The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Something stood at its base, a flash of blue against the pale, carved limestone. Bryan crouched on his haunches to better see a small earthenware pot. A bunch of borage stems filled the container, their bewhiskered stems exploding into a tiny constellation of blue-starred flowers. A small label, cut from brown packing paper was secured around the pot’s neck with white string. Bryan tipped the label with his fingertip so it caught the light. In a thin handwritten script was the single word “Qalbi”.

  Bryan lowered himself to sit on the step, the little pot to one side of his scuffed and dusty boot, and lit a cigarette. The ghost of the old man passed through his mind’s eye as the tobacco smoke swirled away across the courtyard. Bryan hoped he’d found his solace, then wondered how close that was to a prayer.

  ‘Hello Bryan.’

  Jacobella’s voice broke his reverie and he jumped to his feet, embarrassed to be caught slouching next to the tiny memorial.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re both safe.’ He brushed the dust from the seat of his trousers and crossed the road.

  ‘Come in for a while,’ she said, opening the door. ‘I have some mint leaves, I can make some tea’.

  Luċija clattered up the stairs ahead of them. Bryan followed Jacobella, trying not to watch her hips sway on the steps and failing to resist the temptation. At the top, she moved through to the kitchen, humming faintly under her breath, a hymn that she had so recently been singing. Luċija ran to her room and returned with the knitted airman under her arm. She clambered onto a chair at the kitchen table and sat the doll on the smooth wooden surface, leaning it against the pepper pot. She beamed a smile at Bryan, as if to share a clever secret, then her smile faded as she toyed with the figure’s knitted feet and slipped away into the child-sanctuary of imagination.

  Bryan moved across to the draining board where Jacobella worked. ‘Thursday must’ve been a trial,’ he said.

  Jacobella picked small green leaves from their spindly stems and the fresh smell of mint pervaded the room as she rubbed them between thumb and finger, dropping some into a small saucepan of soup and the rest into another pot filled with water that was just beginning to waft with steam.

  ‘It was hell,’ she said, then tutted and crossed herself with the hand that clutched the leaves. ‘They evacuated the south side.’ She turned to regard him over her shoulder for a moment and her brow creased at the memory. ‘A ship full of explosives was on fire. They said it could destroy half of Valletta.’ She turned again and this time a smile of genuine warmth lit her eyes. ‘The gardens were full of families. I opened my door to let the children come in and sleep under shelter.’ A shadow flitted across her face, dimming her smile as she went back to her task.

  Bryan stood, uncertain. ‘Are you’ – he groped for a different word and failed – ‘alright?’ He winced at his awkwardness.

  The water boiled in the saucepan and Jacobella turned off the stove. ‘My heart will go on,’ she said quietly, pouring the yellow-tinged water into three small cups. She handed one to Bryan. ‘The priest told us that the Governor is making a broadcast. Can you find it for us?’

  Bryan went into the living room and knelt by the small table that held the polished wooden wireless set. He clicked it on and swept the tuner dial. The laboured voice of Malta’s Governor emerged from the mess of static.

  ‘…a grievous disappointment. We could not watch the burning of one of the ships without the deepest emotion…’

  Jacobella brought a bowl of soup and some mint tea to the table for Luċija. She offered nothing to Bryan and he noticed she had nothing for herself.

  ‘…Malta has suffered much and has been called upon to endure much…’

  Bryan moved to sit at the table opposite Jacobella. Luċija sat between them blowing her soup cool and dipping her spoon.

  ‘…but in the interests of Malta itself, of our Empire, and of the most righteous cause for which we are fighting, I call on you to endure still further and to continue to show the same courage which has won the admiration of the world.’

  The broadcast ended, to be replaced with light classical music.

  Bryan stood up and switched the wireless off. ‘He reminds me of Winston,’ he mused. ‘It used to annoy me, listening to that old oaf grumbling on about resistance and sacrifice.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘But I don’t suppose they can speak the real truth. And it would help nothing if they did.’

  ‘So, what is the real truth?’ she asked.

