The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘The convoy is coming into range,’ he shouted. ‘Falcon Squadron scramble!’

  ****

  Twelve Spitfires climbed away from the Maltese shoreline, clawing for combat altitude on a due west heading. The convoy had steamed south overnight between the island of Pantelleria and the Tunisian coast to stay as far from Sicily as possible. Now they expected to find it sailing east on the final run to Malta.

  Bryan shifted his weight on the hard parachute pack and wheezed in a lungful of oxygen through his mask. He glanced down behind his wing at the faceless sea, its blue expanse slashed through with delicate white lines delineating the wind-ripped crests of the endless swell. He dragged his gaze back to his instruments, checked his compass, fuel gauge and oil pressure, then swept the sky above and behind before dropping his attention back to the horizon and the expectation of many vessels.

  Smoke heralded the convoy’s approach before a single ship became visible. Thick coils of curling smokescreen from careering escorts swathed around thinner columns bannering away from fires on damaged decks.

  ‘Falcon Leader to Falcon aircraft.’ Copeland’s voice crackled over the wireless. ‘Let’s take it a bit higher until we’re sure about what we’re up against.’

  Bryan tilted his nose up, holding his place in the climbing formation, and craned his neck to the side to watch the convoy appearing below his port wing. The ships straggled across the horizon, void of any defensive organisation. One merchant ship drifted without a wake, flames licked up the outside of its superstructure and smoke drifted from two ragged holes in its deck. Another steamed slowly in a wide circle, apparently unable to steer any other course. Destroyers dashed through and around the scattered vessels like panicking sheep-dogs, cutting curving swathes through the swell. Each one trailed plumes of thick, obfuscating smoke in a vain attempt to shield the merchantmen from the dangerous sky.

  Copeland’s voice broke over the wireless. ‘Bandits, two o’clock, high. Tally ho!’

  Bryan scanned the sky on the forward starboard quarter and picked out a gaggle of fat, black Heinkel bombers crawling south, sullying the dazzling blue vault with their lazy, menacing resolve. He glanced in his mirror to ensure Ben was in position, then swung into the starboard bank with the rest of the squadron.

  Copeland led them north on a contra parallel course and Bryan gazed out the port side at the multi-faceted cockpit canopies of the approaching bomber force glittering in the sunshine.

  ‘Attacking now!’ G-forces compressed his words as Copeland threw his fighter into a tight left bank to strike the enemy formation on their beam.

  Bryan hesitated a second to declutter his space of friendly aircraft, then he too pulled hard to port. The procession of corpulent German airframes swung diagonally across his windscreen, then straightened out as he levelled up. The bulk of Ben’s Spitfire teased the edge of his vision as his wingman drifted out to fly next to him, and they both opened fire at the bomber stream, allowing the enemy pilots to fly their machines through the slashing flail of their explosive ordnance.

  Bryan flashed over the wallowing aircraft into a clear, empty sky. A detonation in the bomber formation slapped his tail with an unseen wave of pressure and he jinked tightly to put off any return fire. Once clear, he pulled into a left bank to pursue the attackers.

  A smudge of oily black smoke hung unmoving in the bomber stream’s wake, shattered debris cartwheeled and fluttered through the space below it, testament to the explosive end of one the raiders. A trail of white smoke curving away from the formation led to another burning Heinkel arcing downwards to the sea. Two parachute canopies spiralled in its wake, like stark white carnations blooming into abandonment in an alien summer sky.

  Lines of tracer spiralled away from the bombers, lashing through the air like sparkling whips, seeking to fend off the pursuing fighters. Bryan pushed his throttle forward and drifted further from the enemy formation, biding time as he overhauled the lumbering bombers.

  The bellies of the Heinkels fell open and black shapes dropped out. Emerging fins first, the bombs flipped to nose-down and wobbled through the air before stabilising and curving down towards the ships strung out below. Unable to look away, Bryan watched the ordnance lance into the spaces between the merchant men, erupting fountains of water through which the vessels ploughed.

