The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Bryan unslung his rucksack and pulled out a small tin of fruit.

  ‘I brought this for Luċija,’ he said, handing her the tin. ‘You should have some too.’

  She turned the tin over in her hands. ‘I hope you didn’t steal this,’ she said. ‘I understand that’s a very dangerous crime, these days.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I saved my ration for a week and they let me take it in one go.’

  ‘You’re a kind man.’ She placed the tin on the side and went back to kneading the washing. ‘At the newspaper, they say those two ships brought enough for us to last until the end of September.’

  Bryan lowered himself onto a stool by the wall. ‘Tobruk is lost,’ he said. ‘If Alexandria falls as well, it will all be over long before then.’

  She paused in her work and her shoulders sagged. ‘God watches over us, Bryan. We should trust in that, always.’

  Wednesday, 15 July 1942

  The four escort fighters had vanished northwards some time ago and a hushed stillness still muffled the activity across Ta’Qali. Airmen sat twiddling their thumbs and looking skyward, squinting into the summer glare and straining to hear beyond the passive silence that pressed into their ears.

  ‘What do you know about Keith Park?’ Copeland asked.

  Bryan pursed his lips. ‘He was group commander when I was flying out of Kenley. He made a decent fist of things.

  ‘He’s the new AOC for Malta,’ Copeland said. ‘He arrived yesterday.’

  Bryan glanced at Copeland briefly, then returned his gaze to the sky. ‘Is that why we’re getting reinforcements?’

  The four escorts roared out of the distance, buzzed the airfield and banked away to the east. Behind them, the sky gradually filled with the new arrivals; three squadrons of factory-fresh Spitfires curved into the circuit, the vanguard easing down towards the landing strip.

  ‘I do believe things are looking up, Hale,’ Copeland said. ‘They’re sending a fast minesweeper from Gibraltar and a submarine from Alexandria, both loaded with fuel and ammunition. And there’s some talk of a convoy for August. A big convoy, properly defended this time. The army are holding the Germans at El-Alamein, so if the navy and our torpedo bombers can disrupt the shipping on its way to Tobruk and Tripoli, there’s an outside chance the Germans can be beaten.’

  Bryan raised his voice against the swelling din of the landing aircraft. ‘One more last chance at the Last Chance Saloon.’

  Thursday, 23 July 1942

  ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ Bryan whispered.

  ‘No,’ Ben answered. ‘No-one has.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Bryan hissed in frustration. ‘The bastards make us get up before the crack of dawn and they don’t even have the decency to pass round some gaspers.’

  Copeland’s chair scraped the floor as he rose to his feet. All heads turned to listen.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Today we are going to do something different. Our new AOC has authorised forward interception sorties.’

  ‘About time,’ Bryan muttered.

  Copeland shot him a warning glance and continued. ‘We’ll be held at readiness until RDF detects activity building up over Sicily. Then we’ll be scrambled to fly north and intercept the raid over the sea. We’re to support a Hurricane squadron from Luqa. Our job will be to engage the fighter escort while the Hurricanes take the bombers head-on. Just like the good old days.’ He swept his smile across the upturned faces. ‘Transport is outside. Let’s go.’

  ****

  The mid-morning sun hung suspended on the starboard beam as Copeland levelled out at 20,000 feet, cruising due north. The squadron spread across the sky behind him like a peacock’s tail. They flew in pairs, ranging out at last as free hunters rather than reacting like tethered guard dogs.

  Bryan glanced into his mirror to see Ben’s machine tucked snugly on his starboard quarter, then dropped his gaze to the thickening band of the Sicilian coast dead ahead.

  ‘Falcon Leader to Falcon Aircraft.’ Copeland’s voice resonated with steady authority. ‘Bomber formation ahead and below. Ignore them.’

  Two stepped squadrons of Junkers 88s streamed in the opposite direction on the left of the British fighters. A ripple of disorder ran through the enemy formation as the pilots recognised the shapes that overpassed them and craned their necks to follow the danger. Their escorts, far faster through the air, were some way behind, chasing them across the sea to rendezvous closer to landfall.

