The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Thursday, 10 July 1941

  The air inside the bell-tent pressed on Bryan with a still, stifling heat, swilling in and out of his lungs like thin soup. He pulled himself out of his chair and stepped outside. The slow-baked heat of the canvas interior gave way to the fiery blast of the incalescent sun. Bryan glanced at the dispersed fighters, their outlines blurred and wavering in a heat haze. Riggers moved like shape-shifting wraiths around them, their bronzed torsos blending into their khaki shorts, making them appear as creatures of sand. He raised his gaze to the fathomless blue dome. It remained steadfastly empty of enemy planes, leaving him empty of purpose. A fly buzzed in front of his eyes and landed on his nose. He brushed it away and returned to his seat in the tent.

  ‘I left Scotland to come here,’ he announced to no-one in particular. ‘I bet it’s raining cats and dogs in Edinburgh.’

  The squadron leader stuck his head through the entrance. ‘Hale. I need to have a word. Would you come with me, please?’

  Bryan hauled himself out of his chair again, pulled the fabric of his sweat-dampened shorts away from his buttocks, and followed his commanding officer back out into the sun. The two men strolled out towards the perimeter.

  ‘I’ve got word back from HQ,’ Copeland began, ‘they think your night sorties might be a good idea. They just need to be convinced by the technicalities.’

  ‘The technicalities?’

  ‘Yes.’ Copeland stopped and faced him. ‘They want to know how you’ll make it work.’

  ‘Me?’ Bryan gasped. ‘I haven’t put much thought into it.’

  ‘Well.’ Copeland placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’d better start thinking. They’re expecting you to turn up at HQ with a plan, tomorrow at midday.’

  Friday, 11 July 1941

  The airfield truck dropped Bryan off at the end of Scots Street. As it roared off behind him, he glanced down at his sweat-stained shirt and shorts, and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. He looked the way he felt, beaten down by heat and forced inactivity, with only the flies and the fleas to battle against.

  He glanced at his watch and walked up the narrow street. Ahead of him, the starched presence of two military police guards marked out his destination. Negotiating his way past them brought him into the lobby of RAF HQ where an orderly sat at a polished desk, the wall behind him hung with the Union Flag and an RAF ensign. Bryan walked across the bare flagstones to the desk, the sudden cool of the airy stone chamber drying the sweat between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Bryan Hale,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see the AOC.’

  The orderly squinted at his appointment book, found the required validation and stood up.

  ‘Follow me, please.’

  Bryan fell in behind the man, walking down a corridor lined with portraits of grand old RAF and RFC officers bedecked in braided dress uniforms. The orderly paused at a polished oak door, knocked twice and twisted the handle.

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Hale to see you, sir.’

  Bryan entered the room and heard the door click shut behind him. The office held another, larger polished desk behind which sat the man in command of Malta’s air defence. Bryan snapped to attention, silently regretting his tattered appearance.

  ‘Sit down, Hale.’ The officer indicated a chair in front of his desk. ‘My name’s Lloyd.’

  Bryan took the seat and waited.

  ‘I’ve read through your file, Hale. Very impressive.’ He flicked through the papers resting on his blotter. ‘Kenley in the summer. Night-fighters in the winter.’ He looked up and his flint-sharp eyes, set slightly too close together, latched onto Bryan’s. ‘It mentions operational tiredness,’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’

  Bryan felt the sweat reimpose its dampness down his back, but he held the other man’s gaze. ‘Two or three really bad things happened very close together. It knocked me sideways for a while.’

  The older man’s eyes bored through the silence that fell on the room, gauging the mettle of the pilot sitting before him. He closed the file and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘So, how do you intend to carry out night interceptions over Malta?’

  ‘It won’t be easy, sir.’ Bryan scratched at his stubble. ‘They tried putting Hurricanes up at night over England with patchy results. Without electronic detection onboard, you need to be talked onto the target until you’re close enough to get a visual contact. But, if the searchlights can hold onto a bandit, and we’re close enough when that happens, I reckon we should be able to do some damage.’

  The older man nodded.

