Bruce shut his mouth with a pop to more laughter.
‘Actually, I have something.’ Drake spoke up, raising his hand like the good public school boy that he was.
Abby hid her smile with difficulty. ‘Yes, Squadron Leader.’
‘Even though I’ve handed command of the base over to Sky Commodore Campbell, the locals are still coming to me. I don’t mind, as long as it’s alright with you two?’
He looked from Abby to Campbell, both of whom gave him a nod.
‘They’re looking for permission to hold a service for Mac. I told them I would have to run it past you first because I wasn’t sure if you would want something religious for him.’
Drake spoke carefully, not quite sure how the Misfits would react and wasn’t surprised to see some scepticism.
‘Does this come from Father Bugelli?’
‘He was the messenger, but the request actually comes from Archbishop Caruana himself.
‘And did he say why they want to have it for him and not the other men and women who have died for the island so far?’
Drake nodded. ‘The service will honour them all, but it will hold Mac up as an example of the type of sacrifice which is being made for the people of the island.’
Abby nodded her understanding; quite apart from how Mac had given his life, the Misfits had long been used as role models in the British press. It had proven to be an effective way of keeping up morale back home and there was no reason why they couldn’t do the same in Malta. She glanced around anyway, just to make sure that everybody felt the same way she did. Finding no objections she turned back to Drake. ‘Permission granted.’
‘Thank you. The service will take place this Sunday night in the Cathedral of St Paul. Oh, and they’re asking for photographs of all the personnel who have lost their lives, along with any personal items that can be spared, which might represent who they were as people. They’ll be put on display around the church for the service and left there for the duration of the war as a kind of memorial.’
Abby nodded. ‘That sounds wonderful. We’ll dig out something from his room at the house and I’ll get a copy of his official RAC portrait from the files - he doesn’t look too much like a belligerent Scotsman in it, so it should do.’
There were some chuckles, but they were extremely subdued; the squadron wouldn’t feel completely comfortable making jokes about the mad Scot until they’d laid him to rest by sitting down to tell stories about him and drink to his memory.
Gwen spoke up quietly. ‘Don’t forget to get photographs of Jenkins, Pierce and Williams, please.’
‘I won’t forget, don’t worry.’ Abby gave Gwen a sad smile, then looked around the table at her pilots. ‘Well, I suggest...’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw a junior officer from signals come into the forest clearing and head directly for them. She was holding one of the small pieces of cut up newspaper they’d been using as message slips since the paper supplies had run out. The woman halted in front of Drake and held out the paper, but he just smiled at her and tilted his head towards Campbell.
There were chuckles when the young aerial officer coloured with embarrassment, but they weren’t unkind. She hurried over to Campbell and handed her the message instead, then gave Chalky a shy smile before hurrying away.
‘You sly dog!’ Bruce clapped the blonde man on the shoulder, knocking his fork out of his hand. ‘Only just got here and you’re already cracking on to the Sheilas!’
Chalky rescued his cutlery and fiddled with it while he peered around shamefacedly. He found himself the centre of attention, the message the woman had brought temporarily forgotten in the face of a new piece of gossip. ‘It’s not like that, Roberta’s...’ He sighed. ‘Yes, it is like that.’
‘Good on ya, mate!’ Bruce slapped him again, a lot harder, and this time the fork went flying. It could easily have done someone a mischief, but Scarlet just casually reached out to snatch it from mid-air. She spun it between her fingers a few times before sliding it back across the table.
She shrugged at the impressed looks. ‘Pitiless Pixie, remember?’
Campbell cleared her throat loudly, calling their attention back to the message. ‘It’s from the Admiral’s office. Apparently three of the Sea Harridan pilots survived and they’ve volunteered to join us if we’ll have them?’
She looked questioningly at Abby, who immediately nodded. ‘Of course we will!’
‘Good. They’ll be here later tonight. I’m going to stay to greet them and I’ll ask the fitters to put together another three Spits. They should be ready to go up with you at dawn.’