  Bryan banked left for another attack just as the bombers banked right for home. The lead planes tipped their wings up, presenting their flat, mottled green topsides from which dorsal gunners chopped out bursts of tracer that whipped over his canopy. Bryan squeezed the firing button and held it firm. Two or three explosive hits tore fluttering debris from an upturned wingtip before he flashed over the formation and zoomed away from their desperate gunnery.

  Way below, a canopy of shell bursts knitted itself above the water. Bryan scanned high and behind for danger, then looked back to the AA barrage. A second formation of smaller, faster Junkers 88s were running in at low-level in the opposite direction to the high-level force.

  Bryan pressed transmit. ‘More bombers below. Going down now.’

  He barrelled his Spitfire onto its back and pulled into the dive, glancing in his mirror to make sure Ben was following.

  The AA barrage intensified; each explosion looking larger than the last as Bryan dropped away his altitude. The Junkers, a dozen or more in number, pressed on. One sprouted fire from its wing and sagged out of formation. Its propellers chopped into the waves and it flipped, splashing into the water with cascading white plumes of foam laced with flame.

  The enemy overflew the convoy, stitching a pattern of bomb explosions behind them. Most hit the water, one or two ripped into cargo-crowded decks and shuddered metal hulls with sudden concussive violence.

  Bryan dove into the chaos. Bright flashes peppered the space through which he flew and streams of un-aimed tracer zipped up from warships and merchantman alike, undiscerning in a sky filled with targets. Instinct made him weave where the logic was absent as he flattened out into a tail-chase over, and then beyond, the ships. His straining engine rattled the cockpit, but the distance closed too slowly. Wailing with frustration, Bryan jabbed the firing button, streaming out ribbons of cannon fire that curved away below his target, scattering splashes across an uncaring sea.

  ****

  Bryan walked slowly around the Spitfire, looking for bullet strikes and flak holes, while groundcrew dodged past him with ammunition belts and petrol cans. Unable to find any damage, he walked towards the readiness tent.

  ‘Well done, Hale.’

  The voice from behind stopped him mid-stride. He allowed Copeland to catch up with him.

  ‘I saw you and Stevens taking a pop at the low-level stream,’ Copeland continued. ‘I couldn’t get down quick enough.’

  ‘Nor could we,’ Bryan said as the pair walked on towards readiness. ‘We squirted at them as they were leaving but I don’t think we hit anything. Are we going out again?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Copeland answered. ‘The ships that are still capable of making way are coming around the southern end of the island, so RDF can keep an eye out and scramble us if needed.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They should reach Grand Harbour this evening. Whatever’s left behind is already sinking or will have to be scuttled, unfortunately.’

  ‘It did look like an almighty mess out there,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Well, it’s only natural that they throw everything they’ve got at it,’ Copeland said. ‘It’s just a shame that everything they’ve got is always so much more than everything we’ve got. Still, we got two of the bastards at least, and a couple more were limping when they left.’

  ‘What about the tanker?’ Bryan asked. ‘I didn’t see anything out there that looked like a tanker.’

  ‘I’ll try to find out,’ Copeland answered. ‘I pray we haven’t lost that.’

  Bryan nodded silently as he trudged along.

  ‘Are you alright, Hale?’ Copeland asked. ‘You seem… preoccupied.’

 
Bryan pulled a thin smile. ‘Oh,’ he said absently, ‘things happen.’ He forced a smile. ‘Maybe I’m starting to feel my age.’

  Copeland cocked his head. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty.’ Bryan grimaced. ‘Perhaps it’s time I settled down and took up cribbage.’

  ‘Ha!’ Copeland slapped his back. ‘Once this convoy situation is put to bed, I’ll sign you off for a fortnight’s leave. How does that sound?’

  ‘That would be welcome,’ Bryan answered. ‘Yes, that would be most welcome.’

  Friday, 14 August 1942

  The bedroom door rattled on its hinges under the enthusiastic knocking of an orderly. Footsteps clomped away down the corridor and the banging on the next door along vibrated down the wall.

  ‘Christ,’ Bryan muttered, groping for his watch on the bedside table. It showed a few minutes after four o’clock. ‘This is not a good sign.’

  He climbed out of bed and pulled on the clothes that lay scattered across the floor. He gave his teeth a perfunctory scrub, scraped the slime from his tongue and rinsed his mouth with stale, lukewarm water from the glass by his bed.

