by John Nichol
He pushed forward the throttle, revving the engine to a screaming 3,000rpm. The Spitfire juddered, impatient to be airborne, only the brakes holding her back.
The chequered flag dropped.
Le Bas instantly released the brakes and threw the throttle forward to emergency boost. The extra 34mph could make all the difference.
Freed from her traps, the Spitfire charged along the deck, picking up speed as she whipped past the white markings.
Le Bas saw the bows approaching and glanced down at the dials – 75mph. Christ! Not enough airspeed.
He was too fast to stop, too slow to take off. If he went over the bow there was little chance of survival. The nose-heavy Spitfire would quickly plunge into the depths.
Then he was over the edge.
The wave tops lapped just 60ft below his wings.
He retracted the undercarriage. Still there was not enough airspeed for flight.
He had to pick up speed. Gently he eased the stick forward. The Spitfire’s nose dipped towards the wave crests.
Down the Spitfire went, now out of sight of those onboard the Wasp. In just a matter of seconds he would hit the water.
At 15ft Le Bas felt a slight lift in the wings.
He checked his speed. It was hovering over 85mph. He took a breath and eased the stick back towards him. For what seemed like an age the fighter just stayed level then slowly it lifted, parting with the swell below. Le Bas thanked the heavens for R. J. Mitchell’s clever wings.
As he climbed away gaining height, Le Bas switched over from the main to the drop fuel tank. The engine coughed once then the fuel kicked in. At 10,000ft he joined the rest of his squadron of twelve and they set off for their new home, throttling back to 1,800rpm to cruise at an economical 200mph.
The extra fuel in the ninety-gallon external slipper tank gave them a 940-mile range. It was 660 miles to Malta so there was some margin, allowing for headwinds and enemy aircraft that might launch from Pantelleria, the island 150 miles north-west of Malta. It would have to be a brief dogfight. Just two of the four 20mm cannon were armed with sixty rounds, enough for a short squirt.
The sky was cloud-free and to the south he could make out the intriguing reddish-brown peaks of the mountain range that ran along the Algerian coast.
Le Bas reflected on the peaceful lives of the people below. How different would it be to the cauldron he was approaching? He recalled the response of Wing Commander ‘Jumbo’ Gracie when asked what the odds were in Malta. ‘Forty or fifty to one,’ he replied. Gracie also mentioned that when he had left the island the previous month there were only three serviceable Spitfires left.9
Le Bas swept the skies behind, below and above. His mind drifted. He had to concentrate for every second of the three-and-a-half-hour flight. The sun climbed, the haze swallowing the mountain view. Cloud built up below, hiding the sea and the important navigational point of Cap Bon, north-eastern Tunisia.
Then he spotted a pall of smoke on the horizon. Malta!
* * *
Le Bas’ squadron made a perfect formation landing at Takali airfield in the centre of the island, stopping just short of several smoking bomb craters.10
‘You’ve just missed the nine o’clock raid,’ a fitter told Le Bas as his precious Spitfire was pushed into a blast pen, made from local stones. Airmen scrambled onto the wings to begin laboriously refuelling by hand using twenty-one four-gallon petrol tins, while cursing the Germans for blowing up their precious fuel bowser.
Of the forty-seven Spitfires that had taken off from the Wasp at dawn, forty-six arrived in Malta, with one crash-landing in Tunisia.
A windowless bus decorated with postcards of the Virgin Mary drove the tired pilots up the hill to the Officers’ Mess. As they prepared to sit down for lunch the air-raid siren sounded. The bombers would arrive in fifteen minutes.
Cloudbursts of anti-aircraft gunfire directed the intercepting force of a dozen Hurricanes and Spitfires onto a score of Ju88s.
From the mess balcony the new arrivals watched huge fountains of dust rise up from the aerodrome where the German bombs burst. In two places there was a thick column of black smoke billowing up from where two of the newly arrived Spitfires had been parked.11
‘The Spits are getting into them!’ someone with a pair of binoculars shouted. The pilots followed four Spitfires chasing the Ju88s. Puffs leapt from a fighter’s cannons. Seconds later dark smoke streaked from a bomber’s engines as it plunged towards the sea. Then the protecting Me109s streaked down and a dogfight ensued.
‘Look out, Spit, 109 coming down on you. Turn man, for God’s sake, turn!’ The veranda erupted in shouts and curses, like a crowd at a football match. ‘Good show! Now you’ve got him!’ Then: ‘Thank God for that!’ as a fighter turned just in time to avoid a stream of 109 shells.
The Malta veterans, both Spitfire and Hurricane, then demonstrated just how determined they had become. One attacked a 109 head-on. Neither broke off and they collided. The German lost an entire wing, the Spitfire its wingtip. As the fighter made a belly-landing, with Hurricanes struggling to provide overhead cover, the pilot jumped out and dashed for cover. As he did so, bullets kicked up the ground around his feet.
