A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  ‘That’s true. And as old men we should take things slow,’ Lucky chuckled. ‘Although you’re still pretty sprightly, Eddie. Do you work out or anything?’

  Edward laughed. ‘What – you mean go to a gym?’

  ‘Sure – or swimming or something.’

  ‘No,’ he said, still laughing. ‘Nothing like that. I don’t eat too much, and I do a lot of walking. Seems to do the trick.’

  They continued on up towards the heart of the city, Edward glancing at the old dust-laden doorways and the names above them: Galea, Grech, Borg, Vella, the Maltese Smith and Jones. Old British postboxes and telephone boxes still stood on street corners, still bright red, even though the hundred-and-seventy-year union had been over for more than twenty years.

  They passed over a long, dark, narrow street.

  ‘Remember this?’

  ‘My God, yes – it’s the Gut!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘But where have all the bars gone? This place used to be heaving.’

  ‘Not any more. Only time I’ve ever slept with a hooker was down here.’ Lucky grinned.

  ‘Really?’ Edward was surprised. ‘I don’t remember you saying anything at the time.’

  ‘I swear it. It was near the end of our time here. I managed to borrow a bicycle. It was in the middle of the afternoon. To be honest, I just wanted some female company, but actually I got a bit more than that.’ He winked.

  Edward laughed. ‘Lucky – you are extraordinary. I hardly remember talking to any women at all for the whole time I was here. I thought about them, and certainly when we were first here, Harry and I used to come into Valletta to go to the cinema quite a lot, just so we could remember what beautiful women looked like. It didn’t really matter that the films were always hugely out of date, or that we’d seen them before in England. I didn’t mind how many times I watched Dorothy Lamour.’

  ‘There were still a few English girls here. I remember that time with you and Harry singing in the Snakepit.’

  Yes, thought Edward, I remember that. How could I forget?

  They had now reached a large square, filled with tables and brightly coloured sunshades. White-jacketed waiters from the cafés and restaurants around the edge of the square scurried between tables. Lucky suggested they have a drink. ‘Don’t look so worried, Eddie – only a coffee, all right?’ They found a table, sat down and Lucky stretched. ‘Must have been March ’42. Right after Takali was hit so bad.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Edward, ‘because those girls left only a few weeks later.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment, the dry heat burning his face. It was a pleasant sensation now that he was sitting still. Close your eyes, he thought, and you can be any age and in any time. And so Edward began remembering once more, back to an afternoon in Valletta, not so very far from where he was sitting now.

  Malta – March, 1942

  Valletta, 20th March, 1942. It had been Lucky’s idea to make a visit to the island’s capital. ‘I’ve got to get away from this dump,’ he’d said the moment ‘A’ Flight had been stood down. ‘Anywhere but here.’ Butch Hammond had overheard him and had offered him a lift to the Hole.

  ‘Any other takers?’ Butch had asked. Well, there weren’t many who would miss the opportunity of a ride into Valletta. Most of the flight took up his offer, Edward and Harry included. ‘You’ll have to make your own way back, though,’ Butch had warned them. Whatever – they would cross that path as and when.

  Butch dropped them in Castile Square, near the entrance to the Hole, the deep underground nerve centre of Malta’s war effort. They clambered out of the back of the truck opposite a long queue of women, children and the elderly, snaking down Windmill Street from the square, between piles of rubble. They were waiting patiently for their turn at the Victory Kitchen, one of a number of canteens where islanders could still get a cooked meal of sorts; with almost no kerosene and even less wood, there was little cooking to be done at home or in the numerous shelters dug into the rock.

  For a moment the pilots all stood looking at each other – what now? Edward stared at the long line of people, most of whom were silently watching this sudden arrival. They looked miserable, Edward thought. A group of children suddenly ran out towards them, shouting ‘Spitfire, Spitfire!’ their arms outstretched.

  ‘Nice to be appreciated,’ muttered Laurie Bowles, and reached into his pocket for some coins to give to them. The others did the same.

  Harry said, ‘What about the Snakepit?’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s only just one-thirty. Some of the girls might still be there.’

