The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  Gwen jumped out of Excalibur as soon as she had shut down and ran towards where a group of dejected pilots were contemplating the wreckage of their aircraft.

  ‘How did this happen?’

  They all looked up as she approached, but it was Kitty who answered. Her eyes were red, but it wasn’t just with sorrow for Hawk, there was a hefty amount of anger as well.

  ‘The bastards wouldn’t let us down into the hangar and we were stuck out here when a bunch of MU10’s and FU87’s attacked.’

  Gwen went to the American and wrapped her arms around her girlfriend’s stiff body, wanting to comfort her, but knowing that there was nothing she could do or say which could lessen the loss of the machine which had been with her for years and carried her through innumerable battles. She didn’t give up, though, and just held on as she looked around the pilots, needing answers for why the woman she loved had been hurt. ‘Why, though? Why didn’t they let you go down?’

  ‘Because the hangar door will never be opened during an air raid. No matter who wants to get in.’

  The Misfits turned to find Rudy Drake hobbling towards them. He was half-accompanied, half-supported, by the pilot of the second Harridan, a good-looking, if a bit thin, blonde woman in an RAC flightsuit, with small fading scars on her cheeks and a gap in her smile.

  ‘Everything and everyone is down in that hangar during an air raid, and I think you can imagine what kind of damage even one bomb falling on the ramp might do.’ Drake looked around the group, meeting their eyes one by one, making sure that they understood. ‘As you must have found out, there is a smaller, reinforced entrance for personnel to get down below without putting the rest as risk, but it’s just not possible to do the same for the aircraft. I’m truly sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

  There was hostile muttering at his words, but Abby had arrived in time to hear and put paid to it quickly. ‘That makes perfect sense and we were warned when we came in.’ She looked around the group, just as Drake had before her. ‘We just got here at the wrong time. It was bad luck is all.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Very bad luck; they never attack the airfield like this because we don’t usually have anything sitting out in the open for their dive bombers and heavy fighters to target. They must have spotted you coming in and diverted from somewhere else.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Abby gave the destroyed aircraft a sad look, then sighed. ‘Well, even though there’s not much left for me to command, I’m going to be taking charge in the air, but you should continue to run things on the ground until Dot Campbell gets here and relieves you. Any objection?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Good, thank you. And by the way - while you’re flying with us, you two will be considered honorary Misfits.’ She grinned at Drake and Tanya, then turned to the other pilots. ‘Alright, there’s no use crying over spilt milk and we’ve still got a job to do, even though it just got a hell of a lot harder. Those of us with aircraft are going to be very busy for a few days, so right now we’re going get some rest and food so that we’re ready to fly again as soon as possible. The rest of you... Squadron Leader Drake, can you organise some people to help them sort through the wreckage, see if there’s anything at all we can salvage, please?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Abby nodded. ‘Right, then, let’s get to it Misfits. Mourn later when we have time.’

  The mess, like everything else on the base, was below ground, and Mac, Abby and Gwen accompanied Drake and his wingmate down the ramp and across the vast hangar.

  The three Misfit aircraft and the two Harridans were already there and she was surprised to see that they were being rewound by hand, but then realised that, with the shortage of hydrogen, much of what could be done manually, would be. Despite the logical explanation, though, it was still quite shocking to see a pair of donkeys and what looked like a gang of locals helping the RAC servicemen push the long wooden poles, which could be attached to the winding machines in emergencies.

  Gwen fell in beside Drake, who was still being helped along by the blonde woman and he flashed her a smile. ‘Wotcha, Goosy.’

  ‘Digger.’ She looked down at the leg he was favouring. There was no sign of recent blood on his worn flightsuit. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘I took a bit of shrapnel to the leg last week. I’ll be fine, I just need to rest.’

  ‘I’m sure a couple of the others would be glad to fly your Harridans for a few days.’

  The blonde woman at Drake’s side snorted and a sneer curled her lip. ‘As if they would be able to handle them.’