  He sat down at the table. ‘The truth is there to see in the ruins of Valletta. The truth is you have nothing to eat and there are sunken ships in the harbour packed with food that’s going to rot under the water. The truth is the Germans are intent on destroying everything on this island, no matter about anyone’s courageous endurance.’ He glanced at Luċija scraping the last of the thin soup from her bowl. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘it’s not my place…’

  ‘Were you flying against them?’ Jacobella asked, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands.

  Bryan nodded silently.

  ‘What was it like?’

  He pulled a bleak smile. ‘The harbour was like a cobweb made of bullets, planes and shrapnel.’ He dropped his cigarette into the dregs of his mint tea where it hissed angrily for an instant. ‘I was lucky enough to fly through the gaps.’

  ‘God protected you.’

  Bryan shook his head once. ‘I don’t believe that.’

  Jacobella reached out a hand and touched his forearm. ‘That’s the very reason why He is doing it.’

  Wednesday, 1 April 1942

  Bryan eyed his instruments with suspicion. The oil temperature was slightly high. He listened to the engine’s tone, straining to pick out any irregularity. There was nothing untoward, so he returned his attention to holding his position behind Copeland’s starboard wing. He flew as number two in a vic of three Spitfires climbing away towards the island’s southern tip, clawing for altitude to intercept a small incoming force.

  ‘Fighter Control to Falcon Leader, bandits are fast-moving. Vector three-four-zero. Buster.’

  The small formation banked over the landward edge of Marsaxlokk Bay, setting course for Grand Harbour, black gouts of smoke coughing from their exhausts as they pushed their throttles through the gate to get maximum speed.

  The landscape rolled away beneath them, punctuated with clusters of buildings hunched along the roadsides. Bryan’s gaze swept the horizon as the interceptors levelled out, barrelling north-west. The thin fingers of the three creeks that penetrated the southern shore to form the docks crept into view. Then, across Grand Harbour, flashes and mushrooming smoke clouds peppered the capital’s central belt, dozens of explosions stippled the cityscape beneath a sky beset with shell bursts.

  The Spitfires hammered towards the unseen raiders, flashing over the harbour and across the city. Bryan’s chest lurched as he saw the slender strip of Hastings Gardens obscured by dust and smoke from nearby bomb strikes. Bile squeezed into his throat and his shoulders tightened with a quiet fury.

  The curling smoke from fresher detonations rose from Manoel Island, with even younger siblings climbing out of collapsing buildings across Sliema. Finally, the enemy became visible; fewer than a dozen tiny nebulous shapes, already out to sea and racing northwards.

  ‘Falcon Leader to Falcon Aircraft, disengage, we’ve missed them.’

  Bryan pushed the heel of his hand against the throttle that was already hard against the stops, and locked his eyes on the dark silhouettes that hovered in the hazy seam between the sea and the sky. The other two Spitfires fell back on his port side.

  ‘Falcon Leader to Falcon Two, disengage and reform.’

  Bryan gritted his teeth and pulled his wireless cable from its socket. The backdrop of static hiss in his ears dropped into a flat silence around which the roar of his straining engine clamoured at his skull.

  The silhouettes ahead grew, sprouting twin engines on thin wings. They drew together in a tighter formati
on and one or two speculative lashes of tracer fire spiralled back towards him.

  The engine coughed like an angry bull, snapping Bryan out of his transfixion. He hauled back the throttle and dipped the nose below the thickening stream of defensive fire, diving and banking around to point his aircraft back at the dark bar of Malta’s eastern coastline. His seat thrummed in sympathetic resonance to the engine’s rough vibration. He glanced at the oil temperature needle nudging the high end of its scale and eased the throttle back a notch further. With his Spitfire flirting with the stall, he scanned the sky above and behind, a sick fear crawling across his skin, the dread feeling common to the lame or the wounded traversing a predator’s territory.

  Relief tingled through his fingers as the wave-edged coastline slipped beneath his ailing fighter. Suddenly remembering, he fumbled for his wireless cord and pushed the plug home.

  ‘-are you receiving?’ A pause filled with swirling static, then: ‘Fighter Control to Falcon Two, are you receiving?

