The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘What are you doing, Hale?’ Copeland’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘There was no-one ready to take over.’ Bryan turned to face his squadron leader. ‘So, I got it off the ground.’

  Copeland glanced at the armourers lifting fresh ammunition into the wing. ‘Were you in that combat?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I was right behind you.’

  Copeland mirrored the grin on Bryan’s face. ‘Right, you can stand down now. You’ve done enough work for one day and I think the rush is over.’ He cast a glance across the field. ‘It’s worked, hasn’t it? We’ve cracked it.’

  Bryan followed his gaze. ‘Until the fuel runs out.’

  ‘Now, about that.’ Copeland’s eyes flashed with a conspiratorial glint. ‘They’re running in a minelayer loaded with stores from Gibraltar. The cheeky bastards have disguised it as a Vichy French destroyer. If all goes well, it should be here tomorrow.’ He surveyed Bryan’s wearied face. ‘I’m sending a couple of trucks down in the morning to join the queue. Why don’t you hitch a lift? I’m sure you’re keen to catch up on your church attendance.’

  Copeland strode off, shouting at an airman to find a fresh pilot for Bryan’s aircraft. Bryan wandered along the perimeter until he found pen number one. He retrieved his kit-bag and walked slowly towards the aerodrome gate in search of transport to Mdina. The defiant roar of Merlin engines reverberated in his ears as half-a-dozen Spitfires rose from the runway and climbed away to the north.

  Sunday, 10 May 1942

  The truck dropped Bryan off on the western root of Valletta’s peninsula before heading south to skirt the rump of Grand Harbour and seek out the docked minelayer. It was a fair walk into the city, but it was still early, so he set out at an easy pace. He stayed as close to the water as the road allowed, stopping every now and then to survey the battered docklands on the opposite bank. After thirty minutes walking along the waterfront the view down one of the main docks opened up. There sat the minelayer, her superstructure backed with a row of three funnels, her decks and the adjacent quayside thronged with figures working to unload her precious cargo.

  A flight of six Spitfires droned in a lazy curve to the south of the docks. Abruptly their engine note raised and they climbed away northwards, out to sea. The song of their motors blended in with the rising wail of sirens, droning their warning across the capital and its harbours. The civilians sharing Bryan’s vigil on the waterfront scurried away to seek refuge. He crossed the road, found a doorway to give him rudimentary shelter and lifted his gaze to the skies over the harbour mouth.

  Sprinkles of glittering tracer and the arcing contrails of whirling aircraft witnessed the outbreak of desperate combats far away over the water. More engines roared across Valletta, out of Bryan’s sight, blocked by the building against which he huddled, a squadron at least, maybe more. The sirens wound down through a grinding moan to dwindle into silence, their warning delivered, their soldier-operators scampered back to stations with their gun-crews.

  Below the skirmishing fighters, a legion of aircraft squirmed into view from the haze. Bryan squinted into the bleary brightness and the vanguard sharpened in contrast against the blue. With inverted gull wings and fixed undercarriage, the strangely demonic silhouettes of Stuka dive bombers advanced on the harbour with the slow menace of medieval siege engines.

  The air boomed with shuddering reverberations as the heavy anti-aircraft emplacements at the harbour mouth coughed shells into the sky. Explosions rent the air ahead of the bomber formation, stitching a box of jagged shrapnel between the attackers and their target. One Stuka sagged from the formation with flames flaring from its wing root as it curved away from its fellows. Abruptly its wing folded up against the fuselage, throwing the bomber into a spiralling dive. It tumbled like a broken bird over and over itself to hit the surf and disintegrate into cascading shards as the bomb held snug against its belly erupted in a cascade of soiled water.

  The German formation pressed on into the air above the harbour, processing with eery slowness, seemingly indifferent to the barrage as they hunted for their prey. A lethargic coil of smoke belched from the minelayer’s funnels, too late to fully screen it from the circling vultures.

  The foremost group of Stukas rolled onto their backs with lazy menace, then pulled their noses into near vertical dives towards the docked vessel. The dive-bombers’ howling was joined by a new chattering counterpoint as the lighter Bofors guns welcomed the attackers into their range. Tracers stitched a canopy over the water from both sides of the harbour and the Stukas zoomed into parabolic climbs, leaving plumes of water and shattered concrete as testament to several near misses. The dockside teemed with figures fleeing the ship, running between abandoned trucks and crouching against walls as the blast waves buffeted their bodies.