  The others nodded, and so they walked noisily down past the Opera House, turned right into Kingsway and on to the Union Club. There was laughter coming from the Snakepit, the Club’s bar.

  ‘A party!’ said Harry, rubbing his hands together.

  The long, narrow bar was busier than usual: along with the usual army officers on their weekly leave, and desk men from the Hole, there was also a group of submariners standing by the bar.

  ‘Ah, the gallant flyboys!’ shouted one of the submariners. ‘Where were you this morning?’

  ‘Shooting down Germans,’ said Zulu Purnell.

  ‘Not the ones that bombed the Lazzaretto you weren’t,’ said another of the submariners.

  ‘Well, we can only apologise,’ said Zulu, ‘and promise to try harder next time. But there are rather a lot of them, I’m afraid, and not so very many of us.’

  ‘Apology accepted – don’t listen to him,’ said the first submariner. ‘Anyway, have a drink. What’ll it be?’

  ‘What are you guys on?’ asked Lucky.

  ‘We’re working our way through the Pimms, although we’ve only just got here, so we’re still on Number Ones.’

  ‘Great,’ said Lucky, and introduced himself.

  ‘David Timpson,’ said the first submariner. ‘We’re from the Usher. Just back in this morning. You’re a Yank, aren’t you? We’ve just had a Yank on our boat. Odd sort of fellow – a journalist.’

  ‘Most of us are a bit strange, aren’t we Red?’ said Lucky, turning to Red O’Neill.

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ said Red. ‘Must be to have believed that guy who told us we were coming here on vacation.’ Everyone laughed; Edward noticed a palpable release of tension in the air.

  ‘You just back from patrol?’ Edward asked one of the submariners, a young flaxen-haired man whose jawline was covered with tiny shaving cuts.

  ‘Yes – got in a couple of hours back.’ He raised his glass. ‘And pretty hairy it was, too. It’s bad enough being hounded by destroyers without being shot at the moment you get back to harbour. We had to drop to the bottom and wait for them to bugger off again. Still, we’re here now. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since we left port twelve days ago.’

  Edward felt a nudge in his side. ‘Don’t look now,’ said Harry, ‘but there are some very lovely-looking girls sitting over there.’

  Edward turned immediately, caught one of the girls’ eye, and feeling himself redden, hastily looked away again. ‘But they’re talking to some army fellows.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, they’re clearly spoken for.’

  ‘Nonsense. Didn’t you see how quickly that girl caught your eye? She’s desperate for us to come over and rescue her. Those officers are probably boring them to death with stories of building defence posts on Dingli Cliffs or something. Come on.’ He moved away from the crowd of pilots and submariners, Edward following.

  ‘Afternoon, ladies – and gentlemen,’ said, Harry. ‘Mind if we join you?’

  ‘Please do,’ said one of the girls.

  The Army officers, a captain and a lieutenant from the Devons, looked at each other, then the Captain said, ‘No, of course not.’

  Harry pulled up two seats and they introduced themselves. ‘Elizabeth and Kitty,’ said Harry, repeating their names, ‘and what do you do?’

  The girls smiled at each other, Harry laughed, then Kitty said, ‘We’re cipher clerks.’ />
  ‘In the Hole?’

  ‘Yes. We work in intelligence, transcribing codes, but of course it’s very hush-hush,’ Kitty continued. ‘We couldn’t possibly divulge a thing more.’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Harry.

  Edward smiled too, but could think of little to say. The girls were certainly pretty: Elizabeth, fair-haired and with intelligent, sharp features, while Kitty was more petite, with straight dark hair, bright red lips and dark eyes that seemed to be watching Harry intently. ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, how rude of us,’ exclaimed Harry. ‘A drink, ladies? Chaps?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Kitty. ‘Pink gin for me.’

  ‘Same for me,’ smiled Elizabeth, then turning to Edward, said, ‘Thank you, Eddie.’

  Edward nodded, then looked at the two officers. ‘All right,’ said the captain. ‘Don’t mind if I do. We’ll have the same.’

