The Maltese Defence

by Simon Brading

  The briefing hall was a rectangular concrete room with light green-painted walls, a thin maroon carpet, more than a hundred extremely uncomfortable wooden chairs and the obligatory corkboards. Unlike the ready rooms and the mess it was unadorned and deliberately functional, with nothing to draw the attention away from whatever briefing was taking place.

  Drake stood at the front of the room, the diagrams he’d drawn of the huge airship pinned to the boards along with a large-scale map of eastern Sicily with the location of the Bertha marked in red. As he spoke he referred to the diagrams.

  ‘The airship is moved by four fans placed at the bottom corners of the gondola. They are spring-powered, rather than hydrogen. This has brought down weight enough that its carrying capacity is much higher than a normal Zeppelin.’

  ‘How are they wound?’ asked Smith with a frown. ‘If they have steam-powered winding machines, then wouldn’t it be more weight-efficient to just power them with hydrogen?’

  ‘It would, but they don’t use winding machines. They are wound by hand.’

  Smith laughed, but immediately stopped when he didn’t smile. ‘Surely not. You’re joking, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. You see, Bertha is also a flying prison camp and the prisoners of war are forced to wind the springs using devices something like a capstan on a ship.’

  ‘That’s... that’s...’

  ‘Inhuman? Barbaric? Believe me it’s far worse than it sounds.’ Drake gave her a half-smile. ‘And that’s before you know that they are all pilots, at Hans Gruber’s personal request.’

  ‘Why just pilots?’

  Drake shrugged. ‘Who knows? Although I will tell you that during our long conversations I did get the feeling that Gruber wasn’t exactly the most rational of people.’ He turned back to the diagram. ‘Anyway, to facilitate maintenance and repair, the springs can be removed, just like the ones on normal aircraft, and that’s how we escaped - the prisoners mounted a revolt in one of the four winding rooms and managed to jettison the spring. Tanya and I jumped through the hole left in the gondola wearing powered glidewings and made it here by the skin of our teeth. We left behind more than a hundred freed prisoners of war, at least a few of whom were armed with stolen weapons. They intended to jettison the rest of the springs, then do their best to destroy the airship.’ He smiled wryly, then looked at the blown-up photograph. ‘Gruber boasted to me that Bertha never needed to land, that it was supplied with everything it needed by aircraft. The fact that it is on the ground suggests that they were at least partially successful. Although I don’t see much in the way of damage, so they were probably only able to jettison enough springs to force it to land.’

  Drake shared a sad look with Tanya; they both knew what the presence of an intact Bertha on Sicily likely meant for their friends.

  ‘What defences does it have?’ asked Abby.

  ‘It’s fairly liberally covered with anti-aircraft guns, but what calibre or type I don’t know. I did get the impression from Gruber that it relies more on stealth and inaccessibility than sheer firepower for defence; it’s painted a light blue which renders it all but invisible and it flies so high that there aren’t many of our aircraft that would be able to attack it.’

  Abby exchanged a glance with Dorothy Campbell. ‘Which means our best chance of destroying it is while it’s on the ground.’

  Campbell held Abby’s gaze for a moment, then looked at the diagrams. She’d seen them, or at least copies of them, twice before - once when she’d been briefed about the new threat in Whitehall with a group of senior RAC officers and once more when she’d accepted the posting to Malta. She knew exactly what kind of threat the airship represented and what it would mean for British morale, and more especially for Prussian morale, if it were to be destroyed.

  She turned back to Abby. ‘What do you need?’

  Abby smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Campbell shook her head. ‘Don’t thank me yet; I’m not going to sign off on your plan unless I think it has a very good chance of working. We can’t afford to waste pilots or resources on this, no matter how high-priority the target.’

  ‘Understood, but in order to come up with a plan I need better information. I want Vulture to overfly the site.’

  Campbell nodded. ‘I can authorise the hydrogen for a single flight, no more.’

  ‘Chalky?’

