The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Bryan looked at her and smiled sadly. ‘Where’s Ben?’ He changed the subject. ‘Is he alright.’

  ‘He’s fine. He’s back at the bar, surrounded by sympathetic ladies. Me, on the other hand’ – she held out her arms and looked down at her beer-soaked dress – ‘I really can’t stay out like this. I smell like a drunken tramp.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. I’m sorry.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The transport won’t run for well over an hour.’

  ‘There’s a taxi-driver I know nearby,’ she said, ‘he’s generally helpful to nurses.’

  She linked her arm through Bryan’s and led him along the street.

  ‘I thought taxis had been banned,’ Bryan said.

  ‘This man has connections.’ She tapped her finger to her nose. ‘I’m sure he would’ve got some petrol from the convoy.’

  After a short walk, they came to a façade of houses bisected by a small yard in which stood a car covered with a canvas tarpaulin.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Katie squeezed past the car and knocked on the door at the yard’s end. The door creaked open and a short conversation followed. The door swung closed and Katie shimmied back past the car and gave Bryan a thumbs-up. Moments later a middle-aged Maltese man bustled out, hauled off the tarpaulin and reversed the car out onto the road.

  Bryan caught the look of faint disappointment on the man’s face in the rear-view mirror as he climbed into the back seat next to Katie.

  ‘Hospital?’ the driver asked.

  ‘No,’ Katie said, ‘Xara Palace.’

  She placed her hand on Bryan’s thigh and absently moved her thumb back and forth.

  ‘Katie?’ Bryan mumbled.

  ‘Yes, dear?

  ‘How do you know what a drunken tramp smells like?’

  Chapter 9

  Friday, 5 September

  Ben shifted his weight on the creaking cot. ‘This isn’t a bed, it’s a bloody rack,’ he moaned. ‘I wish they’d let us know when they’re not coming. I’ve got a bloody palace I could be sleeping in.’

  Bryan lay staring at the canvas ceiling. ‘No-one else is complaining.’

  The tent contained four army camp-beds. The other two supported robustly snoring pilots, their faces sagging like death, with drool pooling on the canvas beneath their chins.

  Ben lifted his head, winced at the crick in his neck and wrinkled his nose at the sleeping men. ‘I give up,’ he said, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up.

  An orderly pushed his head around the tent flaps, framed by the lightening, pre-dawn sky. ‘Sorry, chaps,’ he whispered, ‘control have picked up a strange contact. They want a couple of fighters to investigate.

  ‘That sounds like us, then,’ Bryan said.

  He hauled himself off the bed and ducked through the tent’s entrance. Ben caught up with him, limping slightly on a stiff leg.

  Bryan slapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the breaking dawn on the horizon. ‘Flying in daylight,’ he exclaimed. ‘This’ll be just like the old days.’

  ****

  Bryan eased his Hurricane into the air and pulled the canopy closed. Out of habit, he set a westerly course for Grand Harbour. He glanced into his mirror to check Ben was safely off the ground and pressed transmit. ‘Pipistrelle Leader to Control. Airborne and listening out.’

  ‘Good morning, Pipistrelle Leader. We have a small formation running in from due south, unusually low, angels five. Good luck.’

  The nascent sunrise pushed the purple eastern sky into tones of blue as Bryan swung south and pushed the throttle forward. Towns and villages flashed below, blocky projections of the sand-coloured terrain from which they’d sprung. He pulled into a shallow bank to curve around the perimeter of Luqa airfield to avoid any misunderstandings, and barrelled on towards the south coast.

  Puffs of dust erupted in the distance, and Bryan scoured the sky above them, finally pinpointing a group of three bombers wheeling away from the small aerodrome at Hal-Far.

  ‘Three bandits, twelve o’clock, Ben. Do you see them?’

  ‘Got them.’

  ‘Good. Tally-ho!’

  Bryan closed on the formation as they headed back out to sea, and thumbed the safety catch off the firing button.