  Bryan pushed transmit. ‘Falcon Two here, faulty wireless and poorly engine. I’m on my way home.’

  ****

  Bryan banked gingerly onto the circuit and straightened up to land. The vibrations ascended to clanking jolts and black smoke streamed from the exhaust as the Spitfire cushioned down towards the hard-packed soil. The wheels touched and the engine seized in ghastly symbiosis and Bryan braked gently, veering off the landing strip as he slowed.

  He shut down the engine and closed the fuel taps. Pulling his straps free, he banged back the canopy and squirmed out of the cockpit. Thick white smoke seeped from beneath the cowling and he hurried down the wing root, jumped to the ground and lurched away from the aircraft, his parachute pack banging against the back of his legs as he moved.

  Once at a safe distance he shrugged the parachute pack onto the ground and watched the ground crews sprinting in to save his machine from the developing engine fire.

  ‘Faulty wireless, my arse.’

  Bryan turned to see Copeland, his face berry-red with ire.

  ‘You disobeyed my direct order and went on a personal vendetta.’ Copeland emphasised the last two words with finger jabs to Bryan’s chest. ‘What are you going to do if she has been killed?’

  Bryan’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

  ‘Everyone knows, Hale.’ He gestured at the anonymous airmen struggling with the crippled plane. ‘Everyone.’

  Bryan pulled off his helmet and fumbled inside his jacket, searching for cigarettes.

  ‘Answer me,’ Copeland persisted. ‘Are you going to stop defending everyone else when she’s dead? And what help will it be to any of them if you get killed? I’ve got no use for dead heroes. By all means, kill yourself if you think it will make her love you. But bring my Spitfire back in one piece first and do yourself in some other way.’

  A chill silence fell between the men. Copeland gazed at the smoking aeroplane, the anger receding from his face. Bryan gave up his search for a smoke and stared at the patch of ground in front of his boots.

  ‘Go back to Mdina, Bryan.’ Copeland’s voice had softened. ‘I’ve got more pilots than planes. I don’t need you to fly again this afternoon.’

  ****

  The beginnings of dusk crept across the fields with the stealthy tread of a seasoned hunter. The wailing klaxons of dive-bombers and the flat crunch of high explosives filtered from Grand Harbour across those same fields to the roof terrace at Xara. Salvaged ammunition from the sunken merchantmen, hand-delivered directly to the harbour’s defences, provided a particularly vicious umbrella over the docks. Above this dome of drifting wisps, streams of flashing tracer lashed in sinuous curves, occasionally sparking a vibrant orange ball that dropped away from the dogfight like fruit from the strangest of trees.

  Bryan watched the raid, his chest hollow of emotion, like a man beaten by thugs in full view of careless passers-by, knowing he couldn’t stop the pain and unsure if he possessed the strength to endure it.

  The door clicked open and Ben appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘The squadron leader has taken you off the roster,’ he said.

  ‘I thought he might.’ Bryan sighed. ‘That makes me the spare prick at the wedding.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I should do now.’

  Bryan frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m your wingman.’

  Bryan looked into the younger man’s face, the thin flesh on his cheek bones reddening at his declaration of allegiance. ‘You have to do what you’re told, Ben. That’s the way it works.’ He turned his gaze back to the combats in the distance. ‘But, thank you,’ he added, ‘that means a lot.’

  Friday, 3 April 1942

  ‘Mrs Azzopardi,’ Bryan said. ‘I believe she’s the assistant to a journalist here. Is she at work today?’

  The receptionist regarded him with naked suspicion as she picked up her telephone and dialled a short number. She turned away from him as she spoke in Maltese into the handset, then turned back to face him, her mistrust undiminished.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Azzopardi,’ Bryan replied, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Azzopardi.’

  ‘No, no.’ The receptionist jabbed her finger at him. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Oh, Bryan. My name is Bryan.’

  The receptionist raised an eyebrow at him, then turned away to deliver the information into the telephone. That done she dropped the handset into its cradle.

  ‘You is wait,’ she said and bent to the papers on her desk.

