The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  He walked carefully along the gangway, the slow shift and roll of the deck playing with his balance, until he came to the steps that led him down into the ship. Using the walls as support he moved along the corridor, past the open doors of cabins filled with murmuring voices to the one he’d left in a hurry a few minutes before. A face looked up from the lower bunk.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said, sitting up on his mattress. ‘I’ve been assigned to share.’

  ‘Bryan Hale.’ Bryan clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Sorry, I’ve been on deck feeding the fish. He extended a hand.

  The other man shook the offered hand. ‘Ben Stevens,’ he said and reached under his pillow. He pulled out a bottle and held it up. ‘Fancy a mouthwash?’

  Bryan accepted, uncorked the bottle and took a swig. The warm, softness of dark rum scraped the sour aftertaste of stomach-acid from his tongue, spreading its heat down his gullet and quietening his unsettled stomach.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ he said, handing back the bottle.

  Stevens smiled. ‘I made a little detour to the galley after we sailed. It would be a shame to waste the chance to put our feet up for a day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too relaxed.’ Bryan crossed the small cabin and unlatched the porthole, sniffing at the influx of air like a cautious cat. ‘We’ve got the Spanish on our left, the Vichy French on our right and quite probably some Italians lurking about beneath us.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that worrying will change anything.’

  ‘Almost certainly not, but it doesn’t hurt to know where the exits are.’

  Sunday, 1 June 1941

  The carrier steamed due east through the early morning light, Bryan and Ben leaned on the rail, allowing the fresh sea breeze to blow away the memory of the dank humidity below decks. Away on the port side and slightly ahead, their escorting destroyer ploughed a parallel path.

  ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast.’ Ben flicked his cigarette butt over the side and it curved away with the wind.

  ‘I couldn’t see the point in breakfast. It never tastes as good on the way up.’

  Ben smiled. ‘This breakfast didn’t really taste that good on the way down. Where have you been posted from?’

  ‘I was on night-fighters over the winter, Spitfires before that. I spent the summer at Kenley.’

  ‘You were in combat? What’s your score?’

  Bryan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t worry about the score, I’m just glad I’m still at the crease.’ He lit a cigarette behind cupped hands. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I’ve been on Hurricanes out of Manston. I arrived there in December, so not much doing. I’ve flown a few sweeps over France, but I don’t think I ever fired at anything worthwhile, and I’m fairly certain nothing worthwhile has ever fired back at me.’

  ‘Christ! Look at that.’ Bryan pointed at escorting warship.

  The vessel’s huge grey bulk leaned over in the water as it flared into a violent turn away from them, churning white foam away from its stern as its propellers strained against its inertia.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Ben’s voice tightened with tension.

  ‘I don’t know, but it certainly doesn’t look like good news,’ Bryan answered.

  The gangway dipped away under their feet as the aircraft carrier lurched into an opposite turn. Bracing his arms against the rail, Bryan kept his eyes locked on the destroyer. As it completed its about-face, several small objects ejected in pairs from its stern, arced a short parabola through the air and splashed into the sea.

  ‘Shit,’ Bryan hissed. ‘They’re depth-charging something.’

  Moments later the surface bulged and split, spouting colossal founts of water skywards. Dull reverberations clanged through the carrier’s hull, ringing the passage of vicious shockwaves as each fountain collapsed back into itself.

  The Argus completed its ninety-degree turn and swung upright on its new southerly bearing. Something in the water to one side of the quelling disturbance snagged Bryan’s vision. Two bubbling trails scored straight lines that reached out like ethereal fingers towards the carrier, rapidly gaining on the fleeing ship.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Bryan blurted, ‘torpedoes!’

  Both men leaned further over the rail, straining to follow the missiles’ progress. The tracks vanished into the foaming wake, reappeared, and skimmed alongside, overtaking the Argus on a slim but widening diagonal.

  Horns blared as the second escort destroyer churned past them in the opposite direction, hurrying to add its ordnance to the counterattack.

  ‘That was close!’ Ben’s voiced stretched with stress. ‘What happens now?’