  ‘Having said that,’ Bryan continued, ‘being at the same altitude as a bomber stream over their target is as dangerous for the interceptor as it is the raider. So, we need to hit them as they make landfall, and again as they leave. We’ll need a few dedicated searchlights in a grouping on the southern end of the island and a few more on the coast well north of Valletta. We need to make sure the gunners on the ground know that anything coned in those particular lights belongs to us.’

  Lloyd nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bryan leaned forward as he warmed to his subject. ‘We’ll need to be in position at least two-thousand feet above the bombers as they arrive, two Hurricanes circling over each nest of searchlights. We have to be waiting for them. Which means allocating the fuel for what is essentially a standing patrol.’

  The older man nodded. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No.’ Bryan shook his head. ‘Our planes must be exclusive to us. No-one else flies them; an engine failure in the dark would be very difficult to survive.’ A smile crept across his face. ‘And I want them painted black.’

  Lloyd mirrored Bryan’s smile. ‘Alright, Hale. Leave it with me, I’ll let you know.’

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, 16 July 1941

  As Bryan and Ben walked along the perimeter track, a sluggish breeze buoyed the dust kicked around their boots. It was strong enough to cool the sweat on their faces, but too weak to completely dry their slick skin. They walked past the skeletal remains of a bomb-wrecked fighter. A skinny rigger tinkered with the blackened engine, searching for useful morsels like a starving scavenger picking at a bonier corpse.

  Further along, the cobalt blue of a welding torch flashed from beneath a Hurricane’s wing. The two men veered over to the craft and watched the fitter fixing clasps to the airframe, waiting until he paused in his work.

  ‘What are they for?’ Bryan asked.

  The fitter flicked up his welding mask and blinked in the sunlight. ‘Bombs, sir,’ he said rubbing his eye with a thumb, ‘twenty-five pounders. It’s for a trial.’

  The two pilots continued along the track, the crackle and sputter of the welding torch receding behind them.

  ‘Bombs on a Hurricane?’ Ben mused. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘Lloyd was originally a bomber boy,’ Bryan answered. ‘I reckon he’d fit a bomb-rack to his wife if he could.’

  Ben laughed. ‘But twenty-five pounders? That’s hardly enough to open a packet of biscuits.’

  Bryan shot his companion a sideways glance. ‘That’s not really the important thing here. Think about it – a month ago, we got bollocked for taking off without permission in case we were wasting fuel. Now it looks like they’re planning to send intruders across the water into Sicily.’

  Ben’s brow furrowed and he said nothing.

  Bryan dropped his voice a tone. ‘So, it’s fairly obvious there’s a supply convoy planned very soon.’

  Ben’s expression smoothed with his enlightenment. ‘Crikey! You should be a spy.’

  ‘Frankly,’ Bryan muttered, ‘you should pay more attention to your surroundings.’

  The squeak of an un-oiled bicycle made them pause and turn. An orderly pedalled towards them, straining against the drag of almost-flat tyres.

  ‘Mr Hale, sir!’ he called. ‘The squadron leader wants to see you as soon as.’

  ****

  Bryan knocked once on
the door of the storeroom that Copeland had requisitioned to serve as a makeshift office, and pushed into its cluttered interior. The squadron leader, sitting behind a desk built from tea chests and planks, looked up and smiled.

  ‘I have what you might consider as good news.’ He gestured Bryan to sit.

  Bryan lowered himself onto the stool in front of the desk and waited.

  Copeland picked up a memo and squinted at the typed text. ‘Air Vice Marshal Lloyd has seen fit to approve your idea. As a result, you’re required to form the Malta Night-Fighter Unit, codename ‘Pipistrelle’, and prepare for operations to commence within the week.’ Copeland paused and looked at Bryan from under barred eyebrows. ‘You are to choose eight Hurricanes from those on station at Ta’Qali and these will be reserved for night-fighting purposes alone. Pilot volunteers will be assigned and limited training flights will commence as soon as possible. Once formed, the MNFU will be barracked away from the airfield at Mdina.’

  Bryan craned his neck in an attempt to glimpse the text. ‘Does it mention black paint at all?’

  ****

  Bryan and Ben strode into Strait Street as the dusk quickened in the Mediterranean sky.

