The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  Drake had kept a close eye on her during the first sorties they’d gone on with the Maltese Squadron, knowing that she lacked experience, having been shot down in her very first mission with the Wolfpack Squadron. He needn’t have worried; even though she was undisciplined in the more technical aspects and flew mainly on instinct, she still managed to carry out manoeuvres that were beyond most pilots and the weeks of constant sorties since had only served to hone those instincts. She was becoming a truly brilliant pilot and Drake, as an instructor, would have liked to say that he’d had something to do with it, but the truth was there just hadn’t been time to give her lessons and, beyond a few pointers and the answer to some of her questions, he’d had no hand in her transformation.

  However, this was the first time she was truly being put to the test and she was doing it in a machine that was barely functioning.

  He watched, hardly able to breathe, as the four machines vied with each other for positioning behind her and every time one or other of them fired he tensed, sure that the game was up, that he would see her spinning away for the long fall to the sea below, but every time she spun or wheeled away. He was beginning to think that she was going to survive long enough for him to get to her, but then everything changed - two MU9’s finished off the Harridan they’d been chasing and moved to head her off.

  She had nowhere to go. He was going to be too late.

  A strange calmness came over him as he realised that the day he and Tanya had feared had finally arrived and he gripped his stick tightly and prepared to do all he could to avenge her before he too was overwhelmed.

  Drake hadn’t counted on the rest of his squadron, though, and before the trap could be closed on the Muscovite, two extremely colourful aircraft appeared from behind a mass of bombers and pounced on the two MU9’s closing in on Tanya, taking advantage of their attention being too firmly fixed on her. One of the Prussian machines broke up and tumbled from the sky and the other abandoned the chase, spinning away in a desperate attempt to avoid the incoming fire. However, in coming to her rescue, the Maltese pilots had temporarily ignored their own attackers and they paid dearly for their gallantry. Large chunks flew from Felice’s machine before it went spinning away, but Baldacchino’s machine burst into flames before it fell, almost instantly becoming a huge fireball that smeared a trail of black across the sky.

  Drake tore his eyes from the horrific sight only just in time. ‘Two! Break now!’

  For a moment, he thought Tanya hadn’t understood him, because her aircraft pulled up and away from him, but then, when she completed the barrel roll and ended up with her nose pointed directly towards him he understood - that had been the only way she could do a sharp enough turn for his plan to work.

  Drake had timed it perfectly and, as the two Harridans closed on each other, a third aircraft, one of the largest Italian machines, a five-engined “Grand Eagle” heavy bomber, moved in between them. He pursed his lips nervously as the bomber loomed large in his windscreen, blocking out his view of the Muscovite’s Harridan; if she didn’t remember his instruction to go under the bomber then his plan would come to a very abrupt end.

  At the very last moment he jerked his stick back, clearing the dorsal gun of the bomber by mere inches, then immediately pushed it forwards again.

  The four MU9’s were exactly where he expected them to be, and the fire from his machine guns ripped apart the leader. A quick adjustment put a second in his sights and he squeezed off more shots, but they went wide as the Prussian pushed his stick forwards and dived away, followed by the other two - it seemed they had less appetite for the fight now that their prey were fighting back. Drake immediately forgot about them and banked hard, craning his neck to look for Tanya. He didn’t find her, but what he did see was the wreckage of another Muhlenberg, presumably one of the ones that had been chasing him, tumbling towards the sea. He rotated further, putting the Harridan on its back and pulled the stick back hard, disengaging from the fight.

  ‘Two, once you’re clear, break away and head for home.’

  His heart leapt into his throat when he didn’t immediately hear from her, but after a few seconds his radio crackled in his ears.

  ‘Roger. Leader.’

  He frowned when he heard how strained her voice was, but forced himself to relax and concentrate on what he was doing; there were many reasons why she would have trouble speaking, not least among them pulling as many G’s as he was at that moment in order to get away.