  Bryan squinted against the reflections dancing on the brightening water. ‘I suppose we can hope that Italian submarines don’t hunt in pairs.’

  The gangway tilted again as the carrier started a wide curve back to port and accelerated onto an easterly course. Behind them, and now receding in the distance, the two destroyers criss-crossed the same patch of sea, trailing tumultuous violence through its depths.

  ‘I hope this doesn’t spook the captain,’ Bryan muttered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The other man’s face was drained pale.

  ‘Rumour has it, last year they flew a dozen Hurricanes off this same tub. The ship wasn’t anywhere near close enough and only four made it in to land.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ Ben looked at him aghast.

  Bryan scanned the sea with lingering suspicion. ‘I can think of funnier things to joke about.’

  ****

  As the shadows lengthened into sunset, the destroyers steamed back into their flanking positions. The two pilots remained on deck. Unwilling to descend into their cabin’s steel embrace during the heat of the day, they now lingered to enjoy the cool evening air.

  ‘Do you think they got him?’ Ben asked, nodding at their escort.

  ‘It’s not something we need to worry about,’ Bryan said. ‘Submarines aren’t fast enough to chase ships like these and if they’re still stooging about when this little lot sails back to Gibraltar, then that’s somebody else’s problem.’

  A moment’s peaceful silence fell between the men, broken at length by the scratching illumination of a struck match as Bryan lit a cigarette.

  ‘What do you know about Malta?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Well let’s see… It’s about the same size as the Isle of Wight, but hopefully a bit prettier. We’re using it to annoy the Germans by sinking their supply convoys to Rommel and his African Rats, or whatever they’re called. Mussolini is also annoyed because he’s promised it to the Italian people as part of a grand Mediterranean empire. It’s far too bloody close to enemy airfields on Sicily for its own good. Everyone, but everyone, believes fervently in God yet they all still drink goat milk. It’s hot and sweaty all summer and pisses it down in winter, and the women are beautiful.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Sweet.’

  Another pilot swayed unsteadily down the gangway towards them.

  ‘Weather forecast is set fine for tomorrow,’ he called as he approached. ‘Briefing in the hangar at 05:00, first take off at 06:00.’

  ‘I take it we’ll be close enough by then?’ Bryan asked as the man staggered past them.

  ‘I expect we’ll all find out before the day’s end. No more than thirty pounds of personal kit and don’t forget your Mae West.’

  Bryan winked at his companion. ‘A holiday in the sun. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  Monday, 2 June 1941

  Hale and Stevens clumped through the bulkhead door into the hangar. They wore full flying kit and carried canvas duffel bags stuffed with their belongings. Echoes of metal against metal clanged around the cavernous space. Thirty feet above them, the flight deck’s underside hung with cables and pipes. Queued down the hangar’s length, pooled in the green glow from electric lights, sat six Hurricanes, facing away from the elevating platform that stood ready at the end of the hangar to lift the aircraft up, one at a time, to the
flight deck for take-off. Their squadron leader, Dennis Copeland, stood on the platform, ticking names from his clipboard as they congregated in front of him.

  Bryan grabbed Ben’s arm. ‘Hang around at the back. We want one of these,’ he said, inclining his head towards the aircraft lined up behind them.

  ‘What? Why?’

  Bryan arched an eyebrow. ‘The man who takes off last has the most fuel.’

  They shuffled up to the back of the group as Copeland called for silence. The squadron leader ran through the flight plan, handed out maps and detailed cruising speed for best fuel consumption.

  ‘We’ll fly as two sections. Red section will take the aircraft up top.’ He walked across the front of the group touching each pilot on the shoulder. ‘You are Red 2, Red 3, Red 4…’ He walked around the back of the group. ‘The other six will fly as Blue section and take the hangered aircraft. You are Blue Leader, Blue 2, Blue 3…’

  Bryan grinned at his companion as they were assigned Blue 5 and 6.