  He stepped out into the corridor and followed other emerging pilots down the stairs to the dining room. He spotted Ben and took a seat next to him. An intriguing aroma of frying meat seeped into the room from the adjoining kitchens.

  Copeland stood at the end of the room. ‘Good morning,’ he began. ‘I know it’s an early start, but we have an important job to do as soon as the sun comes up. The oil tanker is still afloat but has been severely damaged and is unable to make way on its own. The navy have taken it under tow and it’s now making slow progress in our direction.

  ‘We’ve been tasked, together with fighters from Luqa, to maintain constant air cover of at least squadron strength over the tanker and its escort throughout daylight hours today.

  ‘The good news is, three supply ships docked yesterday and unloading has gone on through the night. The really good news is we’ve had an early delivery from the docks, which I suspect you can already smell. Enjoy your breakfast, it will be a long day.’

  ****

  Bryan swung his Spitfire onto the runway and trundled twenty yards along its length. He squeezed on the brakes and dropped the throttle to idle. Thin streamers of dust swirled back from the fighters waiting ahead of him, coruscating under his wings and spiralling away, accelerated by his own prop-wash.

  He looked into his mirror to check progress behind him. A Spitfire stood stationary on the perimeter, its propeller windmilling to a halt. It looked like Ben’s aircraft. As groundcrew moved to drag the fighter out of the way, Ben stood up in the cockpit, waving at him and making slashing motions across his throat. Bryan waved an arm from his open cockpit in acknowledgement.

  ‘Fighter Control to Falcon Squadron, you’re clear for take-off. Once airborne, take heading two-four-zero. Good luck.’

  Bryan glanced once more into the mirror, then banged his canopy shut, released the brakes and followed the rest of Falcon Squadron along the dust-plumed runway into the air.

  Copeland banked the squadron into the south-westerly heading and powered into a steady climb as the Dingli Cliffs dropped away to the empty sea below them. At their backs, the sun’s disc escaped the horizon, rising with languid serenity and flushing the soft, golden dawn with a brighter luminance.

  ‘Fighter Control to Falcon Squadron, we’re tracking two formations of bandits. You are on a converging course. Maintain angels.’

  The squadron levelled out and Bryan scanned the horizon through the blur of his spinning propeller. Dead ahead, a dark anomaly appeared through the glare on the sparkling water; four large ships, grouped dangerously close and seemingly stationary, sat exposed in the flat blue wilderness.

  ‘Falcon Leader to Falcon Aircraft,’ Copeland called. ‘Bandits at two o’clock. Tally-ho!’

  The squadron banked gently to starboard and Bryan spotted the enemy formations. The foremost moved with the stodgy pace of bombers, their fixed undercarriage and deep, creased wings identified them as Stuka dive-bombers. Behind, and a good deal above them, a gaggle of 109 fighters shadowed them to their target.

  Falcon Squadron lanced towards the bombers. Bryan edged out to starboard, loosening up space to manoeuvre as the squat, ugly silhouettes of the dive-bombers grew larger. A wave of panic infected the enemy formation and it split apart, breaking in all directions. Bryan squeezed off a one-second burst at a huge gull-winged shape that barrelled across his vision before he broke through the melee and banked left to seek another target.

  ‘Look out!’ An unrecognisable voice. ‘109s coming down now!’

  Bryan reversed his bank to gain clear sky and looked upwards for the danger. Bright orange motes of tracer streamed down towards him followed by two huge black shapes that flashed past either side of his fuselage. Bryan hauled his turn into the opposite direction to throw them off. A Stuka wallowed into view in front of him. He throttled back, lined up and fired. Hits peppered the enemy’s tail cascading tiny shards backwards into its slipstream. The Stuka’s rear gunner fired back, squirting a spiral of tracer that looped and swung dangerously close to Bryan’s canopy. The dive-bomber lurched into a violent side-slip and Bryan dived away to regain airspeed.

  Ahead, a Spitfire dropped through the air in a slow, flat spin, like a monstrous maple seed. The letters on the side flashed clearly into view as it rotated; they were Copeland’s. Above the stricken aircraft, a parachute opened, pristine white against the blue.