  ‘Isn’t flying around in the dark a bit dangerous?’ Ben’s face carried a worried scowl.

  ‘Yes, but you get to choose who you shoot at and hardly anybody gets to shoot back. Plus, we’ll be barracked away from the airfield. No more stinking latrines and shitty slit trenches. And’ – he slapped his comrade on the back – ‘you get to sleep during the day. Very continental.’

  ‘Well, alright,’ Ben mumbled. ‘I’ll volunteer for your stupid squadron. But it’s against my better judgement.’

  ‘As if you’ve got any better judgement. Come on. The Egyptian Queen awaits.’ Bryan caught his companion’s shirt sleeve and pulled him towards the dance hall. ‘You can tell your enterprising acquaintance that she’s not the only one who’s going to be working nights.’

  Thursday, 17 July 1941

  Bryan chewed on his lower lip in concentration as he guided his paint-loaded brush along the tight fabric, carefully cutting around the red, white and blue roundel on the Hurricane’s fuselage. The black paint shone wetly for a few moments, then its surface dulled and crackled as the brutal heat dried it too quickly.

  ‘Squadron Leader Hale?’ A woman’s voice behind him broke his concentration.

  Bryan tilted his chin up and cocked his head to the sound. The velvet tone underpinning the words stiffened the hair follicles on his neck and dropped an iciness into his vitals.

  ‘That’s probably an exaggeration.’ He turned to face the speaker and a shock thrilled through his scalp. For a moment he stared, confused by the familiarity of a woman he didn’t know. Something in the dark eyes, something about the loosely bound black hair…

  ‘My name is Jacobella Azzopardi. I’m from The Times of Malta.’ She held out her hand.

  Bryan dropped his brush into the paint and set the pot on the ground. He wiped his palm on his shorts and shook her hand. The smooth warmth of her skin caused his grip to linger half-a-second too long.

  ‘I’ve come to interview you,’ she added.

  ‘You’re a journalist?’ Realisation finally tumbled, pushed by a memory: ‘Ah! I saw you in Valletta outside the newspaper offices, with… a man.’

  She smiled. ‘He is the journalist. I’m his assistant. Today he is ill, so they sent me instead.’

  ‘Malta Dog?’ Bryan grimaced in sympathy. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’

  Jacobella blinked once in silent affirmation but said nothing.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Bryan gestured towards the mess building outside the perimeter track. ‘Shall we find some shade?’

  They walked across the dusty field together, Bryan mumbling some complimentary things about the newspaper, ‘–impressive production standards–’ and the city in which it was based, ‘–wonderful statues, surprisingly beautiful–’. Jacobella remained silent at his side. From the corner of his eye he caught the sway of her skirt as she walked and the dusky dryness of the skin at her throat. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple to his jaw.

  They entered the mess and sat at a table in the corner of the small room.

  ‘I suppose there are rules?’ Bryan asked. ‘Censorship and the like.’

  ‘Well’ – Jacobella opened her notebook and examined the point of her pencil – ‘it would be foolish to go to press with numbers and details, but we assume that anything we print about the general situation is already common knowledge to the Italians.’

  Bryan’s eyes widened. ‘Spies?’

  ‘Technically.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But it’s mostly family connections. For our part we try to give the people some good news about their defenders whenever we can. For instance…’ She scribbled something in block capitals and held up the notebook. ‘My headline.’

  Bryan squinted at the page. ‘Battle of Britain Hero Arrives to Direct New Night-Fighter Force.’ He felt his cheeks flush with rising blood. ‘Well, I suppose some of that is true.’

  She smiled and placed the notebook back on the table. ‘So, tell me your story.’

  ****

  The pair stood outside Ta’Qali’s entrance waiting for the bus. Bryan’s eyes danced on and off Jacobella’s face, unable to resist indulging in the furtive glances, but wary of her catching his gaze.

  ‘I hardly knew Malta existed until I landed here last month,’ he said, finally finding refuge by looking at his feet.

  She smiled wistfully. ‘It’s a beautiful place to live. Even now, in between the bombing, it lays like a lamb in the sun. I wish it didn’t have to be destroyed.’