  The Italians saw their danger and the bombers splayed out of formation. Bryan stuck with the middle aircraft, catching up as it lumbered across the large bay that bit a chunk from the island’s southern coastline. Below, two seaplanes bobbed at their moorings and Bofors guns stationed nearby opened fire as hunter and quarry roared overhead. Bryan squeezed out a short burst of fire that slashed across the port engine, punching holes in the wing, before he flashed over his target and hauled into a tight turn to re-engage.

  The bomber headed due west, out to sea, running ahead of speculative bursts of fire that streaked out from awakened coastal emplacements, and trailing a thin ribbon of smoke from its damaged engine. Bryan climbed up onto the Italian’s starboard quarter and shadowed the big aircraft. When the shore-fire ceased, he stooped into a dive, drilling a long burst of fire in and around the starboard engine, drawing tongues of flame from under its cowling. The big aircraft slowed and sank through the air, descending quickly, then flattened out to belly-land on the water.

  Bryan circled and watched. The bomber tipped towards the weight of its three engines, raising the tail slowly into the air. Hatches opened and four men scrambled out. A dinghy inflated and the figures climbed into it, paddling away from the sinking aircraft.

  Bryan circled the tiny yellow craft, his thumb caressing the fire button like a lover’s tease. Then he levelled out and headed back towards the dun, rocky coastline to seek out his wingman. Behind him, the sun’s shimmering disc broached the horizon like the dazzling light of divine revelation.

  Friday, 12 September 1941

  Stephanie walked next to Albert along the northern most edge of Marsamxett Harbour. A few hundred yards ahead, a truck chugged over the bridge from Manoel Island and its submarine docking bays, belching black exhaust smoke as it accelerated away from them, heading inland.

  ‘When will you be back?’ she asked.

  ‘Three weeks, maybe a bit longer.’ He shrugged. ‘Or sooner if we run out of torpedoes. You know I can’t promise anything.’ The anticipation of sailing scratched a harsh edge onto his voice.

  She looked up into his face. ‘May I promise you something?’

  Albert stopped and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘No.’ He bent and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll come to see you when I get back. I have to go. I haven’t yet packed my kit.’

  He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and strode away towards the bridge. Stephanie watched him go, a dull ache wrapped its tendrils around her guts and she bit her lip to hold back the tears.

  Thursday, 18 September 1941

  Albert awoke under the implacable weight of oppressive heat laced with the cloying odour of sweating cabbage and excrement. The boat’s altered trim had dragged him from his fitful slumber and he shot an enquiring glance at a nearby sailor who simply jabbed a finger upwards. They were surfacing to recharge their batteries; it must be night-time.

  Albert squeezed himself out of his hammock and shimmied along the smooth metal curve of a stowed torpedo. Although U-Ulric had encountered a few enemy vessels, they had all been northbound, and the skipper was not inclined to waste torpedoes on empty merchantmen. Albert wriggled his way towards the vessel’s centre, drawn by the anticipation of the blast of fresh air that would flow through the hatch when it opened.

  The hull levelled out as the bow breached the surface and the vessel rocked languorously in the grip of the swell. The conning tower hatch clanged open and salt-tanged air flooded through the submarine like the breath of salvation. Look-outs clambered up the ladder to watch for danger, and the men assigned to cook, opened tins of soup to be heated.

  Albert wolfed down some soup with a couple of stale biscuits, then went on duty, relieving another crew member to eat and sle
ep.

  The boat cruised at best surface speed, taking the chance to make headway, and Albert enjoyed the flow of cool night air circulating around him. Someone descended the conning tower ladder and spoke to the captain. The hull’s thrumming ceased as the engines throttled back to idle. The captain unhooked a pair of binoculars from the bulkhead and climbed the ladder to disappear through the hatch.

  The silence left behind spawned a rising tension, the air-flow now felt chill, the sea outside once again became a theatre of danger. After long moments, the look-outs and the captain climbed down into the hull and the hatch was carefully closed and sealed.

  ‘Ships sighted. Dive to periscope depth. Ahead, slow.’ The captain’s voice was calm and level.

  Men immediately bent to their tasks, their movements unhurried in the cramped space in which they worked. The boat was brought beneath the surface and trimmed to run steady. Once satisfied his craft lay as he wanted it, the captain raised the periscope and rested his brow on the padded viewer, softly calling course changes to his helmsman as he drew the submarine closer to its quarry.