  All thoughts of Tanya were momentarily put out of his mind, though, when he caught sight of what was happening almost immediately below him.

  Felice’s aircraft had apparently not been as damaged as it had seemed and he had used his convincing death dive not to escape, but rather to take him towards the airships. He had deployed his harpoon and, even though he had been followed down by a pair of MU’s, was succeeding in wreaking havoc. Three of the airships were sinking from the air, huge tears in their gasbags flapping as they deflated, and he was already lined up on a fourth. However, as Drake watched, the Maltese pilot’s luck ran out. He was bracketed by fire from several airships and when he tried to dodge he put himself squarely in the sights of the pursuing MU’s. His left wing was torn off at the root, putting him into a spin which carried him squarely into the airship he’d been targeting.

  The tangled wreckage of both machines dropped from the sky, tumbling wildly, and Drake knew that if the ever-smiling man hadn’t already been killed in the impact, there was no way he’d be able to get free and deploy his glidewings.

  There was nothing he could do for him, so Drake just continued his almost vertical dive, angling towards Malta, now only a few miles away. There was another Harridan a few thousand feet below him, heading in the same direction and he hoped it was Tanya, but he couldn’t make out the letter on its fuselage because of the angle.

  As he plummeted from the sky, he rotated the Harridan about its axis and slewed its tail back and forth, looking for enemy fighters, but there were none - they most likely had orders to stay with the bombers and not chase too far. What he did see, though, were puffs of deceptively pretty black smoke blooming among the bombers as the island’s anti-aircraft barrage began and he took a few seconds to appreciate the sight, wishing the gunners luck, before gently beginning to pull up and turning on a course for home.

  An hour later, Drake stood at the bottom of the ramp down to the underground hangar at Hal Far airfield, looking disconsolately at what was left of his command being hastily repaired - three Harridans which were completely outclassed by the Prussian MU9’s, even before he took into consideration that they were so damaged they could barely get into the air in the first place.

  Worse, though, was the fact that, of the twelve men and women who had taken off that morning only four had survived, and Drake was the only one who had escaped injury.

  Tanya was in the infirmary having dozens of small glass splinters removed from her face and body - during their desperate last manoeuvre she had been hit by machine gun rounds from the MU’s chasing Drake, one of which had shattered her canopy and narrowly missed her.

  The pilot of the third and last Harridan that had made it home was a young woman called Betsy Jones, who’d been working in the typing pool until Sky Commodore Lloyd Hughes had asked for volunteers to join the Hal Far Fighter Force. Even though she’d earned her wings with London University Air Squadron before the war she’d never been in combat, but Hughes had been desperate for pilots and had given her a Harridan. Since then she’d proved to be a more than decent pilot and had even scored a few victories against the equally inexperienced Italians, but the Prussians were a whole other matter. A pair of MU9’s had gotten on her tail and pumped round after round into her before she’d been able to shake them off. She’d managed to bring her badly damaged aircraft back to Hal Far and it would fly again, but she wouldn’t; a cannon round had penetrated her cockpit, ripping a horrific wound in her leg and the doctors at Valletta hospital expected her to l
ose it.

  The last survivor was Anton Baldacchino. He had managed to get out of his aircraft, but only after being badly burned over almost the entirety of his body. He had been picked up by a fishing boat a few miles off the coast and rushed to the hospital, but wasn’t expected to last the day.

  ‘So, the Prussians have finally decided to show their faces, what?’

  Drake turned and saluted as Sky Commodore Lloyd Hughes appeared beside him. He was accompanied by a man dressed in a long black robe - the priest who turned up with the fisherfolk every morning to “bless” the Maltese aircraft.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But no sign of the Barons, eh?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. I wonder what took the blighters so long.’

  ‘I like to think they might have had their hands full for a while with Bertha, sir.’