  ‘Steady,’ Copeland drawled. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

  They flew on for less than a minute.

  ‘Bandits, 12 o’clock high.’ This time Copeland’s words were stretched with tension. ‘Let’s give them hell. Tally ho!’ His Spitfire curved up into a shallow banking zoom towards the onrushing German force. He opened fire as the tightly knit gaggle of 109s flashed overhead.

  Bryan held his fire, banked to keep the escort force in view and screwed his head around to watch their next move. Most broke to port, three broke to starboard. Bryan slewed his fighter to the right, following the smaller group. Two of the German fighters formed into a tight pair, the third had broken a few moments late and floundered away from the others on a wider bank.

  Bryan eased back on the stick and forward on the throttle, drawing the wayward 109 down his windshield. As the wallowing fighter threatened to vanish beneath his nose, Bryan stabbed the firing button with his thumb. His cannons juddered the airframe with percussive violence, sending smoke trails curving out and downwards to ensnare the Messerschmitt in a pattern of exploding strikes that danced back along its engine and through its cockpit. White smoke belched into its slipstream and the burning fighter pirouetted into a dive towards the sea.

  Bryan pulled tighter into his turn, clenching his teeth against the grey mist that crept into the edge of his vision. The other two 109s drifted into view above the top of his windshield, then darted away as they reversed their turn to port. Bryan kicked his rudder to follow and pulled hard on the stick to cut inside his quarry.

  A tortured glance in the mirror showed Ben hanging on behind his right wing. Ahead of him, the Messerschmitts split; the leader banked precipitously to starboard, leaving his wingman pulling the port turn. Bryan slashed his Spitfire back to the right, hoping Ben would stay in the opposite turn to occupy the other escort.

  Fighting against the tightness in his chest and the pain in his temples, Bryan wrestled the controls to drag his enemy into his gunsights. Abruptly the 109 barrelled onto its back. The canopy flopped open and a figure jumped into the void, arms and legs flailing in space. Bryan throttled back and dipped his wing, watching. A parachute blossomed like salvation, jerked into buoyancy and tore the harness away from its owner. The pilot flipped end over end, tumbling through space, plummeting seawards in a hopeless, helpless drop as the parachute flopped and rolled away on the wind.

  Bryan gritted his teeth and swallowed back a sudden wave of nausea. Then self-preservation reasserted its cold imperative and he reversed his turn and scanned the sky.

  Fire flared in the middle distance, curving like a burning arrow through the blue. He squinted against the glare to identify the victor, and breathed a sigh of relief when it banked away from the combat showing the wide elliptical wings of a Spitfire.

  He circled, waiting for Ben to join him. The rest of the squadron were nowhere to be seen, but far below, at wavetop height, black silhouettes of bombers raced towards Sicily, one or two streaming banners of dirty white smoke.

  Chapter 23

  Saturday, 1 August 1942

  The heat did not build; it arrived, like the opening of a vast oven door. The sirocco’s febrile exhalation carried dust from the African deserts and draped it like a patina of rust across everything in its path. The fine, orange silt infiltrated clothes, scratched at eyelids and transformed skin to wrinkling parchment. The dry rocks of Malta wavered in the haze of reradiated heat beneath a sky bereft of cloud.

  ‘I thought ‘hungry’ was bad,’ Ben muttered
, ‘but now I realise ‘thirsty’ is worse.’

  ‘Try thinking of your favourite fruit,’ Bryan suggested. ‘Sometimes you can trick your mouth into watering.’

  Ben’s face dropped into studious concentration and he clicked his tongue against his dry palate.

  The distant crackle of anti-aircraft fire drifted through the sullen air and threads of tracer lashed in low curves over Grand Harbour. The pilots at readiness tensed, leaning forward in their chairs, shifting their gravity, anticipating a shouted order to scramble. Copeland stood and scanned the eastern horizon, shading his eyes with hands cupped on his forehead.

  A sudden swell of engine noise was drowned by the thumping tattoo of Bofors guns opening up along Ta’Qali’s perimeter. Two pairs of 109s banked across the sky, flashing their pale blue undersides, the black shape of a single bomb nestled between their wing roots. They darted away from the aerodrome, then banked to bypass its western edge, flying south in search of a softer target.