  Gwen frowned at the woman’s words and especially the tone of her voice; it sounded far too much like the arrogance she’d encountered in Muscovy from Sergei Baryshnikov, the leader of Wolfpack Squadron.

  Drake just laughed, though. ‘Gwen Stone, meet Tatiana Guseva. Tanya is one of the Wolfpack pilots who were shot down the same day I was and it’s thanks to her I’m not dead in the woods or being worked to death in a Prussian airship.’

  There was a warmth in Drake’s voice as he spoke about the Muscovite that went way beyond gratitude or comradeship and she turned her head to look at him. There was something different in him, a maturity that he hadn’t had. For a moment she wondered if it was the situation and the responsibility that had been heaped on him, being in command of the losing side of a battle, but she realised why when she noticed the ring on his left hand and the matching one on the Muscovite’s.

  With a start, she lifted her eyes to the face of the woman who had captured her childhood friend’s heart, wanting to see if she remembered her from Muscovy, but recoiled when she found icy blue eyes already staring coldly at her. The hand on Drake’s arm tightened possessively and Gwen had no trouble reading the challenge in the Muscovite’s expression.

  Drake chuckled as he couldn’t help but feel the sudden tension between the two women. ‘So, Goosy! You and Kitty, then?’

  Gwen groaned at Drake’s typical lack of tact - at least there nothing had changed. ‘Yes, Rudy, me and Kitty.’

  ‘You were already with her in Muscovy, weren’t you?’

  ‘You knew?’

  Drake shrugged sheepishly. ‘Not at the time, but I managed to figure it out. That was what you were going to say to me that evening, right?’

  Gwen grinned. ‘Yes. I was actually quite relieved when I didn’t have to have that conversation.’

  ‘You were relieved that I was dead?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Drake laughed.

  ‘Of course, when I found out you were still alive, I got nervous all over again, but now I see I didn’t have to be.’ She peered around Drake again. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Guseva.’

  A little of the coolness had left the woman’s demeanour as the conversation had progressed, but she still only gave the slightest of nods in reply as she looked Gwen up and down appraisingly. ‘Tatiana. And you are the famous Gwen.’

  ‘Famous?’ Gwen wasn’t sure how to react to the Muscovite’s comment and her frown returned as she remembered the woman’s scornful remark from before. ‘I am, uh, well, Gwen, at least. And I’m sure any of the Misfits would be more than capable of handling your Harridans no problem.’

  The Muscovite smirked, but before she could say anything more to antagonise Gwen, Drake interjected again. ‘Tanya wasn’t commenting on your quality as pilots, Gwen. It’s just that our Harridans have been flying well beyond when they should have been scrapped and have developed quite a few foibles because of all the damage the fitters haven’t had the resources to repair. The two of us have had a chance to adjust to each one as they cropped up, but anyone else wouldn’t know how to handle them until they’d put in quite a few hours and we just don’t have time for that.’

  ‘Quite right; you will of course continue to fly your own machines. After you’ve had today and tomorrow off to rest and recover.’

  The three pilots glanced over their shoulders at Abby, who had apparently been listening to the entir
e conversation.

  ‘But...’

  ‘No buts, Squadron Leader Drake. Two days’ rest. That’s an order.’ She grinned. ‘And if you complain, I’ll make it three.’

  Drake shared a glance with his wingmate and Gwen could see the conflicting emotions in their expressions. She knew exactly what they were thinking - like any pilot, they were keen to stay in the air and take the fight to the enemy, but they also knew exactly how strung out they were and that they needed rest. In the end, common sense, along with the fact that Abby wouldn’t let them fly anyway, won out.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you.’

  Their slow progress, at the pace of the limping Drake, had finally brought them to an unpainted metal door at the very back of the hangar, with “MESS” stencilled on it in big black letters.