  Another section of Spitfires curved in from the south, higher than the attackers. Flipping one-by-one onto their backs, they pulled into dives that mimicked their enemy and chased the boxy tails of their adversaries through the thick interweave of ground fire.

  Six more concussions pulsed across the harbour as bomb loads struck. Two Stukas slammed into the water followed by a flaming Spitfire, all three falling victim to the Bofors crews. Four more dive-bombers clawed out of their dives, tracers spitting backwards at the defending fighters that harried them as they jinked away towards the sea, seeking the protection of their sorely pre-occupied escorts.

  Bryan pressed his back against the warm, dry wood of the door as shrapnel dropped from the barrage with a metallic tinkle on the smooth stones of the waterfront road. The breeze changed, peeling the smokescreen away from the water and rolling it in the wake of the fleeing raiders. The minelayer emerged into clear view, upright and undamaged. The harbour guns fell silent and the angry buzz of aero engines receded.

  Bryan slipped from the doorway and ducked up the nearest side street that led him northwards into Valletta. The city’s narrow streets, congested in better times by people and commerce, were now truncated by piles of dislocated stone blocks piled high against walls that sagged and threatened the reckless passer-by.

  Bryan zig-zagged northwards like a child in a maze as the all-clear droned out from the harbour. Few people moved through the lanes and alleys, those that did skittered with a crouching gait, like alley-cats unexpectedly caught in the open.

  With relief, Bryan found himself emerging onto Bakery Street, its length mercifully clear of debris, and headed towards St Augustine Church. As he approached, he saw the main doors were closed, but a priest stood on the pavement at a side door. As his congregation filed out, he crossed himself and touched each passing forehead in blessing. Bryan took up station across the road and watched the outflow of worshippers.

  Jacobella emerged and responded to the cleric’s blessing with downcast eyes and a slight curtsy. The priest placed a hand on her shoulder and said something further. Jacobella regarded the man and a flicker of surprise flashed across her features. Then she glanced over the priest’s shoulder and caught Bryan’s eye. Her jaw dropped and her face reddened with embarrassment. She cast her eyes down again and nodded as the preacher finished his piece, a faint smile tickled across her lips to displace her discomfiture.

  The priest turned to the next person emerging from the small door. Thus released, Jacobella crossed the road with Luċija clutching her hand.

  ‘Bryan!’ Jacobella reached out and hugged him, kissing his cheek and squeezing him to her. ‘What a surprise. What a lovely surprise.’

  Bryan blushed in his turn, reaching down to ruffle Luċija’s hair to hide his awkwardness. He nodded towards the clergyman. ‘Your priest is doing open-air services on the pavement?’

  ‘No.’ The trio walked away from the church, Luċija in the middle. ‘We had the service in the crypt today because of the air raid; the father thinks the German pilots are targeting churches. Many have been hit, some destroyed. It’s cramped down there, no room to give proper communion, so he gives us his blessings at the top of th
e steps as we leave.’

  ‘It seems he had a lot to say to you.’ Bryan winced inwardly at his childish jealousy.

  ‘He did,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, even a man of God can be… there is an English saying… a bull in a china shop?’

  Bryan stayed silent, unwilling to press further.

  Jacobella cast him a long sideways glance, chewing her lip. ‘He told me my daughter needs a father-figure and that his flock will need plenty of new sheep when this war is over.’

  Bryan whistled through his teeth. ‘There’s nothing quite like the direct righteousness of a celibate clergyman.’ Bryan kept his gaze on the paving stones in front of his footsteps. ‘It’s hardly a very decent thing for anyone to say, let alone a man of God.’

  A smile spread across Jacobella’s face. ‘I’ve already forgiven him,’ she said. ‘Now, tell me where you have been all this time so I can decide if I should forgive you.’