  Copeland walked back to his chair. ‘Relax,’ he called to his pilots. ‘They’re trying to make us waste our fuel.’

  The pilots settled back in their seats, a tense uneasiness persisting on their faces.

  ‘We haven’t seen a proper bomber in daylight for at least three days,’ Ben mused. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

  Bryan patted at empty pockets, the last expression of his nicotine addiction. ‘They don’t need to be up to anything,’ he said. ‘They know we’re starving; they only have to count down the clock.’

  The suffocating blanket of heat held them immobile and silent for long moments. Fresh beads of sweat prickled through dust-blocked pores and flies arrived to patrol their heads.

  ‘I intend to have a word with the squadron leader.’ Bryan swatted at a fly manoeuvring to land on his nose. ‘You have great eyesight and you know what to do in a fight; you should be leading your own section.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Ben said. ‘I’m your wingman.’ He squinted at the barren blue sky like a matelot surveying familiar waters. ‘That’s the way I like it.’

  Sunday, 9 August 1942

  Bryan remained seated while the congregation stood, sang, chanted and prayed around him. Their words washed over his head without meaning or effect. Only the relative coolness of the stone interior connected with his senses, and he revelled in the relief it brought to his body and mind. Luċija was on the other side of her mother and, through half-closed eyes, he caught her admonishing glances, heavy with child-like outrage that he could abdicate his part in the bewildering ritual in which she was forced to participate.

  Jacobella stood and joined the queue down the aisle to receive communion and Bryan smiled an apology at the little girl. ‘It’s too hot,’ he whispered, drawing a hand across his forehead, ‘and I’m very tired.’ He mimed sleeping on the pillow of his hands.

  Luċija pursed her lips as she considered this explanation. Seemingly satisfied, she swung her gaze to watch Jacobella’s progress in the shuffling line of the faithful.

  ****

  At the end of the service they sat waiting for the crush through the door to lessen. Luċija knelt on the pew with her chin resting atop the backrest, watching the departing congregation. Her demeanour attracted the occasional hair ruffle or cheek-pinch from older worshippers as they passed. When the crowd thinned, the trio followed them out onto the pavement, back into the fetid, broiling breath of the steady southerly wind.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Jacobella asked as they plodded up Mint Street towards the gardens.

  ‘I could eat my own shoes,’ Bryan answered.

  Jacobella laughed. ‘I have some potato soup, if you’d rather.’

  Luċija walked between them holding her mother’s hand. She reached up and wormed her other hand into Bryan’s.

  The front door bore a thick blue bar of new paint that expunged the graffiti. They pushed through into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the apartment.

  Bryan sat down at the table and watched Jacobella set the pot on the hob and strike a match to the burner. He looked around at the stone walls and listened to the sound of his own breathing. His gaze dropped back to his hands resting on the stained wood, examining the dust ingrained in the wrinkles of his tanned, leathery skin.

  Luċija climbed onto the chair next to him and sat the knitted doll on the table between them. Bryan looked down at her tangled, black hair and bent to untease the knots. He worked carefully for a minute or two before he felt eyes upon him and glanced up. Jacobella leaned against the sink, watching him with a half-smile softening her features.

  ‘I’m afraid the soup will be warm rather than hot,’ she said. ‘I have so little kerosene left.’

  She resumed her preparation and Bryan ruffled Luċija’s hair with his fingertips.

  ‘There’s a fair chance that things will get better soon,’ he said. ‘There’s talk of another convoy. A big one.’

  Jacobella walked over and placed a tray with three bowls onto the table. ‘There was the same rumour at the newspaper,’ she said as she handed out the soup. ‘But there are always mutterings of food amongst the hungry.’

  Bryan took a spoonful of the pale liquid, savouring its salty warmth and the liquorice undertone of basil leaves. ‘I think it’s definite,’ he said. ‘I’m expected back at the airfield by mid-afternoon. I suspect this week will be rather busy.’

