fuel cans with sand and grit, then piling them high into a U-shaped wall. Laborious manual labour interspersed by moments of sheer terror as half a dozen Junkers screamed overhead, dropping their bombs. Almost worse were the fighters – mostly 109s, who suddenly appeared, fifty feet off the ground, tearing over the airfield and peppering the ground with machine-gun bullets and cannon fire, lines of dust and razor-sharp rock splinters bursting lethally into the air. The ack-ack teams pounded away furiously, but what chance did they have when the Messerschmitts sneaked upon them and flew over in a blur at over three-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour?
At least they had Butch Hammond. The new Wing Commander had not waited long to exert his influence. Just a few days after his arrival, he called all three squadrons for a talk in the mess at the Xara Palace. He stood before them as Hugh Pughe had the night they arrived, but, Edward thought, Butch cut a more imposing figure. Taller than the AOC, his oiled hair combed back against his scalp, he picked nonchalantly at a fingernail until everyone quietened down.
‘All right, everyone,’ he said eventually to the more than sixty pilots assembled. His voice was deep and clear, almost a growl. ‘I know what you’re all feeling. The Hurricanes are a disgrace and you’re not very happy about it. Well, neither am I, but until the Spits get here we’re just going to have to make the best of what we’ve got, and that means flying these old crates as effectively as we possibly can.’ He paused, eyeing his congregation. Someone coughed. Hammond placed his hands on his waist, legs apart. ‘We’ve got to change how we fly. There’s no place now for tight-formation vics of three aircraft. At the speed these Hurricanes can go, all we’re doing is offering a bigger target for Mr Messerschmitt’s fighters. From now on, we will only fly in pairs and fours, and so on. Leader and wingman, and at a healthy distance apart. The leader will go after the bomber and the wingman will follow, watching the leader’s arse for any attack by the 109s. Each section will now consist of not three, but four pilots. It’s the same system the Germans use and, as I think you’ll agree, they’ve more than ably proved its effectiveness. I’ve also had a word with the ack-ack boys. They do a bloody good job, but they’ve promised to step up efforts to protect the airfields, and will do their best to send up as thick a wall of steel as they possibly can when you’re all coming in to land. They understand the need to keep the 109s out of harm’s way when you’re landing.’ He paused again, then said, ‘Now, I’m afraid there’s been a fuck-up at Gib. The Spitfires are going to be delayed.’ The whole room let out a collective groan. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s bloody typical. Apparently, some modifications need to be made before they can go on the aircraft carrier, but we’ve been assured we’re talking about only a couple of days. That means they should be here around 6th or 7th March. Until then, we’re going to keep flying to an absolute minimum. All right? Everyone clear about what I’ve said? Squadron Leaders and Flight Commanders have already been briefed, so if anyone’s unsure about the new finger-four system, ask them, or see me personally.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve got to keep our heads and make sure we keep as sound in body and spirit as we possibly can.’
Moments after he finished, the bombers returned again. Once more the pilots collapsed onto the ground, clutching their heads as the whistle and explosions of bombs and the crack of anti-aircraft fire shattered the air and shook even the great bastions of Mdina.
7th March, 1942. Fifteen Spitfires finally appeared over the island, touching down on Takali as surviving Hurricanes circled above them. Somehow, news that the Spitfires were coming had spread throughout the Island, because there to witness this historic scene were hundreds of Maltese – workers and civilians, men and women, old and young – who clapped and cheered as the first one safely touched down. Not a single enemy bomber had appeared, not even while the ground crew frantically took off the extra petrol tanks and began servicing the aircraft ready for action. It was not until well into the afternoon that any enemy bombers made a raid, and even then their appearance was, for once, a fairly lacklustre affair, and concentrated on Luqa rather than Takali. A miracle had occurred, the Maltese exclaimed. As the pilots returned to Mdina at the end of the day, an old woman approached them. ‘First these magnificent aircraft arrive,’ she said, waving her finger at them, ‘then of the Germans, there is barely a sign. God is with us. God will save Malta.’