  Chapter 21

  Saturday, 6 June 1942

  Flies danced in front of his nose, flying in tight figures-of-eight, waiting for the opportunity to dart at the corner of his eye, or settle unnoticed on his forehead and sup at the salty sweat that beaded on his face. The flat, earthy smell of entrails hung heavy on the sultry breeze, thick and glutinous in his nostrils, roiling the acid in his empty stomach. Three emaciated goats huddled together against the rough stone wall in one corner of the field, staring with blank, uncomprehending eyes as their owner heaved the cleaned carcass of one of their fellows away from the fly-swarmed pile of its steaming guts and onto a low wooden hand-cart. Their flanks quivered in the face of a danger they couldn’t fathom as the man wiped the blood and gristle from his blade and advanced towards them.

  Bryan turned away from the wall and crossed the road, back to where Ben held the barbed wire apart with his boot.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Ben asked.

  Bryan ducked through the gap. ‘Killing his goats.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s that or let them starve to death.’

  The two men started back down the gentle slope towards the airfield.

  ‘Is there nothing we can do to help?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Bryan said. ‘We could defeat Rommel in Africa and then invade Sicily and Italy with overwhelming force.’

  Ben glanced at him in exasperation. ‘I meant something we could actually do.’

  Bryan shrugged. ‘More convoys. More sinkings. More drownings. More Air Raids. More dead. More homeless.’

  ‘Come on,’ Ben admonished. ‘The raids have all but dried up. That has to be a good thing.’

  Bryan stopped in his tracks. ‘There’s fuck all left for them to bomb,’ he said, ‘until some more ships arrive and the whole bloody dance starts all over again.’

  A flurry of distressed bleating behind them ended in abrupt silence.

  Bryan looked back towards the field. ‘It can’t be long before people reach that condition’ – he clasped his hand to his bony jawline – ‘including us. Then all the Germans have to do is wait for the most convenient full moon and send across their paratroopers.’ Bryan strode off down the slope with Ben hurrying to catch up. ‘If that happens,’ he continued, ‘Malta is the least of what we’ll lose.’

  Saturday, 13 June 1942

  Eleven pilots sat in the dining room in Xara Palace waiting. A murmur of conversation lapped around their heads, laced through with speculation and rumour. Heavy footsteps rang from the stone-flagged lobby outside and the squadron leader strode in with an older, high-ranking officer. A military policeman swept his gaze across the assembly as he closed the door and leaned his broad back against it. The pilots stood to attention amidst the scraping of their chairs.

  A thrill of recognition resonated through Bryan as he looked into the old man’s face.

  ‘As you were,’ Copeland waved them back to their seats and waited for them to settle. ‘I’m honoured to introduce Air Vice Marshal Lloyd. I’ll let him explain why we’ve been gathered here.’ Copeland sat down amongst his men.

  Lloyd cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen,’ – strain chiselled the old officer’s features and he swept the upturned faces with an edge of beseeching in his eyes – ‘you all know that practically every resource we need to keep our grip on this island is getting low, and you’re all clever enough to know exactly what will become of us as soon as things run out. So, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that two convoys have recently sailed for our relief. One is coming from the west and one from the east. There’ll be half-a-dozen merchant ships and a tanker from Gibraltar and eleven merchantmen from Alexandria. Each convoy is protected by around thirty escort vessels.

  ‘Obviously we can expect the navy to do a sterling job in keeping the merchant boys safe, but we’re anxious to get air cover over them as soon as we can. Normally, as you know, this happens when the ships are about seventy miles out.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Your Spitfires arrived here with extra fuel carried in slipper tanks. We stored those tanks and they are being refitted as we speak. The larger fuel capacity will allow this squadron to fly top cover over the Alexandria convoy throughout daylight hours on Monday.

  ‘Three flights of four aircraft will fly in relays, keeping one flight over the convoy at all times. The first sortie will take off shortly before dawn.’ He looked around the now stony faces before him. ‘Any questions?’

  Copeland drew himself upright. ‘What if an attack develops as a flight is about to return to base?’ he asked.

  Lloyd’s features stiffened in proxy resolve and his beady eyes glittered. ‘It’s imperative that enemy action is met with opposition. In those circumstances you’ll be expected to stay and fight. If fuel limitations preclude your safe return, you will ditch ahead of the convoy and await rescue by an escort vessel.’