  Bryan looked up and caught the glistening in her eyes. ‘It’s not hopeless. Not yet. We’re here to help you.’

  She nodded. ‘Some of my friends wash clothes for the soldiers in the coastal battery. It’s a small way of saying thank you. May I help you in the same way?’

  The grinding of gears heralded the approaching bus.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Bryan stammered. ‘I wouldn’t want to impose.’

  The bus pulled up and its windowless door flapped open.

  Jacobella reached out and touched his arm. ‘Bring it to the office if you change your mind. Thank you for your story.’ She climbed on and the bus rattled away in a billowing curl of yellow dust.

  Friday, 18 July 1941

  A crescent moon hung in the clear ebony sky like the lop-sided smile of a lunatic and the island lay quiet beneath its manic glare. The Italians were late – but it was unlikely they’d stay at home. Four dark figures stood in the wan light, three of them listening to the fourth.

  ‘So, for us, the easiest parts of a daylight combat sortie have just become the hardest parts of flying at night; taking off and landing in the dark are now the biggest threats to your long life and continued happiness.’ Bryan looked around the three faces that gazed back at him in the gloom. ‘We’ll eventually be a ten-man squadron with eight Hurricanes. But tonight, it’s just us, testing whether it’s possible to get off this airfield and back again in one piece.’

  The other pilots shifted uneasily under his words.

  ‘We take off and fly in pairs,’ Bryan continued. ‘Everyone keeps their tail light on. Keep your leader’s light in vision during all manoeuvres and we should be able to avoid collisions.

  ‘The runway lights will be illuminated briefly. Don’t waste time while they are; they’ll draw any hostile aircraft like moths to a candle. Get up and get away quickly. My section will fly south, the other pair flies west. Tonight is a familiarisation flight. Check and memorise the landmarks you’ll need to recognise on your journey home, then fly out over the sea, ten minutes maximum, and make your way back.

  ‘When you’re back in the circuit, call up control and they’ll telephone the field to illuminate the runway so you can land. Again, make it snappy.’ He looked again from face to face. ‘Right. Let’s see if we can make this work.’

  The
pilots trudged out to their aircraft that sat gaunt and black in the still air. Engines coughed into life and an aircraftman at each wingtip guided them as they taxied to the end of the landing strip. Lights along each edge of the runway flared into incandescence and one pair of Hurricanes, then a second, roared across the field, clawing into the air. As the last plane rose away from the ground, the lights choked off and darkness smothered the landscape once more. One pair of tail lights climbed steadily south, the other pair curved away towards the western coast.

  Saturday, 19 July 1941

  ‘What if that girl is there again?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Of course she’ll be there. She works there,’ Bryan said.

  ‘What if she remembers me? What if she chats me up again?’

  ‘I don’t think that remembering faces is a skill that has much practical use in her profession,’ Bryan said. ‘Just keep your head down and only accept dances from nice girls.’ Bryan cocked his head. ‘Listen.’ The faint strains of a clarinet snaked through the cooling dusk, stitching together its melody with devilish proficiency. ‘The band sounds a lot better this time.’

  They strode up Strait Street and took the side turning to the Egyptian Queen. Bryan glanced at the couples chatting on the balcony before ducking through the door, climbing the stairs two at a time and sweeping the beaded curtain aside.

  The dance hall’s dim lighting emphasised the enforced intimacy of the small space and, beneath the rippling pall of cigarette smoke, couples slow-danced their grim realities away with eyes closed, momentarily safe against the warmth of another’s fragile body. The two men wriggled through the dancers to the bar. A blackboard propped on a shelf announced the continuing lack of beer.

  Bryan leaned towards a barman. ‘Whisky?’

  The man nodded and went to retrieve the bottle.

  ‘Two,’ Bryan called after him. ‘Make them large.’

  As he waited for the drinks, he felt someone’s gaze penetrating his space. He looked along the bar to see Katie standing with a couple. Her face glowed with a smile when she met Bryan’s eyes.

  The drinks arrived and Bryan fumbled for the change to pay. He handed one of the whiskies to Ben who clinked glasses with him and drifted away into the dancers. Bryan turned back in Katie’s direction just as she arrived at his side.