  Gwen was fully expecting the mess to be a stark and dank concrete hole like the rest of the hangar, but behind the six-inch, blast-proof door was like something out of a dream she’d had as a girl and certainly didn’t look like it was underground.

  Hundreds of large plants, many of them as tall as trees, had been strategically placed around the room to create what she could only describe as a thick forest, completely hiding the walls. Not a single scrap of concrete could be seen, in fact, because the floor was covered with a soft moss, like a thick and very expensive carpet. A short path through the bushes flanking the doorway led to a huge central clearing where dozens of wooden tables were set out in groups beneath wooden gazebos, which protected them from the occasional drip of water or sap. The illusion was completed by the warm light, which filtered through the plants from overhead, like sunshine through branches, and when Gwen gazed up to try to find its source she was surprised to find that there were even small birds flitting freely around the room.

  Whoever had built the underground complex had known that the men and women stationed on the base would be spending hours of their lives there and had made every effort to make it as pleasant as possible. They had succeeded admirably and there were even men and women scattered around the clearing, sitting on blankets, socialising or reading quietly, preferring to spend their off-duty time there rather than above ground.

  The clearing was flanked by a decidedly under-stocked bar on one side and by a buffet table on the other, where a man wearing a white apron was doling out small portions of food, and it was there that Drake led them.

  The table was almost as long as the space, but it held only a few things in clockwork warmers. There wasn’t even the obligatory tea urn and Drake shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, there’s not much to choose from. There’s fish stew, a few eggs, goat’s cheese, goat’s milk and goat meat. There’s no bread to go with it, I’m afraid, but we’ve got plenty of seaweed.’ He pointed out the dishes as he named them. ‘All donations from the locals. They give us what they can, but it’s difficult enough for them as it is, so we only accept what we need. It’s going to be a tough few days with the eight of you here too, though.’ He grinned. ‘Almost makes me wish we were back in Muscovy. Even with all the bloody beetroot.’

  The three Misfits stared at the meagre rations, then shared a glance. As one, they reached for the small bags, which had been all they could bring with them in the tiny luggage compartments behind their seats. Along with their spare underwear and toiletries, they had each chosen and brought a few luxuries with them from England.

  The cook’s eyes lit up at the sight of the bags of spices that Abby had brought and murmurs began when Mac brought out some flour, a late substitution for the whisky he had originally intended to bring. However, it was Gwen’s addition of three large packets of tea from Selfridges that had everyone in the room on their feet.

  Abby looked around the RAC personnel. There was only a single mess, so all ranks were represented, and she was, if not exactly pleased, then relieved to see that all of them were equally malnourished and the officers hadn’t been receiving more rations than the others.

  ‘This was supposed to be for our billet, but we had no idea that the situation was as bad - I think it’s only fair that we share.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, thank you.’ Drake gave the cook a serious look and raised his voice slightly so that the whole room could hear. ‘One mug of tea per person per day until Lieutenant Stone’s tea runs out. The rest of the supplies you can use as you see fit, although bear in mind that we’re not getting anything else until the convoy gets here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Blimey! This place is a bit special isn’t it? And are those bloody birds?’ The Misfits turned to find Scarlet in the doorway, gaping at the surroundings, a huge, bulging kitbag on the floor next to her. When she finally noticed that everybody was staring at her she grinned, completely unselfconsciously. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m gasping!’

  Chapter 3

  The Misfits couldn’t wait around for the cooks to prepare anything from the supplies they had brought, so, after a thoroughly unappetising, but blessedly brief snack, they made their way back above ground.

  They had only been down in the bunker for half an hour, but the airfield had been completely repaired and the wreckage of their squadron’s aircraft was well on their way to being cleared away. What little could be salvaged - three panels of gaily-coloured Duralumin, a dozen support struts, a few springs, a dozen or so belts of ammunition and a couple of weapons - had been placed to one side, but everything else had gone on the pile of scrap to be melted down and reused when there was a chance.