  When Drake had escaped Bertha, he had been forced to leave behind hundreds of other prisoners of war. Most of them had been in no condition to make the jump anyway, but those that could have done insisted on remaining behind instead to free the other prisoners and then make an attempt to bring down the gigantic airship.

  Hughes smiled sadly. ‘Well, whatever the reason for the delay, this message couldn’t have come at a better time.’ He handed Drake a tiny scrap of paper.

  TO O/C HAVEN STOP BADGERS ON THEIR WAY STOP HOLD WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT STOP CHIN UP AND BEST OF BRITISH STOP GEORGE R

  Drake gave his commanding officer a scathing look. ‘So, the Misfits are coming to save us all... Well, I hope they bloody get here soon, sir; we’ll be lucky to last two days!’

  The black-clad priest stepped forward and spoke for the first time. ‘Hope is something we still have plenty of, Lord Drake.’

  Drake looked him up and down. He was in his mid to late thirties, with black hair and kind features, a large wooden crucifix around his neck his only jewellery.

  Priests, as leaders of the local community, were acting as liaisons between the British and the Maltese at the three airbases and the naval base at Valletta - Archbishop Caruana himself was the liaison at Luqa, the main British airbase.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, sir.’ Drake stuck out his hand and the priest took it with a smile.

  ‘My name is Bugelli, Father Bugelli, but who I am is not important, what is important is that you continue to believe in your ability to defend this island. Like we do.’

  The priest motioned to the side and Drake noticed the silent group standing in the sunshine to one side of the ramp out of the way, peering down into the darkness of the hangar. He searched their faces, looking for some sign of the belief that the man was talking about and was astounded when, instead of the sorrow he’d expected at the loss of their countrymen, he saw fierce determination.

  ‘Why? Why do you still think we can defend you? If we couldn’t do it with twelve aircraft, why do you think we can do it with only three?’

  ‘Because we know you will never give up and also...’ the priest gestured towards the Harridans. ‘We have been given a sign.’

  ‘A sign?’ Drake raised an eyebrow.

  The priest laughed. ‘Yes! I know perfectly well you British don’t believe in such things anymore, but we Maltese do.’ He opened his arms and raised his voice as if preaching. ‘“And now abideth faith, hope, and charity...”’ He smiled and winked at Drake. ‘I’m paraphrasing a bit, but those were the words of St Paul after being shipwrecked on this very island.’

  ‘And? What has that got to do with anything?’ Drake had no idea what the man was talking about and he was fast losing patience; the last thing he wanted to do was stand around debating religion when Tanya was in the infirmary.

  The priest pointed at the three Harridans in turn. ‘F, H, and C. Faith, Hope and Charity. Christian virtues according to St Paul.’

  Drake eyed the Harridans, taking in the letters painted on their side. Even though he didn’t share the beliefs of the priest or the islanders he had to admit the RAC were going to need something if they were going to hold on until reinforcements arrived, call it luck or divine intervention. However, the scientist in him wasn’t willing to give up to superstition without a fight and he smiled. ‘Well, it’s not much of a sign, is it? I mean, yes, we do have three aircraft, but we only have a couple of pilots left, so only two of them will be going up

  Hughes smiled. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Squadron Leader; I will be joining the squadron from now on. Under your command of course.’

  ‘But, sir...’

  Hughes held up a hand to stop him. ‘It’s not as if there’s much left to coordinate with the bombers grounded and our fighters reduced to a quarter their strength. The best way I can help this island now is by helping you take the fight to the Prussians.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  The three of them blinked in surprise as the air raid siren sounded and Drake checked his chronograph, puzzled. ‘There shouldn’t be another raid for a couple of hours, yet.’

  Hughes sighed. ‘Well, the Prussians are here now. You know them, they’ll want to step things up a bit.’

  Drake nodded. ‘And they probably won’t bother with the airships.’

  There was a brief moment of silence as Hughes took in the implications of what Drake had said. ‘We’d better hop to it, then.’