  Word of ‘battle stations’ passed through the boat and a tense quiet tautened the air as the submarine slid through the water like a hunting shark.

  ‘Two vessels,’ the captain announced in a steady voice, ‘steaming south, without escort it seems. Prepare to fire, all tubes.’

  Again, men slipped into calm motion to enable the torpedoes, pre-loaded in the tubes since their departure from Lazzaretto, for firing. Water hissed through valves as the firing tubes flooded and wary eyes checked pressure gauges.

  The captain called a final course adjustment, waited for a dozen heartbeats, then: ‘Fire torpedoes one and two.’

  The hull shuddered almost imperceptibly as two torpedoes kicked away from the boat, powering through the water towards the ploughing hulls of the Italian ships. But tension remained tight in the air; there were still two dice to roll and the captain stayed intent at the viewfinder.

  ‘Stand by.’ Again, the skipping beats. ‘Fire torpedoes three and four.’

  Once more, the percussive ripple rang through the boat’s metal fabric as the missiles ran away. Tension drained into expectation that was shot through with hope. Men waited with heads cocked and eyes unfocused.

  Two booms pulsed the length of the hull and the men’s faces split into relieved smiles. The arrival of a third shockwave prompted a burst of hushed chatter.

  ‘Steady everyone.’ The captain turned from the periscope and glanced from man to man. ‘We’ve hit them both. But let’s stay careful in case there’s an escort I haven’t seen.’

  He returned his attention to the viewfinder as the submarine crawled in a wide arc around its damaged victims.

  ‘They’re alone.’ The captain pulled down the periscope and called orders along the boat. ‘Surface! Let’s finish them off. Gun crew and machine-gun party on deck at the double!’

  The hull lurched once more towards the Mediterranean night air as Albert moved to the armoury locker and waited his turn to collect a sten-gun. Behind him, the hatch clanged open and he joined the men waiting to climb the conning tower ladder. Five men ascended before him, the captain and another officer followed him up.

  Albert came out into the cool night air, standing for a moment while the men in front of him clambered down the exterior ladder to the deck. Shouts and calls drifted over the water, mingling from hundreds of throats to become a cacophony of human fear and panic. They were troop ships; they’d hit upon a convoy running reinforcements into Africa.

  Albert pulled himself over the parapet and climbed down to where the calm water lapped against the dark, cobalt hull. The officer dropped a canvas bag of full magazines that hit the walkway behind Albert with a clang, then he lowered an ammunition box on a line to the three-man gun crew. As these men bustled about preparing the 3-inch deck gun, Albert gazed out over the scene before him, rimed in ghostly silver from the near-full moon. One ship was down at the stern, its prow already lifting clear of the water, the other was rolling to port. From both vessels, figures cascaded into the water. Around the stricken ships, the sea’s surface rippled and splashed with flailing arms, scrabbling to escape the wallowing hulks that loomed over them.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The bark of the deck gun was followed by a flashing explosion on the side of the nearest ship, just above the waterline. The cries of panic redoubled.

  ‘You men!’

  Albert turned see the captain shouting at him through cupped hands.

  ‘Keep the swimmers away from the boat!’

  Albert exchanged a fleeting glance with his two companions, un-shouldered his sten-gun and pushed off the safety catch. Forty yards away, the strongest swimmers were making good headway towards the submarine, one called out something in German.

  Another shell boomed away from the deck gun, its clanging detonation bursting close to the first.

  ‘Keep them away from the boat!’ The captain’s yell came again. ‘Get on with it!’

  The man on Albert’s right squeezed out a burst of fire that stitched fountains of water around the foremost swimmer’s head. The soldier pulled up, his face aghast, and began kicking away from the submarine. A second burst of fire slashed a plume of blood and bone from his forehead and he sank back out of sight under the dark water.

  Albert swallowed hard and squeezed his trigger. Through squinted eyes he fired chop after chop of bullets at anything that moved in the water, blinding himself to the consequences he wrought. When his gun stopped firing, he dropped the empty magazine over the side and reached into the bag behind him for a replacement; he needed the noise of his gun to block out the screams and cries of so much hopeless, floundering humanity.