  Copeland returned to his place in front of the men. ‘Surrender your personal kit to your mechanics. They will pack it into the ammunition boxes in the wings.’ He paused and swept his gaze across the group. ‘Given that you’ll carry no ammunition, it’s probably needless to say that we do not engage any hostile aircraft we might come across. Check over your aircraft carefully; there’ll be nowhere to land for the next 450 miles. Good luck, gentlemen.’

  The group dispersed. Bryan and Ben walked the length of the hangar to the last two Hurricanes in the queue. Bryan treated his companion to a farewell slap on the back, dropped his duffel bag under the wing and started his walk-round of the fighter.

  The sand and earth coloured desert camouflage gave the squat aircraft a distinctly cavalier demeanour, although the factory-fresh smell of paint gave away its combat chastity. Examining the leading edge, Bryan’s hand lingered on the red canvas patches doped over its gun-ports. He smiled for a moment in anticipation. Crouching below the wing, he surveyed the incongruous gaiety of the pastel-blue underside, pulling and pushing the aileron to check it moved freely. Ducking under the engine, he stroked the tumescent curve of the tropical air filter, peering at the grille for blockages. Emerging on the port side he walked to the tail, cuffed the rudder and wiggled the elevators, checking their motion countered each other closely.

  He walked back to the wing as a mechanic arrived with his parachute. Bryan pulled on his flying helmet, shrugged the parachute onto his back and fastened the straps. He climbed onto the wing root and clambered into the cockpit. The mechanic followed him onto the wing and helped to strap him in. Bryan pushed the control column through its full range and kicked the rudder back and forth. The mechanic watched the control surfaces moving and nodded in answer to Bryan’s unspoken question. Another mechanic finished loading the requisitioned ammunition boxes into the wings and jumped onto the starboard wing, hunkering down next to the open cockpit. All three men sat quietly in impassive contemplation, waiting.

  The hull tilted slightly as the carrier adjusted its course into the wind, then the background hubbub of engine noise ascended a tone as the ship slipped into full-ahead. In counterpoint harmony with this lazy growl, the higher-pitched bark and roar of a Merlin engine sounded from the flight deck above their heads, joined by another and then layered with yet more. One engine note swelled to an angry snarl and the noise traversed the hanger, marking the first Hurricane’s dash for liberation into the air.

  Bryan waited and counted. As the fifth fighter tore down the deck, all exterior noise was drowned by the choking clatter of an engine clanking to life inside the hangar. Bryan raised his eyes to his rear-view mirror to see blue exhaust smoke hazing the air as the pilot of the furthest fighter gunned his engine to warm his oil. A few minutes later the second Hurricane chugged into life, as behind it, the first was elevated out of the hangar’s gloom towards the brightening dawn sky and the flight deck.

  The cacophony ascended as each Hurricane came to life. The mechanic with the starter trolley arrived, plugged into the engine and Bryan’s Hurricane kicked into being. He ran at medium revs for a minute, watching with satisfaction as the oil temperature crept towards optimum. A jab on his shoulder brought his head round to see the mechanic’s face close to his.

  ‘Brakes off!’ the man shouted through the din.

  Bryan throttled back to idle and released the brakes. The two men jumped from the wings and set their chests against the tail-plane, pushing hard to overcome inertia and get the Hurricane moving backwards towards the lift. They paused, waiting for the elevator to complete another cycle, then heaved the Hurricane along in the queue.

  At last it was Bryan’s turn. Two more mechanics dashed in from either side and pushed against the wings, helping to bump the aircraft onto the platform.

  A man from the tail slapped the fuselage to gain his attention, ‘Brakes on,’ he shouted and strode away from the plane.

  The lift mechanism jolted into motion and Bryan ascended through the thickening smog of exhaust fumes, up and out into the fresh Mediterranean morning. The lift platform locked into the deck with a jolt and a seaman standing just beyond his starboard wingtip waved to attract Bryan’s attention. Bryan nodded to him and the man held his hands above his head and rotated them around each other. Bryan pushed the throttles open and felt the stocky fighter straining against its brakes. The man continued the signal and Bryan gingerly added more revs. He sensed the brakes starting to slip.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘let me go or I’ll go arse over tit.’