‘Send them to the house when you’re done with them, please, Dot,’ said Abby, ‘there’s plenty of room to billet there and I’d like to have a word with them, see what kind of experience they have.’
‘Will do, but don’t wait up too late for them; they might not get here for hours yet.’
Abby smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am!’
The Misfits were in high spirits during the ride back to the house in Birzebbuga, but as soon as the RAC drivers dropped them off they fell silent, then trooped up the stairs together to Mac’s bedroom.
They stood just inside the door looking around.
Nobody had been in the room since Mac’s death so it was just as he’d left it and they’d been worried what they would find, but they needn’t have; there was barely any sign that he had ever been there. It was not surprising really, after all, he’d been able to bring very little with him on the flight to the island in the tiny luggage compartment behind his seat and the bulk of his personal effects hadn’t yet arrived from the Arturo.
By unspoken agreement, it was the two people who had known him the best, Abby and Bruce, who went around the room collecting the few things while the rest watched from where they were.
It took only a few seconds to gather his toiletries from the adjoining bathroom and his clothes from the chest of drawers, but there was nothing even remotely like a keepsake to be found anywhere and it looked like they were going to be frustrated in their search for anything to take to the cathedral. It wasn’t until Bruce looked in the nightstand that they found anything that they could say was truly Mac’s.
‘This is perfect!’ Bruce chuckled. ‘Look.’
He walked over to the door and the Misfits gathered around to see what he had found.
Tucked in between the pages of a leather-bound volume of Oscar Wilde plays, which Mac had borrowed from the small library on the second floor, was a photograph, serving as a bookmark. It was like one of the portraits that families got taken at a local studio, dressed in their Sunday best and smiling soberly for the camera, except that neither Mac nor Katerina had been dressed in their best or sober. By the address of the photographer in St Petersburg and the date scrawled on the back it was obvious that it had been taken the morning after the two of them had met.
They were posing in front of a backdrop representing a wooden hut deep in a Muscovite forest, Katerina in her plain brown army uniform with Mac’s top hat on her head and Mac in his elaborate dress uniform with Katerina’s flat cap on backwards. They were extremely bleary-eyed and looking very much the worse for wear, but still laughing their heads off, happy and full of life in each other’s arms.
Chapter 8
The Navy pilots arrived just over an hour later. As soon as they’d heard their request to join the squadron had been approved they had commandeered a navy wagon and driver and raced to Hal Far. They had gotten there only ten minutes after the Misfits had left, but had wandered around the airfield for a good half an hour, not sure where to go or even if they were in the right place and it wasn’t until a passing local had shown them where one of the intercom system boxes was that they gained entry.
Dorothy Campbell herself had welcomed them and she gave them a brief tour, ending up at the Spitsteams, which were being unpacked and assembled for them, before sending them on their way up the road to Birzebbuga with a Military Guard as a guide, just in case.
<
br /> The Misfits were in the sitting room when Maria showed the Navy pilots in. It was becoming a habit for them to spend at least half an hour there as a group at the end of the day to unwind and chat about things like the day’s flying and how the designs for the new aircraft were coming.
The three pilots, two women and a man, dropped their kitbags from their shoulders and came to attention as Abby put down her book and stood to greet them.
The leader, a woman in her late twenties with Lieutenant’s bars on her shoulders, who was taller even than Kitty, nodded at her respectfully. ‘Lieutenant Smith, Sub-Lieutenant Drummond and Sub-Lieutenant Farrier reporting for duty, ma’am.’
‘Welcome, all of you.’ She returned Smith’s nod, then did the same to Drummond, a young man in his mid-twenties, who was trying, somewhat unsuccessfully to grow what the navy called a “set” - a full beard and moustache - then Farrier, a young woman with ginger hair who looked all of eighteen or nineteen and was shifting from foot to foot nervously. ‘There’s no standing on ceremony in this squadron, so, as you were, please.’ She waited for them to relax then smiled. ‘I’m Abby Lennox and these berks behind me are the Misfits - I’m sure they’ll introduce themselves later.’