  A minute later a door opened and Jacobella leaned into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at work,’ Bryan said. ‘I wondered if you had such a thing as a lunch break?’

  Jacobella smiled and nodded. ‘Give me a few minutes,’ she said and ducked back through the door.

  Bryan felt the renewed hostility of the receptionist’s disapproving gaze and chose to sidle onto the street, outside of its range.

  St Paul Street dipped away to the city’s north-eastern tip and bore the ravages wrought by the bombing raids on the harbour close by. By contrast, the flat, sandstone frontage of the newspaper offices stood indifferent to the rapacity of war; its survival was totemic, perhaps divinely guaranteed.

  Jacobella skipped down the steps to where Bryan waited and they walked the short distance to Castille Place and turned into Barracca Gardens. As they walked under the archway, Jacobella pulled a copy of the newspaper from her bag and handed it to Bryan.

  ‘You must be very proud,’ she said.

  Bryan unrolled the paper and read the headline out loud: ‘Twenty-seven raiders downed – No RAF loss.’ He handed the paper back. ‘I’m afraid I had to watch that one from the ground,’ he said. ‘I’ve been taken off flying duties for a while.’

  A smile lighted Jacobella’s face. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

  Bryan shrugged. ‘In any event, it makes me an unproductive mouth that needs feeding. So, I’m fairly certain they’ll ship me off the island as soon as they get the chance. I wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t think badly of me if I suddenly vanished.’

  They walked through the small paved gardens to the wall overlooking the Saints’ Bastion. To their left, the breakwater jutted from the fortress on the harbour’s far side, gun barrels poking skywards through camouflaged netting. To their right, the wrecked docks extended inland, a twisted tangle of broken cranes and crumpled buildings, overlain with a thin smoke-haze from smouldering wood. The sunken ships wallowed like the bloated corpses of Fin whales, small boats dotted around them, risking the same fate to pluck anything usable from inside their bellies.

  Jacobella regarded the devastation for a moment, then turned to face him. ‘This whole thing is a complete disaster,’ she said quietly. ‘But life’s been better for having you in it.’ A rueful smile curled her lips. ‘Even as a small part.’

  Chapter 18

  Friday, 17 April 1942

  Bryan sat on an empty petrol can, gazing acros
s the airfield. He pulled out his cigarettes, grimaced at the last three smokes it held and put the pack back in his pocket with its contents intact. The growl of Merlin engines dragged his eyes to the sky and he watched a flight of three Spitfires swooping in to land. He knew Copeland sat in one of the machines, so he stood and trailed after the fighters as they taxied to their pens, pressing a handkerchief to his face to ward off the swathes of dust kicked up by the aeroplanes.

  He waited as the engines rattled into silence and groundcrews began re-arming and refuelling the aircraft. After a few minutes, Copeland strode out from one of the pens.

  ‘Sir?’ Bryan pulled himself into the semblance of attention as the squadron leader walked towards him. ‘Can we speak for a moment? I’ve been grounded for over two weeks-’

  ‘Walk with me, Hale.’ Copeland cut him short.

  Bryan fell in beside him, the need for nicotine tightening a band around his forehead.

  ‘I revisited your records,’ he continued when they were beyond any eavesdropping. ‘It seems you have come seriously un-glued before.’

  Bryan gave in and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and drawing heavily on the smoke.

  ‘My crewman was all but disembowelled,’ he answered. He took another drag on the tobacco, causing the cigarette’s tip to crackle and flare bright orange. ‘I had to walk through his innards to get off my Beaufighter. It’s true, it disturbed my sleep for a little while. But I got over it.’

  Copeland gave him a sideways look, evaluating the steel in the other man’s eyes. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I’ll put you back on the roster when the new Spits come in.’

  ‘We’re getting more Spitfires?’ Relief flooded Bryan’s features. ‘That’s unexpected.’

  ‘Well, the navy made it clear there’d be no convoys without air cover for the harbours. The Governor made it clear, to Winston, that if we didn’t get more convoys he could expect Malta to surrender in the not too distant future. Churchill then leans on Roosevelt, and Roosevelt lends us a carrier that happened to be on the right side of the Atlantic.’