  Drake’s fitter, Gertrude Forrester, approached the pilots as they climbed up the ramp. She saluted Abby, but then addressed her pilot. ‘Sir. We’ve swapped out the springs in the Harridans with ones salvaged from the destroyed aircraft - they’re much better than the Prussian rubbish we’ve been using - and all aircraft have been rearmed and rewound and are ready to go.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant, but please stand down Hope and Faith; we’ve been ordered to take a couple of days’ leave.’ He grinned. ‘So, if there are any repairs you think you might like to make...’

  Forrester came as close to smiling as he’d ever seen as she replied. ‘I think I might be able to find a few things to do, sir.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Carry on then, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Forrester drew herself up and saluted Abby again, before marching off and barking orders that had the crews of the two Harridans wheeling them back down into the darkness of the hangar.

  Drake smiled at her back, then turned to Abby, Gwen and Mac. ‘Sounds like you’re ready to go. One thing you should know, though,’ he pointed at the ammunition that had been recovered from the wrecks. ‘That pile right there effectively doubles how much ammunition we have on the island. Tanya and I have had to be very frugal this last week or so and I recommend that you do the same; the Prussians have been coming five or six times a day and...’

  The wail of the air raid siren drowned out the rest of his sentence and he just grinned and saluted as the three pilots raced for their aircraft.

  Gwen found a young man, who didn’t look much older than Jimmy, Abby’s son, standing by Excalibur.

  He followed her up onto the wing and leaned into the cockpit to help her with her straps. ‘I’m Giuseppe, ma’am, I’ve been assigned to your aircraft until your fitters get here.’

  Gwen spared the man a glance. If the name hadn’t given her a clue, his olive skin would have told her beyond a doubt that he was a Maltese native. ‘Pleased to meet you, Giuseppe, I’m Gwen.’ She gave him a smile before she went back to her checks.

  ‘I know, ma’am. Everybody knows who you are.’ He flashed her a blindingly white smile. ‘You’re all ready. Happy hunting, ma’am.’ He jumped down from the wing, then went to stand in front of the aircraft and watched Gwen start up.

  When Excalibur was ready, Gwen gave Giuseppe a thumbs up and he raised his hand.

  It didn’t take long for the other two aircraft to be ready and then Abby gave the signal for them to release their brakes and begin ta
xiing into position for takeoff.

  Gwen made sure she was in her place on Abby’s wing, then looked towards Kitty. The American hadn’t once glanced in her direction since she’d come back out into the sunshine, but she was watching her now and Gwen waved. She got only a briefly lifted hand in reply, though, without even a hint of an accompanying smile.

  Gwen, Abby and Mac flew four more sorties that day. Conscious of Drake’s warning about ammunition stocks, they only shot when they were certain of a hit, which reduced their overall effectiveness considerably. They still managed to destroy ten bombers and four fighters during the day, but that was not nearly enough to make an appreciable dent in the enemy numbers.

  Once night had fallen and it was clear that the Prussians wouldn’t be coming again, Abby sent her evening report to Dorothy Campbell aboard the Arturo, which was now well into the Mediterranean and in range of the radio, detailing the situation and their losses. The Sky Commodore in turn reported that the convoy had been attacked almost as soon as the Misfits had taken off. The Arturo had taken minor damage and one of the supply ships had been forced to turn back to Gibraltar, damaged below the waterline and taking on water.

  The Misfits remained at the base to have a small, but sumptuous, evening meal in the wondrous mess, prepared mostly from the copious supplies that Scarlet had brought, and afterwards they were driven to their billet in the nearby town of Birzebbuga, less than a mile away.

  Despite the town’s proximity to Hal Far it was relatively untouched; along with the airfields, it was the Maltese capital of Valletta, with its port and the two warships under repair in it, which bore the brunt of the daily Prussian and Italian attacks. The only time Birzebbuga suffered any damage at all was when there were clouds and the bombers dropped their payloads indiscriminately in the area where they thought Hal Far was.