  Edward left Harry and made his way back to the bar.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Zulu Purnell, ‘there you are. Guess what? The sailor boys are challenging us.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To a gharrie race,’ said another of the submariners. ‘An absolute tradition. Up round Castile Square and back down again. The winner gets . . .’ He looked around, then said, ‘I don’t what the winner gets yet. We’ll think of something. But this time it’s going to be Royal Navy versus RAF.’

  ‘All right,’ said Edward. ‘But can I finish my drink first?’

  ‘Take your time, take your time,’ said the submariner. ‘We’ll have a few more drinks yet. We find a bit of alcohol improves our speed.’

  ‘Fuel is crucial,’ said another.

  When Edward returned with the drinks, Harry was deep in conversation with Kitty and Elizabeth, his head leaned in towards them. The army officers sat morosely to one side. ‘Ah, there you are, Eddie,’ said Harry. ‘Kitty and Elizabeth have just been telling me about getting stuck on the Island. They’ve been here since 1939. Imagine that.’

  ‘A long time,’ said Edward.

  ‘Very,’ agreed Harry. ‘And the Captain and Lieutenant here have been here since the beginning of 1940. The difference, of course, is that the Devons were ordered here; the girls chose to stay and do their bit.’

  ‘But I volunteered to join the Army in the first place,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘I didn’t wait for conscription.’

  Harry turned to him. ‘Good for you, but you have to admit the girls were pretty gutsy to stay here.’

  ‘Oh, hardly,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Our fathers were posted here before the war – with the Navy – and although they were both recalled to England, our parents thought we would be safer here. And we were until Mussolini decided to join in.’

  ‘And after that, I suppose it was a bit difficult to get back again,’ said Edward.

  ‘We could have gone to Egypt,’ said Kitty, ‘and then either stayed there or taken a boat back round the Cape, but – well, we thought we could be more use here.’

  ‘I call that very brave,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t you agree, chaps?’ The Army men nodded.

  ‘And anyway, my husband is in the Dorsets,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and I wanted to be near him.’

  ‘You’re married?’ exclaimed Edward, then felt himself blush once more.

  Elizabeth laughed, and raised her hand to show the narrow gold band and engagement ring on her finger. ‘Yes, I’m married.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ added Kitty, eyeing Harry, who winked back. ‘I’m deliciously free and single.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Edward. ‘Your husband, that is?’

  ‘He’s camped out on Dingli Cliffs at the moment, waiting for enemy parachutists.’

  Harry nudged Edward. ‘On Dingli Cliffs, is he? Good for him. Well, we’re complete novices here in comparison. We’ve only been here a month.’

  ‘And what do you fly?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Um, Spitfires,’ said Harry.

  ‘Spitfires? How marvellous,’ said Kitty. Edward tried hard not to smile; he felt a renewed sense of pride. The army men exchanged glances.

  ‘Saw one of your boys come down this morning,’ said the captain.

  ‘Yes, that was Mikey Lindsay,’ said Harry. ‘Poor sod got clobbered by half a dozen 109s. Still, he baled out no problem, and was picked up by the air-sea rescue lads. Nothing more than a graze on his arm.’

  ‘How incredible,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Yes, it is rather, isn’t it? He’s being given a check-over up at Imtarfa this afternoon, but he’s expected to be able to fly again tomorrow.’

  ‘And were you two flying this morning?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘Us? Yes,’ said Harry, pulling out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. ‘Smoke, anyone?’ The girls took one each, so too did the captain.

  ‘Did you shoot anything down?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘Not personally. I was flying with Zulu – that stocky little Rhodesian over there.’ He pointed at Zulu, who was laughing and slapping the back of one of the submariners. ‘We just spent our time dodging the 109s. To be honest, we’re often so outnumbered there’s little opportunity to take them on. But Red over there got one. He’s the tall American. And you had a go, didn’t you, Eddie?’

  Edward nodded. ‘He was a bit far away, though.’ He hoped he sounded nonchalant.

  ‘Actually, usually the hardest thing is trying to land. The 109s tend to hang around and try and have a pop when we’re coming back in. Very inconsiderate of them. Fortunately, the airfield wasn’t bombed this morning, but very often you can come back in with the whole place in a right old mess, covered in smoke and dust, bomb craters everywhere.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Good question. Pray long and hard and hope for the best.’ He grinned, and blew several smoke rings into the air.