Edward wondered whether she was right. Despite the vast number of churches he had seen when he had first flown over the island, and despite the fact that the huge dome of Mostar’s church could be so clearly seen from the airfield, he had given little thought to the religiousness of the Maltese people. Really, he’d barely given them much thought at all: they were just there, dirty-looking and threadbare, olive-skinned men with dark hair and whiskers, servants at the Xara Palace or bringing fuel carts up to the airfield. In Rabat and Mdina, the children were filthy, faces smudged, their hair matted and dusty, feet often shoeless.
For the first time in his life, he envied those for whom a belief in God meant so much. That faith, that comfort – he wished he could draw strength from it at such a time.
The subject of religion came up again later that evening in the mess, as Edward played poker with Laurie, Harry and Alex McLeish.
‘Amazing, don’t you think, how the Maltese thank God rather than the British government?’ said Laurie.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Harry. ‘They’re a devout people. The church is at the very heart of their lives.’
‘Yeah, I’d noticed that,’ said Laurie
‘It’s easy to forget that this is their island,’ Harry continued. ‘I mean, we think we’re fighting out here to help save Britain and beat Germany, but the Maltese see it differently. We’re here to help God save them and the Island. For them this is like two summers ago in England, when we all expected German paratroopers any moment.’
Yes, thought Edward, you’re right. ‘It must be good to be able to place such faith in God,’ he said. ‘I can’t say it’s ever really done much for me – religion, I mean. I always associate God with my village church as a boy and chapel at school. Repeating the same old guff over and over.’
‘I think He’s a great comfort,’ said Alex. ‘Gives life meaning.’
‘I’m glad for you, Alex,’ said Lucky. ‘Red’s the same – prays regular as clockwork, but then he’s from God-fearing Tennessee where they’re all a bit that way inclined. But let me tell you something: they’re going to need all the faith they can get their hands on. Fifteen Spits ain’t going to go very far.’
‘More will come now,’ said Harry. ‘That’s what Baggy said.’
‘Good,’ said Laurie, ‘because I’m sick of those fucking Hurricanes. If I die because of engine failure, I’m not going to be happy.’
Bagshawe walked in a moment later behind Butch Hammond. They were both holding tumblers of something pale. ‘All right, chaps?’ said Butch, glancing at their group.
‘Just talking about the Spits, sir,’ said Laurie. ‘The Malts think they were sent from God not the Air Ministry.’
‘I think they might be right,’ said Butch, and wandered off. Bagshawe, meanwhile, paused, glanced at Laurie’s hand, then winked at the others.
‘What did he mean by that, Baggy?’ asked Laurie.
‘Let’s just say Butch doesn’t think too m
uch about the Air Ministry’s willingness to give us Spits. Or, to put it another way, if they’d sent a few more Spits last year it might have made life here a bit easier.’
‘So what the hell’s been taking them so long?’ asked Lucky.
Bagshawe shrugged, and took a sip of his drink. ‘Put it down to some pen-pusher back at Air Ministry. There’s plenty of Spits back in Britain. Thousands, even. They’ve given technical reasons as their excuse – that the Spitfire’s undercarriage is too narrow for dirt airfields, that the air filters weren’t ready, that it would be too difficult to get them here, and so on and so on.’
‘But that’s rubbish,’ said Edward.
‘Of course it is. But you have to remember that there are lots of people running this war who are stupid and ignorant, and who can’t see beyond their own back yard. Butch has been raising merry hell about it since he’s been here. Threatened to resign last week.’
Lucky whistled.
‘Good old Butch,’ said Harry.
‘Yes, we’re lucky to have him.’
Edward had never been good at cards, which was unfortunate because there was often little else to do. Having lost the best part of a pound, he left the others to it and, putting on a sweater and his battle-blouse, went outside to the balcony for a cigarette. The cigarettes they’d brought out with them had already gone and it was hard to stretch out the weekly ration of one packet of low-grade Egyptian cigarettes a week. But a smoke last thing at night had already become a treasured ritual. Cupping his hands to hide the match, he lit one and watched the blue smoke roll into the windless air. He breathed in deeply, the sharp, clean air mingling with the smoke. Not a single light twinkled, but a half moon bathed the island in a soft, milky light. So peaceful, so quiet, the dark sea stretching away to infinity beyond the craggy coastline. This place, he thought. Just under three weeks ago, he’d barely heard of it; now he wondered whether he would ever leave.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 16