Abby smiled as the three pilots curiously gazed around the room, taking in the sight of the pilots they’d no doubt heard and read a lot about, lounging around in an assortment of pyjamas. ‘There are rooms prepared for you upstairs, Maria will show you where they are - why don’t you dump your kit, freshen up, then come back down and have a drink with us.’
‘Aye, aye, ma’am.’ Smith nodded and the pilots picked up their bags and followed Maria up the stairs towards the bedrooms.
‘So, who exactly are we now, Boss?’
Abby turned and looked at Bruce. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we’ve already accepted two strays and now we’ve got three Biscuit Bangers as well. Are we still Misfits? Or have we become something else?’
‘Accepted?’ Abby raised her eyebrow and looked around questioningly.
Her pilots immediately realised what she was asking and one by one she received nods from all of them. Drake had already earned their respect in Muscovy and in a very short time Tanya had demonstrated exactly why she had survived the calvary of Malta by displaying her brilliant piloting skills. She had also become well-loved by them all during the period she had been without an aircraft, keeping herself busy by scouring the countryside for supplies, bartering whatever she could for food and anything that the pilots or mechanics needed in order to keep doing their jobs.
Abby nodded and smiled at Drake and Tanya. ‘Congratulations, you two. Looks like you’re officially Misfits now.’
Drake beamed. ‘Thank you!’
Tanya smiled, bemused, then leaned in to whisper in Drake’s ear. ‘Rudy, what just happened?’
Drake smiled at her. ‘We found a home, darling.’
Abby waited for the chuckles and congratulations to subside before continuing. ‘To answer your question, Bruce, yes, we are still Misfit Squadron, but we are also all that is standing between the Prussians and this island, so we will accept help from whoever offers it, whether it is in the form of Spitsteams or Biscuit Banging pilots. The sooner we get this job done, the sooner reinforcements will come and then we’ll be able to regain our identity and individuality. Which reminds me - she won’t tell me how, but Tanya managed to scare up some paint from somewhere. We don’t have much, but I’d like some individual touches on your aircraft, please; we can’t have the Prussians thinking we’re just a regular RAC unit, now, can we?’
‘And when are we going to start rebuilding?’
It was Derek who asked the question and Abby thought she detected a note of suspicion in his eyes, as if he somehow suspected she was hiding something. She realised that it might be a good time to tell them about the War Ministry’s order; they’d had a chance to fly their new aircraft and appreciate their virtues, but not enough time had passed since the order not to rebuild had come for them to be able to accuse her of hiding it from them.
However, before she could say anything else, the naval pilots returned and the opportunity was lost.
With the sudden influx of so many trained mechanics it had been a simple matter to assemble three more Spitsteams overnight and the squadron was up to twelve fighters for the morning.
Abby had drawn up a new squadron formation, rearranging it into Red, Blue and Yellow flights and recovering the Badger callsigns. After finding out that the Navy pilots lacked combat experience she placed them into Red and Yellow flights, which would be responsible for attacking the bombers, and put her best pilots into Blue flight, which would attempt to keep the fighters busy.
Gwen remained with Abby as Badger Two to form the first element of Red flight. They were joined by Kitty, who had been promoted to element leader, with the young Sub-Lieutenant Farrier on her wing as Badgers Three and Four.
Derek, with the most experience after Abby as a flight leader, was given Yellow flight, his callsign coincidentally remaining Badger Five. Chastity was moved onto his wing as Badger Six and Lieutenant Smith was made leader of his second element with the third pilot, Sub-Lieutenant Drummond on her wing as Badgers Seven and Eight.
Bruce took Blue flight and kept Monty on his wing as Badgers Nine and Ten, while Drake and Tanya made up the second pair as Eleven and Twelve.