  Bryan pulled into a wide bank and scanned the sky. A German fighter levelled out from a diving turn and flew towards the parachutist. Gun flash sparkled along it wings and cowling. Bryan craned his neck back in time to see the figure in the harness jerk from many impacts. Something hose-like draped away from the man, looping and glistening in the sunlight. The 109 barrelled past a few feet above the canopy. Propeller wash folded the fabric into itself and the parachute collapsed and twisted, streaming behind the plummeting pilot like a tangled shroud.

  Bryan howled with impotent rage and kicked his Spitfire into pursuit of the diving Messerschmitt, pushing his throttle hard against the gate. His quarry sped north for home, trading altitude for speed. The German levelled out a few hundred feet above the sea and weaved gently back and forth as he fled, keeping a wary mirror-eye on his pursuer. Bryan levelled out behind him, growling under his breath and rocking against his straps, willing the gap to close.

  A detonation against the armour behind Bryan’s seat punched the air out of his chest and jolted his head forward. Gasping against his empty lungs he screwed his face around in confusion. A hammer blow shattered his canopy and three concussions smashed into the nose ahead of the windshield. The engine rattled in mechanical agonies for a few seconds, then seized with a sickening jolt that jerked through the airframe.

  A disconnected roar filled the sudden silence and Bryan looked up as the sky-blue underside of a 109 slid into place above him. Oil streaks feathered down its length and the malevolent white-edged crosses of the black knights filled its wings. It hung there for a moment, then wallowed over to the right, dropping down to fly alongside him. Mesmerised, Bryan watched its manoeuvre and found himself looking across at the pilot. The man lifted his goggles, as if removing a mask, and met Bryan’s gaze. The German blinked impassively then turned his head away, surging his aircraft forward towards home.

  Smoke feathered out of the crippled engine and seeped into the cockpit. Bryan watched the German pulling away as his Spitfire slowed and dipped into a silent, shallow dive.

  ‘Shit.’

  ****

  Ben sat on the roof balcony as the evening darkened into night. The low buzzing of insects added a droning undertone to the sedate orchestra which breathed its melodies from the radio set on the bar. The music drifted to a close and the plummy tones of a presenter broke into Ben’s reverie. He tilted his head to listen.

  ‘This is the BBC Home and Forces Programme. Here is the news. The Admir
alty have announced the arrival of another convoy in Malta. This is the second convoy to reach the beleaguered George Cross island since June last.

  ‘It is understood that some losses in merchantmen and naval craft were suffered in the operation. Enemy losses were two U-boats sunk, two E-boats destroyed, and at least sixty-six aircraft shot down. All ships are unloading without delay.’

  Ben bowed his head and the first hot tear trickled down his cheek.

  Chapter 25

  Saturday, 15 August 1942

  Engines ripped through the air above her house, vibrating her bedroom window with their passing. Jacobella smiled; she’d learnt the difference in the timbre. These were friendly planes tearing across Valletta; defenders, not destroyers.

  She swung her legs out of the bed and padded across the polished wooden floor. At her dressing table she sat, let her hair down and pulled her brush through its dark length, wincing as the odd tangle tripped her progress. She caught her own smile in the mirror and blushed at the happy, wanton glitter that sparkled in her eyes.

  She dressed quickly, woke Luċija and went into the kitchen to boil a small pot of water for mint tea. She cut the last of the bread ration in two and spread a thin film of anchovy paste over each piece. Luċija entered the room and she bent to hug her.

  ‘It’s the feast of Santa Maria today.’ She kissed her daughter’s forehead. ‘After breakfast, we’ll go to the harbour and see what God has blessed us with.’

  They finished their meagre breakfast quickly. Jacobella pinned up her hair while Luċija went to retrieve the knitted doll from her room. Together they walked down the stairs and out into the clear early morning air.

  They hugged the edge of the gardens and dropped down onto Ordnance Street, traversing the face of the city that looked back over Floriana. They walked across Castille Place and ducked down St Paul Street past the newspaper offices. Turning right off St Paul, they descended a steep alley down to the wharf at the harbourside. The general flow ran with them; citizens drifted in the same direction, drawn by the hope of good news.