  Abby looked to the blonde pilot, who adjusted his glasses and smiled happily.

  ‘One flight is all I’ll need.’

  Chapter 10

  It took a while to assemble Vulture and get together the hydrogen that was needed to fly her, but eventually everything was ready and Chalky took her up at noon, just three days after Bertha had been discovered.

  There was no need for Vulture to overfly the site in order to get much better images than the ones obtained by Sub-Lieutenant Farrier in the Spitsteam; the large cameras that Chalky had designed himself, then built into his aircraft, could tilt and rotate however he wanted them to and, weather permitting, take excellent photographs from dozens of miles away with their Swiss-manufactured lenses. He could, therefore, have merely gone straight up into the sky over the island, hovered for a few seconds using the balloon system he’d incorporated into Vulture for extra stability, then come straight back down again. However, Abby wanted images from more than one angle, so he had taken the photographs from over Malta first, then flown an indirect route that took him to the east of the site to get others.

  It took another half a day to develop and sort the photographs, but by the time the sun went down Chalky had pinned the best images on the boards in the briefing room.

  Dorothy Campbell and the pilots gathered around to stare at the machine that carried the Crimson Barons into battle and for a long while nobody said anything.

  Chalky’s photographs were remarkable, giving them crystal clear images that almost entirely filled the large pieces of paper on which they were printed. Every detail was there for them to examine, from the anti-aircraft emplacements, to the open hangar door, to the scaffolding holding the airship upright. They could see the iron crosses, picked out in white against the off-white that was the sky-blue in the monochrome images and it was even possible to make out the silhouettes of a few people standing at the huge, floor to ceiling windows of one of the messes.

  Most importantly, they were able to make out the damage Bertha had sustained.

  The top of the gondola, on the hangar level, was black, as if there had been a fire within, two of the fans were twisted and had been detached - they were lying on the ground nearby with figures swarming over them, and the prow was buckled and split where it had apparently nosed into the ground, digging an enormous furrow in the fields in which it had come to rest.

  Even though the five hulls were intact and untouched, it was clear that it wouldn’t be flying anytime soon.

  ‘Well, now we know why the Barons haven’t showed up yet.’ Abby pointed at the smoke-blackened paint around the hangar. ‘I’m assuming the prisoners made it all the way up there and destroyed at least a few of the aircraft. You said that the workshops were there too, right?’ She looked at Drake who nodded. ‘Then they probably wouldn’t have been able to replace them yet. Again.’ She grinned at Scarlet; the Irishwoman had destroyed the entire squadron of aircraft, including Hans Gruber’s personal machine, Hölle, in a daring nighttime raid on their base in Muscovy.

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that bastard Gruber was killed.’ Bruce grumbled.

  Abby grinned at him. ‘You mean you don’t want the chance to shoot him down yourself?’

  ‘Nah, I wouldn’t want to get in Gwen’s way; we all know what she’s like when someone gets between her and something she wants... like a pint of bitter.’

  The Misfits chuckled and all turned to look at Gwen, wondering what she was thinking. Bruce’s comment was amusing, but he was only half joking; over a very short time, things had somehow become very personal between her and the leader of the Barons. G
ruber had deliberately targeted her in Muscovy, to the exclusion of anybody else, including Abby, and he had then tried to kill her after he’d shot her down, when she’d been hanging from her glidewings. Not only that, but, according to Drake, the Prussian also had a rather disturbing exhibition in a secret room of his personal quarters on Bertha which included items from her childhood and personal life.

  Gwen shook her head. ‘Much as I would enjoy defeating him, I won’t shed a tear if he was killed in the revolt.’

  ‘Well, setting aside the question of the Barons for now, what are we going to do about this thing, Abby?’ asked Campbell. ‘I don’t think a few strafing runs are going to do much.’

  ‘There are the Nelsons at Luqa and Ta’Kali.’

  ‘There’s not enough hydrogen for them.’

  ‘Not even for one mission?’ Abby batted her eyelashes at her, making the pilots chuckle.