  ‘We must be getting along,’ said the Captain suddenly, standing up. Turning to Edward, he said, ‘Thanks for the drink,’ he added, then tipping his cap, said, ‘Ladies.’

  The girls watched them leave, then once out of earshot, began laughing. Kitty said, ‘Thank God you two showed up. Bless them, but they were very dull.’

  ‘Really?’ said Harry. ‘I thought they seemed charming. A bit dour, perhaps.’

  Edward looked down at his glass on the table. It had been another terrifying morning: the sky full of aircraft, mostly German and Italian, as bombers dived down over Grand Harbour and the submarine base in Marsamxett Harbour. He’d tried to stick with Zulu but it had been hard, especially with five 109s bearing down on him. For a brief moment he’d had a clear shot at another Messerschmitt, but it had been fleeting, and in his sudden excitement he’d shot wide, his tracer disappearing harmlessly out to sea. Harry had landed just after him; they’d both had the shakes as they’d lit cigarettes on their way back to dispersal.

  ‘Eddie, are you all right?’ said Harry.

  Edward looked up. ‘What? Oh, yes. Sorry.’

  He noticed Elizabeth looking at him – It’s all right – then he smiled bashfully.

  ‘What you need is another drink,’ said Harry. ‘Let me get another round.’

  ‘Harry’s a darling,’ said Kitty. ‘Have you been friends long?’

  ‘Ever since we joined up. We trained together, went operational together and even joined our first squadron together.’

  ‘And you came out here together too?’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes. We’ve been lucky. I’ve been lucky. Couldn’t ask for a better friend.’

  When Harry returned, he did so with Zulu, Lucky, Red O’Neill and half the submariners. The laughter had become even more frequent – now, someone only had to say something slightly amusing and everyone would double up with near-hysterical giggles. Most of the Pimms cups had been drunk – although on this occasion they had had to do without Numbers 5 and 6: the bar – indeed, the whole Island – was out of rye and vodka.

  ‘It seems it’s gharrie-racing time,’ said Harry.

  ‘And y
ou two are definitely needed,’ said Zulu.

  Harry gave the girls their drinks, then raised his glass. ‘Chin, chin,’ he said.

  ‘The ladies can be the adjudicators,’ said David Timpson. ‘And the winner’s prize is –’

  ‘A kiss from these very cute girls,’ said Lucky.

  Elizabeth and Kitty looked at one another and laughed. ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I mean, what would my husband think?’

  ‘Oh, he’d understand,’ said Lucky. ‘Essential war work. A morale-booster for the troops.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that.’ Elizabeth glanced at Kitty again and giggled. ‘It’s a good job we’ve the rest of the day off, isn’t it, Kitty?’

  ‘We’ll gladly give the winning team a kiss,’ said Kitty, ‘but only on the cheek.’

  The men groaned, but Lucky put up his hands. ‘No, fair enough. It’s something just to be blessed with female company.’

  ‘And what exactly is a gharrie race?’ asked Elizabeth, ‘although I can guess.’

  ‘Well,’ said a tall, bearded submariner. ‘We go out onto Kingsway, persuade a couple of Maltese gharrie drivers to lend us their mule and trap, and then we race each other. It’s usually pretty riotous.’

  They all spewed out onto Kingsway, spirits high, amidst laughing and jostling. Two of the submariners began piggyback racing. Edward felt light-headed already. The drinks at the mess were watered down; in just a month, he had become unused to drinking so much in such a short time.

  ‘So where the hell are these goddam carts?’ asked Lucky, getting out his camera. Kingsway was largely deserted.

  The bearded submariner scratched his chin. ‘Um, we always used to be able to pick them up here. Maybe we should try the bus station.’

  ‘What do you think they’re eating at the Victory Kitchens?’ said someone else. More laughter. They made their way up past the Opera House and through the main city gates, and there found two gharries. The Maltese drivers were only too happy to hand over the reins as coins and notes were stuffed into their pockets. ‘Won’t be long,’ said the bearded submariner. ‘Be right back. All right, two teams,’ he said, turning to the assembled party.