The Germans were intent on destroying the new Spitfires before they could get into the air. Three hundred Axis bombers struck Takali airfield on 20 April 1942, the day they arrived.
Many of the new arrivals had not heard the whistle of a bomb before and some had not even seen an enemy aircraft. They were soon to have their fill. At teatime the Germans came to Takali again. Then at dusk too.
It was quite a change from the relatively peaceful skies over England. Air Vice-Marshal Hugh Lloyd, the Air Officer Commanding in Malta, noticed the shocked looks. ‘There had never been such an exhibition of concentrated bombing. The newly arrived pilots were speechless. They had never seen anything like it.’12
Because there were more pilots than planes in Malta, Michael Le Bas had to wait four days before his first sortie. He was grateful to be in a flight led by Laddie Lucas, twenty-six, the excellent left-handed golfer who had been flying both Hurricanes then Spitfires in Malta for the last two months.13
Le Bas hung onto Lucas’ wing as they lifted off from Malta in a steep climb to get to 20,000ft as quickly as possible. He felt the excitement of the chase. They had just been scrambled to meet a formation of Ju87 dive-bombers. And they were coming in with fighters. Just ahead of him, Lucas began waggling his wings. He gave a signal that his engine had failed and dived back down. Le Bas suddenly felt less confident. Lucas was a man of poise and experience and a true leader. Now he was gone.
The flight carried on up to 20,000ft. Then someone spotted the Stukas below. Le Bas’ worries were left behind as he dived down on the Germans. He glanced at his airspeed. It was approaching 400mph. Surely too fast?
For a split second a Stuka came into his sights and then it was gone. The dive had been too quick for him to get a steady shot.
He looked over his shoulder. Now a horde of Messerschmitts was sweeping down on them. Jesus. Le Bas dived to the sea and began weaving furiously, as Lucas had told him. Fortunately, the 109s did not hang about for too long. Getting back to Sicily with enough fuel was always a worry for them.
Le Bas was drenched in sweat as he climbed out of the Spitfire and walked unsteadily towards the mess transport. Someone handed him a mugful of the dark-red local wine, officially called Ambete. He took a sip. A coarse film of liquid slid over his teeth and tongue, leaving behind a bitter taste. The back of his throat felt drier than before the liquid had entered. He took another gulp, hoping for a better reaction. It was the same. No wonder people referred to it as ‘Stuka Juice’.14
The next morning he scrambled out of his tent to the sound of an Me109’s cannons. He got outside in time to see the German fighter close on a Hurricane’s tail and give it a final coup de grace of gunfire. Smoke began pouring from the engine, followed by fire. Then the canopy came open.
He watched spellbound as the pilot climbed out of the Hurricane’s smoking cockpit and jumped from 800ft. The well-meaning cheers for his survival were abruptly cut short. The parachute streamed forlornly behind the pilot, refusing to open. The only sound in the following silence was the crump of a body striking the ground.
He walked back to his tent, his pace quickening as he fearfully passed a 1,000lb bomb that had failed to detonate. Craters caused by those that did explode had been filled in overnight by soldiers working under arc lamps. Then, under cover of darkness, the only surviving steamroller emerged from its cave and flattened the strip, making it ready for aircraft by daybreak.
But Malta was in a losing battle. There were simply not enough aircraft. Within two days of the Wasp mission, nine of its Spitfires had been destroyed on the ground, eight in the air and twenty-six damaged by bomb shrapnel. There was just a handful left that could fly.
* * *
The Wasp Spitfires had heralded a false dawn.
It also soon became apparent that many of the new pilots lacked experience, with several Spitfires lost through accidents. Some wondered if the seventy-two squadrons currently defending England’s tamed skies had taken the opportunity to offload green or unwanted pilots.
Hugh Lloyd sharply rebuked the chiefs back home: ‘Malta is no place for beginners.’
While not noted for his air tactics, Lloyd at least provided some backbone and resilience for the airmen under his command. At his underground headquarters he hung a sign outside his office that read: ‘Less depends on the size of the dog in the fight than on the size of the fight in the dog.’
If RAF resolve was stiffened, some Maltese seemed to be losing heart and stooping to low crimes. One pilot on his first operational sortie had crashed-landed and later died in hospital. He had not bailed out because a local had allegedly stolen his parachute to sell the silk on the black market. On hearing the news, Wing Commander Gracie ordered a gibbet erected on the aerodrome to warn of what would happen to anyone who stole parachutes.
Aircraft spares were also undermining efforts to get planes airborne. Mechanics pored over wrecked Spitfires, stripping them of anything that might prove useful. Engineers also had to work in stifling heat without proper workshops or heavy equipment, lacking even basic tools such as hammers and wrenches.
By the end of April only half-a-dozen serviceable Spitfires were left on the island.
A telegram marked ‘Most Secret’ was sent to the Chief of the Air Staff. It warned that there could be no guarantee of safe air coverage of convoys coming to Malta. If the island was to be properly defended a surge of 100 Spitfires was required.