  Campbell rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll ask around, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abby gave her a wild smile and a wink, then turned to the rest of her pilots. ‘In the meantime we need to come up with another plan. We’re never going to be able to put big enough bombs on the Spits to put a dent in that, but we had some success with rockets in Muscovy. Is there any chance you sneaked any onto the island, Wendy?’

  The pilots smiled, remembering how the big woman had packed Dreadnought full of ordnance and tools for the voyage to Muscovy without anybody realising until they were well on their way.

  Wendy shook her head, though. ‘Sorry, not this time,’ she thought for a second then shrugged. ‘I might be able to put something together, but it’ll take a while and I can’t promise that they will be anything like as powerful; I don’t know if they have any of the chemicals I need on the island.’

  Abby looked to Campbell, who nodded. She turned back to Wendy. ‘Make this your priority for now, please, put the torpedoes on a back burner.’

  ‘Right oh.’

  ‘Anyone else have any ideas?’ Abby asked, then sighed when Scarlet grinned eagerly. ‘Anyone apart from the Pesky Pixie?’

  Scarlet pouted. ‘It’s Pitiless! The Pitiless Pixie!’

  ‘Not any more it isn’t!’ crowed Bruce, before crying out in pain and doubling over after receiving a sharp blow from a tiny fist that was almost too quick to see.

  Scarlet hadn’t needed to look away from Abby to find her target and she ignored the strained noises the Australian was making and pleaded with Abby. ‘Aw come on, let me give it a shot!’

  Abby shook her head. ‘Not a chance; this time they’ll be expecting you.’

  The Irishwoman crossed her arms, sulking, and muttered moodily. ‘Doesn’t matter. I would still get the job done.’

  Abby ignored her and looked around. ‘Anyone else?’

  Nobody had any more suggestions, so they went back to staring at the photographs, but it wasn’t long before the pilots started drifting away, going to the mess to eat, and soon Abby and Dot were left alone with their responsibilities.

  The bombing raids continued unhindered and for the Misfits it was starting to feel very much like the summer all over again.

  The Coalition continued to concentrate their efforts on the ships in the Grand Harbour and began to see results. They sank the last remaining transport, inflicted heavy damage on one of the three surviving destroyers and scored several direct hits on the Arturo. Thankfully, the transport was empty of crew, having already been unloaded and the Arturo’s flight deck protected it to a large extent, but twenty-two men and women lost their lives on the destroyer, mostly because they were on deck manning the anti-aircraft guns.

  After a few days the Prussians seemed to realise that raids on the shipping alone weren’t going to win them the island, no matter whether they sank the ships in the harbour or not, and they resumed their attacks on civilian targets, trying once more to destroy the population’s morale.

  The people had evacuated to the countryside when the bombing had originally started, but returned when the focus of the attacks changed to the first the airfields, then the shipping. Now they fled once more, leaving Valletta and the surrounding towns deserted, apart from the volunteers manning the guns and the British forces. The hospital was hit by four bombs during one of the raids, demolishing part of the building, but the basement remained relatively safe, although access was blocked for several hours. Signals were sent to the enemy after that, informing them that there were shot-down Prussian and Italian pilots being treated there, and it was eventually agreed that a red Maltese cross would be painted on the remains of the roof and that the bombers would do their best to avoid hitting it.

  The Misfits were becoming increasingly frustrated. Not only were their best efforts doing nothing to stop the bombing, but the Crimson Barons’ home base was vulnerable to attack, well within striking distance, and they were unable to do anything about it.

  That frustration boiled over into their flying and some of them began to make mistakes.

  Bruce and Monty, normally so much in tune with each other, collided in mid-air when Monty banked in the wrong direction after an attack on a bomber formation. His airscrew clipped Bruce’s tail, effectively destroying both Spitsteams and sending them spinning out of control. They managed to get out and take to their glidewings, but Bruce banged his head quite badly and Monty’s left cheek was sliced open by glass when his canopy all but exploded with the impact. They were picked up almost immediately by a high speed Navy launch and spent the night in the hospital recovering. Bruce was bruised and had a concussion, but was otherwise untouched, however Monty would likely have a scar for the rest of his life to remind him of his error.