It was immediately effective, although it was a lot tougher on Bruce and Blue flight than it was on the others and they came back with holes in their machines more often than not, something of which the Spitsteam was not nearly as forgiving as the Harridan and made for some hairy landings, and Monty was forced to bail when his wing was shot off.
Coalition losses mounted and they tried to compensate by reducing the number of raids to only three each day instead of five or six. This allowed them to put their entire force into the air, like they had during the final raid before the convoy had made port, instead of alternating between the Italians and Prussians as they tended to do. The tactic worked to a certain extent - the larger concentration of fighters preventing the British from scoring quite as many victories as they had - but it also meant that the men and women facing them had more time to rest between sorties and they weren’t nearly as worn down as Gwen, Abby and Mac had been.
Despite their initial misgivings, the Misfits slowly fell in love with their Spitsteams and once they were able to put a few personal touches to them, the pilots really began to make them their own. It was an extremely elegant machine, a delight to fly, but best of all it was more than a match for anything the enemy could put in the air to face them. They continued to work on the designs for their own machines, though, Tanya and Drake included, now that they were officially Misfits; a Spitsteam was good, but it wouldn’t ever be as good as a purpose-built machine.
Two days later was Sunday and, after the sun had set and the Prussians had gone home for the night, the Misfits wandered back to the house in Birzebbuga to change for the remembrance service.
Their luggage hadn’t been in the main hold of the Arturo, but rather in one of the smaller storage compartments near their quarters, and it had been delivered to them the day before, which meant that they had their dress uniforms just in time.
Gwen stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom. She had fought to get into her corseted tunic, struggled with the awful and far too plentiful petticoats, given up on her hair and reluctantly applied makeup, but she had to admit that she presented a stirring figure, especially with the shiny new medal on her chest and Lieutenant’s stripes on her cuffs.
Kitty appeared beside her in the reflection. ‘You look beautiful, darling.’
‘Keep telling me that and one of these days I might start to believe you.’ Gwen looked the American up and down in the mirror. She had barely made an effort, but still looked stunning, her uniform doing things to her figure that had Gwen feeling decidedly weak at the knees. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’
Kitty
laughed. ‘Why thank you, ma’am.’
Gwen grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me. I still can’t believe I outrank you now, it’s so unfair.’
‘You know I don’t care about that kind of thing, besides,’ Kitty grinned, ‘I quite like it when you’re bossy.’
‘Is that right?’ Gwen raised an eyebrow. ‘Then I guess I order you to give me a kiss.’
‘Yes, ma’am! Right away, ma’am!’
Kitty bent down to kiss her, but it was barely more than a peck; neither of them wanting to smear lipstick or rumple clothing that had taken more than an hour the previous night to restore to some semblance of respectability after its rough treatment on the Arturo.
Kitty pulled back with a sigh and Gwen frowned at her. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Of course.’ Kitty answered immediately with a smile, but then she took a deep breath and sighed again. ‘No, it’s really not; it was bad enough losing Hawk, but now we’ve lost Mac as well and we’re flying Spitsteams with strangers on our wings... I don’t know... It’s almost as if we’re not really Misfit Squadron anymore.’
‘I know how you feel.’ Gwen nodded. ‘But we are still Misfits and nothing can change that. You heard how many people went to see the exhibition over Midwinter and you saw those children in the hospital when we went to visit Penny - “Misfit Squadron” has become more than just its machines or pilots, it’s now a symbol which represents hope and the idea of a world free from the tyranny of the Prussians and it will live on long after we are dead and buried.’
Kitty shrugged. ‘I supposed.’
‘And as for Mac, well, this is war and we’ve been at the very forefront of it for months. We’ve been extremely lucky so far, but we always knew that our luck would run out eventually. Mac knew exactly what he was doing, though, and he chose when, where and how he was going to die - I just hope I’m as lucky when the time comes.’
It wasn’t until the words were out that Gwen realised how much she truly believed them and when she gazed into Kitty’s eyes she was sure she found the same belief, the same certainty in them.
The Maltese Defence Page 13