  They finished their soup, eating with the carefully deliberate concentration of hungry people consuming inadequate portions. Luċija wandered off to play in her bedroom and Jacobella cleared the table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bryan said.

  ‘About what?’ Jacobella’s asked as she rinsed the bowls under the dribbling tap.

  Bryan stood up and moved to stand behind her. ‘I shouldn’t say things will get better. No amount of food or kerosene will change what you’ve been through; nothing will make that better.’

  Jacobella turned to look at him, scanning his face for long, silent moments.

  Bryan shrugged. ‘I ought to go. They’ll put me on a charge if I’m late.’

  ‘I can’t change the things that have happened,’ Jacobella said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. ‘I just have to care for Luċija. I have to make sure she is alright.’ Sudden moisture glistened in her eyes. ‘It’s strange,’ she continued, ‘Luċija hasn’t asked for her father at all.’ Jacobella forced a smile that mutated to a grimace as she set her jaw against the onset of tears. She paused until she had won her battle for control. ‘But she loves seeing you,’ she continued quietly.

  ‘It’s not my place…’ Bryan mumbled.

  ‘And so do I.’ Jacobella placed her palms on Bryan’s chest. ‘Will you come to see me next Sunday?’

  Bryan nodded.

  ‘Will you arrange things so you can stay with me? Stay the night?’

  Bryan nodded again. ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded strange inside his own skull.

  She reached one hand behind his head and pulled him down onto her kiss - soft, warm and light. She released him and stepped back, licking his taste from her lips.

  ‘Go and do your work.’

  Monday, 10 August 1942

  Ben scratched at his greasy hair and yawned as he placed his bowl of porridge on the table and sat down. He prodded experimentally at the grey sludge with his spoon.

  ‘You could hang wallpaper with this muck,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they put sawdust in it.’ He looked up into Bryan’s face. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

  Bryan raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? Tired, I suppose,’ he said.

  Ben carved out a glutinous lump of porridge and examined it closely before spooning it into his mouth. He chewed in silence for a few moments, swallowed with a visible effort and licked the greasy residue off his front teeth. ‘If this convoy is another cock-up and it all goes tits up, I suppose we’ll get flown off before there’s a surrender,’ he said.

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Bryan answered. ‘But that’s not really t
he point, is it?’ He frowned in sudden annoyance. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

  Ben shook his head, muted by his second mouthful of porridge.

  Copeland walked into the mess and waved down the pilots’ moves to come to attention.

  ‘It’s begun,’ he said. ‘Early this morning, a large convoy sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Med. The escort includes several aircraft carriers to provide air cover on the first stages of the journey. We are to take over that responsibility as soon as the convoy comes into range. The best estimate of that happening is late on Wednesday or early on Thursday.’

  A speculative murmur rippled around the room.

  ‘From now on, all pilots are to be held at readiness on the airfield until the convoy is safely docked. I don’t need to remind you how important this is. Transport leaves in twenty minutes.’

  Chapter 24

  Thursday, 13 August 1942

  The bronchial bark of a Merlin engine clattered around the blast-pen walls as a small group of mechanics tuned and tested another Spitfire for operational flight. The sound drifted through the sultry, early morning air to the pilots gathered at readiness. Copeland sat behind the trestle desk under the heavily dappled shade of the camouflage netting, talking quietly into the telephone. He replaced the handset and stared with unfocussed gaze into the middle distance, chewing on his lower lip. Bryan had been watching his squadron leader’s conversation and wandered over to the table.

  ‘What news?’ he asked.

  Copeland looked up. ‘Nothing hopeful.’ He sighed. ‘One aircraft carrier sunk, another one crippled. At least four merchant ships are sunk and the oil tanker has been under heavy attack. The main escorts and the other carriers turned back last night.’

  ‘Not good,’ Bryan muttered.

  Copeland shook his head. ‘It’s the tanker that worries me most. We simply can’t afford to lose that.’

  Both men jumped as the telephone jangled into life. Copeland grabbed the handset and pressed it to his ear. He listened for a few moments then dropped it back into its cradle.