  Chastity misheard one of Derek’s commands and caused him to miss an MU9 kill. He thought she had disobeyed him deliberately and they spent the rest of the mission bickering on their private channel. Their argument continued on the ground and would have escalated if Abby hadn’t sat them down and sorted out the misunderstanding.

  Another time it was Abby who lost her cool, when she bawled a frustrated Gwen out for wasting almost all of her ammunition, stubbornly making run after run on one of the Italian Grand Eagle heavy bombers, trying, and ultimately failing, to take it down.

  Even Kitty, who had more combat experience than anyone, else apart from Bruce, was out of sorts. She tried to land with her gear retracted and only just reacted to the abort flare in time to avoid disaster - unlike the Harridan, the Spitsteam was notoriously unforgiving of such slip-ups and many a pilot had died from inattention.

  It was just as well that good news arrived when it did, otherwise somebody might have gotten killed, or killed someone.

  Dorothy Campbell turned up to the house in Birzebbuga at nine one night, just after the Misfits had gone to bed and an impromptu meeting was convened in the sitting room. Most pilots pulled robes over their nightclothes, but a few hadn’t found any and put on their greatcoats. Scarlet didn’t bother covering up, though. She just came down in her negligee, a moderately revealing black silk number, and sat in an armchair by the fire, seemingly unconcerned by the looks most of the men, and a few of the women, gave her.

  However, as soon as Campbell started talking, all thoughts of Scarlet’s body were put out of even Bruce’s mind.

  ‘I found you some hydrogen for the bombers.’

  ‘Where? I thought there wasn’t any spare?’ Abby asked.

  ‘There isn’t, not on the island anyway, but I had a word with Admiral Myerscough and he graciously allowed the ships in harbour to siphon off some of their reserves. Most of what we’re getting is coming from the Arturo; she’s so banged up that even if she does ever manage to sail again, it’ll only be to a port in Britain for a complete overhaul and she’s got more than enough for that.’

  ‘That’s great! How many raids can we carry out?’

  ‘One.’

  Abby’s face fell, her contented smile disappearing instantly. ‘One? There’s no way that’s going to be enough to destroy Bertha!’


  Campbell shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. But it’s all you’re getting.’ She grimaced. ‘I’ve had a word with Whitehall and they agree that Bertha has to be a priority, but they refuse to strand the shipping in the attempt - if we take all of the hydrogen from the fleet there would only be enough for four or five raids and even just two would mean that what remains of the convoy will struggle to make it to a safe port.’

  ‘But what good is one raid going to do?’

  ‘Their thinking is that one raid should be enough to damage the airship and keep it on the ground until more resources can be brought to bear. Another convoy is under preparation for sometime in March. It will have at least another couple of tankers and will bring more aircraft and pilots. If it gets through we will be able to mount a proper assault with more of a chance of success.’

  Abby sighed and shook her head. ‘I have no idea what Whitehall is thinking. Everything they seem to be doing recently smacks of penny-pinching and half-measures.’

  ‘That’s because it is - penny-pinching that is.’ Campbell said with a resigned shrug. ‘The Kingdom of Britain isn’t made of money and things are getting a bit tight. Trade with the rest of Europe is almost non-existent, many of our exports to America aren’t arriving because our shipping is being destroyed and we’re also supplying Muscovy with American weapons that we’re having to buy on credit, putting us even further in debt. Cummerbund worked for the treasury as a young man, he’s an accountant and he knows his checks and balances. He knows that if we keep fighting the way we are we’ll run out of money before the year is out.’

  ‘Can’t he see that spending too little will lose us the war just as quickly, if not quicker, than spending too much?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Campbell shrugged again. ‘I will say this much, though, if his methods do not meet with results he will be out on his ear sooner rather than later.’