  The seaman dropped to a crouch and stabbed his pointing finger down the deck.

  Bryan released the brakes and pushed the throttle wide open, tapping the rudder to hold his line as the Hurricane bounded forwards. The tail lifted, gifting Bryan a view of the deck’s end approaching quickly. He eased the stick back and the rumbling of wheels against metal ceased abruptly as tyres and deck parted company. The Hurricane yawed a degree into the wind and sank towards the water. Bryan’s stomach lurched and he swallowed against a flutter of panic as he eased the stick back further. His fighter flirted with disaster, then caught a secure grip on the breeze and climbed slowly away from the waves, its engine coughing greasy exhaust fumes back along its pristine paintwork.

  Bryan flew straight for a long moment waiting for his undercarriage to clunk home into the wings, enjoying his return to the air and the swell of half-forgotten pleasures it inflated in his chest. He scanned the sky and found the orbiting squadron coalescing a few thousand feet above him. Banking to follow their circuit, he set his nose to climb towards them.

  Below, the carrier and its flanking destroyers sliced sparkling wakes across the swell. The shape of Ben’s Hurricane emerged through the flight deck and Bryan watched it buck into forward motion and rush along the floating runway. It barrelled off the end of the flight deck and dipped towards the sea, like an awkward courtier delivering her first curtsy, then it too climbed away strongly.

  ‘Good man,’ Bryan muttered to himself, casting his eyes eastward into the sun’s rising glare. ‘We’re in business.’

  Bryan and Ben joined the assembling formation. Copeland circled them once in farewell over the ships that scribed their own arcs in the sea as they turned back towards Gibraltar, then struck out into the eye of the morning.

  ****

  Bryan sat at the back of the formation as it droned on the seemingly never-ending flight east and then south-east. He resisted the ingrained urge to weave, rather trusting to luck in the serious game of fuel conservation. Out to his right, the distant coast of Tunisia had long since melted away, but on his left the bulk of Sicily had appeared and persisted as a menacing dark line intersecting a featureless vault of blue. Grimacing, he clenched his buttocks to persuade some blood to flow into his cramped legs. He glanced at his fuel gauge with a prickle of nerves in his stomach; the bloody place ought to be close by now.

  ‘Flight Leader to all aircraft.’ Copeland’s
voice jarred into his earphones. ‘I think that’s our new home dead ahead.’

  Bryan squinted into the distance, struggling to discern where the sky gave way to the sea. Then he saw them; two sand-coloured shapes, small and insubstantial in the vast stretch of water, like autumn leaves floating beneath the summer sun. Malta, and its smaller sister Gozo looked tiny in their solitude.

  Bryan glanced back at the endless bulk of the haze-laden Sicilian coast stretching away on the horizon an alarmingly short distance away, and whistled softly. ‘Looks like this will be a barrel of laughs,’ he muttered to himself.

  The squadron dipped to lose altitude and the two brown patches acquired texture as the distance closed. The Hurricanes swooped over Gozo, then the channel that separated it from the main island. The waters sparkled with a surreal clarity and the waves drew coruscating lines of breakers against the rocks of the Maltese coast. Huddled villages, still and quiet in the sunshine, offered up white towers and golden domes to the heavens. All around them, like an interlocked jigsaw of sun-bleached stone, low walls divided the scrubby fields. Far ahead, in the belly of the main island, swathes of dust climbed into the air, rolling away across the landscape on the lazy breeze.

  ‘Flight Leader to all aircraft. That’s Ta’Qali airfield, where we are supposed to be landing. It looks like it’s under attack. Climb with me and prepare to scatter if there’s any trouble.’

  The squadron eased into a southerly heading to bypass the airfield and its attackers. Bryan picked out the bomber formation and above them a small fighter escort. Suddenly, almost in one motion, the enemy shied away, like nervous dogs in an unfamiliar street. The bombers dived north for home and the fighters climbed away to the north-east.

  Copeland brought the squadron round into a shallow orbit south of the airfield.