  A deep, throaty moan reverberated into the night and, with the sound of metal grating on buckling metal, one of the ships slid under, stern first. Within a few moments the other completed its roll, baring its keel to the bright moonlight.

  ‘Cease fire!’ the captain called. ‘Come aboard. We dive in three minutes.’

  The gun-crew hauled the deck-gun to face forwards and worked to secure the weapon as Albert climbed the ladder on the conning tower, cordite scraping in his throat and murder pricking at his conscience.

  Tuesday, 7 October 1941

  ‘It makes no sense.’ Bryan slumped into the chair in front of the trestle-desk. He gesticulated towards the tent’s entrance and the airfield beyond. ‘We’re flying 1930s aircraft in a modern war, and now you want me to take my fighters on a bombing mission?’

  Copeland shrugged. ‘It’s come straight down from the AOC. There’s nothing to be done about it. We’ve tested the bomb-racks and they work adequately. I can’t argue with Lloyd.’ Copeland leaned forward. ‘The fact of the matter is, he lost the last of his Blenheims last week and he’s getting a bit twitchy that nothing’s getting bombed.’ A wan smile curved his lips. ‘Except us.’

  Bryan lit a cigarette. ‘I’m more than happy to fly to Sicily, if you’ve got fuel enough to take me there. But for heaven’s sake, let me intercept the bombers as they’re forming up. Let me do some real damage.’

  Copeland looked into Bryan’s face. ‘HQ has ruled that out. They think if we start knocking them down at the Sicilian coast, they’ll put more resources into bombing our airfields.’

  ‘So, we can’t hit them for fear of them hitting back?’

  ‘You, more than most, know how close the bombers came to wiping out English airfields last summer. We can’t afford that happening here.’

  Bryan shook his head in slow amazement. ‘Are we trying to win this war?’

  ‘We, that is you and me’ – Copeland’s voice was held low and steady – ‘have to keep Malta open for naval operations for as long as we can. Nothing else matters.’

  ‘Valletta doesn’t matter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sliema doesn’t matter?’

  ‘No. The needs of the navy take precedent.’ Copeland leaned back in hi
s chair. ‘Six of your aircraft have been fitted with racks. Get your pilots back to the field by midnight; you fly in the early hours.’

  Bryan stood and trailed out of the tent.

  ‘Shiny-arsed bastards,’ he muttered to himself.

  Wednesday, 8 October 1941

  Bryan flew low over the glittering, black water, his engine humming contentedly at a comfortable cruising speed. The moon, a few days past full, draped its gossamer light over the Mediterranean, drawing a dull gleam even from his Hurricane’s black-painted wing. He flew with a fighter behind each of his wings. Away to his left, three more Hurricanes flew in a similar V formation. Bryan scanned the star-speckled dome of the cloudless sky; this was a night for hunting bombers. A night wasted, along with the fuel.

  A solid dark bar drew a ragged edge across the horizon and a faint twinkling added itself to the coat-tails of the darkness.

  ‘Pipistrelle Leader to Pipistrelle aircraft, loosen up, land-ho! It looks like they’ve left their lights on. This could be easier than we thought. Stick close to the coast, one run only, then home.’

  ‘Pipistrelle ‘B’ flight, peeling off now. See you later.’

  Bryan glanced across to see the three black shapes of the other formation bank away to head west along the darkened hinterland. He led his flight over the narrowing stretch of water towards a coastal town dead ahead.

  The line of a breakwater stood stark in the moonlight, sheltering half-a-dozen fishing boats moored together in a huddled group. Bryan squeezed out a burst of fire that slashed across the breakwater and through the tethered vessels. Banking hard over the rising rooftops, he led the way east, scanning the ground for something to attack.

  The coast curved away from the town into a sickle-shaped bay a couple of miles wide. The sweep of its arc ended with a squat, circular building. Bryan banked to follow the coastline’s outward sweep, pulling the bomb-release toggle as the red-and-white-painted tower loomed under his propeller. He pulled up into a shallow climb, glancing in the rear-view mirror to catch small explosions straddling the building and his wingmen diving in to drop their ordnance onto the headland.