  The men looked up at the sound of running boots behind them as Tanya came racing out of the emergency medical station next to the ramp. ‘One hundred plus bandits, fifteen minutes out! Come on!’

  She ran past them without slowing, heading for her machine and Drake grimaced slightly as his mind automatically called it Hope. He shook his head, then turned back to Hughes. ‘Grab a helmet, sir, and let’s go. You’re Falcon Three, in “C”.’

  ‘In Charity, yes, Leader!’ Hughes grinned and broke into a trot towards the third Harridan as Drake groaned. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement and turned just in time to see the priest finish crossing himself. ‘I do have faith, Father, just not your kind, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That will be enough, young man.’

  As Drake sprinted to his machine, the priest climbed the ramp to join his flock and began to lead them in prayer.

  The bright blue sky to the north was filled with enemy aircraft and three Harridans climbed from RAC Hal Far to meet them.

  Only three Harridans to face an invading force of more than a hundred aircraft.

  They were all that was left to defend Malta’s airspace, so it would have to be enough.

  Chapter 1

  26th January 1941

  The two women watched Gibraltar slowly sinking below the horizon from the flight deck of the aircraft carrier, HMS Arturo. They weren’t the only ones doing so - dozens of other men and women were on deck, basking in the late morning sun, such a welcome change after the freezing temperatures and snow of the winter which was still holding the British Isles firmly in its icy grip.

  However, while their attention was firmly fixed on the rock which marked the last bastion of British strength before they steamed into the mainly enemy-controlled Mediterranean, that of the people around them was very much divided.

  There was nothing obvious to explain why the two women were being watched surreptitiously by everyone else. It wasn’t because they were sitting close and had their arms around each other; that wasn’t particularly unusual. Neither was it because the taller of the two was stunningly beautiful, her long blonde hair streaming to the side in the wind over the flat deck. In fact the only thing differentiating them from the rest of the men and women was the lighter blue of their uniforms, but that provided the vital clue as to who or rather what they were and justified the snatched glances.

  They were pilots, members of the famed Misfit Squadron. More importantly, though, the shorter, particularly ordinary-looking one, was Gwen Stone, who had not only attained an almost mythical status in the eyes of the British public and armed forces, but had also become something of a hero with the crew of th
e Arturo when she had named her new aircraft Excalibur in honour of their ship.

  The two women were oblivious to the attention, though; they were very much in love and determined to enjoy a rare moment of peace together.

  Gwen leaned her head against Kitty’s shoulder with a groan. ‘I’m starting to feel really stuffed after all these dinners. If this goes on much longer I’m not going to fit in my cockpit.’

  Since the convoy had sailed, five days before, the Misfits had dined once with Captain Hewer, twice with the Arturo’s officers and had even been transferred across to the flagship, the HMS Brunel, to dine with Admiral Myerscough, the veteran admiral commanding the small twenty-two-ship fleet, including escorts and merchant vessels, half of which would carry on to Alexandria after supplies, including a squadron of Spitsteams and the Misfits, had been delivered to Malta. Each meal had been a sumptuous affair with the best food each ship could offer in vast quantities, accompanied by as much wine, beer and spirits as the pilots could handle - which in most cases was an equally vast quantity and in some, far more than they should.

  ‘I’ve seen the size of Excalibur’s cockpit and I don’t think you need to worry about that.’ Kitty tilted her head to rest on Gwen’s. ‘Running out of spring tension because of the extra weight on the other hand...’

  Gwen snorted. ‘Thank you, that makes me feel so much better.’

  Kitty kissed the top of Gwen’s head. ‘You know I’m joking; to me you’re perfect. And anyway, I have a feeling we’re all going to lose some weight on Malta.’

  ‘Yes... The situation doesn’t sound very pleasant, does it? I can’t imagine going through what we did last summer and not be able to stuff my face afterwards, or have a few bitters.’

  ‘And apparently they ran out of tea two whole months ago! How can they even consider themselves British anymore?’