  ‘I see,’ Copeland said quietly and lowered himself slowly back into his chair.

  Sunday, 14 June 1942

  The darkness throbbed around Bryan’s head drawing the unseen walls closer to hold him as helpless hostage on his sweat begrimed mattress. He stared with sleepless eyes at the ceiling and listened to a tiny whistling rasp that creaked from his lung on every in-breath. Reaching a decision, he groped for his watch and fastened its strap around his wrist. He climbed out of the bed and dressed in the dark, sitting finally on the mattress edge to push his stockinged feet into boots still damp with yesterday’s perspiration.

  Slipping from his room, he felt his way down the corridor, descended the stairs and left Xara Palace by the front door. The sudden liberty from the enclosed space lightened his mood, but his compulsion remained. He walked past the ancient slumbering churches, through the gate and across the wide stone bridge to take the road heading east to Valletta.

  The tramping rhythm of his footsteps drained the clutter from his mind and he surrendered to the pull that sat in his chest, planting each step on the rough road like a delivered promise.

  An hour later, with Ta’Qali airfield receding on his left and the road rising on its way out of the basin, spongy aches spread across his thighs. He paused and swept his gaze across the star peppered dome, lightening at its eastern horizon with the first grey smudges of dawn.

  A rattle vibrated behind him, strengthening to a clanking growl. Bryan turned to see the hooded headlights of a truck cruising up the road towards him. He stepped to the edge of the road and waited. The truck slowed and juddered to a halt next to him.

  A soldier leaned out of his open passenger window. ‘Crikey. Where are you off to, Napoleon?’

  ‘Valletta,’ Bryan said. ‘Anywhere in Valletta.’

  ‘We’re off to St Gregory, out by the harbour mouth. Any good to ya’?’

  Bryan nodded.

  ‘Jump in then.’ He craned his neck to the rear of the vehicle. ‘Hoi!’ he shouted. ‘Make room in there. We’re giving Biggles a lift.’

  Bryan climbed into the canvas-covered truck and sat by the tailgate. The gloom inside afforded him the opportunity to stay silent and, once
the novelty of his arrival passed, the soldiers continued their mumbled conversations.

  Dawn split the Mediterranean sky as the vehicle rumbled through Floriana and lurched northwards under the towering bastion walls that held Hastings Gardens behind their parapets. Bryan’s anxiety softened, but his restlessness remained. The truck snaked along the road that hugged the edge of Marsamxett Harbour and wheezed to a halt at the city’s seaward tip.

  Bryan left the gunners taking over their new station while the transport growled away into the gloom with the relieved crew. He took the nearest alley that climbed away from the harbour and broached this unfamiliar quarter of the city.

  The early morning light draped its golden gentleness onto the blocky piles of shattered masonry like an ethereal altar cloth bestowed by the angels of the dawn. Valletta lay around him like a mortally wounded giant, slumped in ruins and bleeding out its precious hope. Nothing moved along its broken thoroughfares except Bryan’s gaunt figure, stalking like a wraith through the ancient bones of the decimated capital.

  Emerging from a narrow side road, he walked into an open square. A classical Romanesque building squatted along one side of this courtyard, complete with Corinthian columns standing like rigid sentries beneath its triangular portico. An incongruous steeple nestled behind this grand frontage, lofting its delicately pointed spire some two hundred feet into the morning sky. A man hurried down the street next to the building, his plain black robe flapping behind him. He climbed the steps and unlocked a door near the end of the wall. The door creaked open and the man vanished inside.

  Bryan walked across to the steps. Next to the door, a small plaque bore the words ‘St Paul’s – Anglican Cathedral’. Bryan smiled at the gentle irony of stumbling upon another St Paul’s Cathedral and stepped through the doorway.

  The atmosphere in the cavernous stone space was several degrees cooler than the warming morning air and a shiver ran down Bryan’s back. In front of him, raised on a circular stepped dais in the semi-circular apse, a marble font stood like an ossified flower, its receptacle covered with a polished wooden lid that bore a tall yellowing candle, unlit. Milky white columns, echoing those outside, marched down the flanks of the nave and supported a pale stone ceiling.