Churchill used the information to ask Roosevelt for another Wasp trip, warning that otherwise ‘Malta will be pounded to bits’.
News of the island’s frailty also reached German High Command. The Fallschirmjäger – paratroopers – repacked their parachutes and studied the island topography with ever keener interest. Despite their losses they had prevailed in Crete the previous year. This time, with air defences destroyed, they would do so again. Furthermore, Sicily now boasted three new runways ready for glider towing. The airborne invasion was ready.
* * *
Morale was affected in an unforeseen manner. With the air battle fought directly over the island, the death of friends and comrades was witnessed first-hand.
‘One cannot deny having rapidly built up a shell to insulate one’s feelings, as lively and cheerful friends disappeared with the utter finality of death,’ wrote one pilot a few weeks after arriving off the Wasp. ‘A somewhat numbed perseverance took over. Laughter came a little less readily as time went on. There was no question of bolstering up our spirits in wild mess parties. There were no bar stocks.’15
Malta was at its darkest hour. ‘The island was being pressed to the last gasp,’ Churchill recorded as he made a second personal request to Roosevelt for ‘another good sting’ from the Wasp. It was granted, plus the British carrier Eagle had been fixed. Spitfires were coming.
Sixty-four of them.
Squadron leaders and flight commanders in Malta looked at each other in disbelief when briefed with the news. Sixty-four! That’s ten times our operational Spitfires.
When the excitement subsided another realisation dawned: Jerry will try his damnedest to destroy the lot.
German radar could pick up the fleet of Spitfires at least 100 miles out and would put up every available fighter and bomber.
There was more news. Churchill realised that Malta required the sort of backbone that could tolerate the madness of annihilation and still fight on. Field Marshal Lord Gort knew how to tolerate pain and carry on. His Victoria Cross citation in 1918 noted that on being wounded he carried on leading an infantry attack. He was then carried away from the fray but recovered enough to get off his stretcher and lead another attack.
Churchill judged he was a man to get things done.
Gort flew into Malta on 7 May, two days before the fighters’ expected arrival. He gave two orders: use the army to ready the new Spitfires for action within twenty minutes; throw a smokescreen over the harbour.16
Then he let it be known that the island’s George Cross, awarded for acts of ‘conspicuous courage in extreme danger’, which had been awarded to the Maltese people on King George VI’s personal direction, would shortly arrive.
Wing Commander Gracie added his own planning detail. As soon as a Spitfire landed it would be directed to a blast pen where fitters and riggers waited with fuel and bullets. Bren gun carriers were to be on hand to drag damaged Spitfires aside, stretcher bearers would take away the wounded and platoons of soldiers stood ready to fill in bomb craters.
‘The turn-around had to be treated like a pit stop in the middle of a Grand Prix race where every second counts,’ Laddie Lucas wrote.17
On 8 May a horde of Stukas struck. With just twelve Hurricanes and six serviceable Spitfires, few pilots could take to the skies. Lucas grabbed a Lee-Enfield rifle and began firing single rounds as the screaming Stukas dived down at them. Around him people scurried for cover, but other pilots joined in, hoping their knowledge of the ‘deflection shot’ – aiming well in front of a fast-moving object – might bring down a Stuka. They had little effect other than making the spare pilots think they were not a complete waste of rations.
When dusk closed in, thoughts turned to how much damage a Staffel of twelve Stukas could do to packed airfields.
As daylight broke on 9 May the anti-aircraft gunners broke open case after case of ammunition. On this day there would be no restriction to the standard fifteen-round daily ration.18
On the high ground radar operators stared at their screens, willing the first Spitfire blips to appear from the west.
There had been a rumour that the first aircraft would arrive around lunchtime. At 10am pilots spotted black dots on the western horizon. Worried glances were quickly replaced by grins as the familiar throb of Merlin engines approached. Thank God, the Spitfires are coming! someone shouted. There were cries of thanks and joy, clapping and a few back-slaps. The island was on its knees, in desperate need of reinforcements, and now they had come.
The sleek shadows of Spitfires lifted off the sea and circled the airfields. When they landed, a resident Malta pilot jumped on the wing and guided the pilot towards his pen. The propeller had barely stopped rotating before the plane was engulfed in personnel bearing fuel, bullets and oxygen. Michael Le Bas guided one to its blast pen, telling the pilot to unclip and give up his aircraft.
‘That’s jolly good, now where’s the war?’ the pilot shouted.
‘The war hasn’t started for you yet, mate,’ replied Le Bas, who had only flown one operational sortie since arriving three weeks earlier. ‘Now get out and be quick about it.’19
‘You won’t be seeing her for a while,’ other pilots were told as their planes taxied out, just six minutes after landing.
The Luftwaffe was coming.
Le Bas was among those ordered to go up
against a formation of Italian Cant bombers accompanied by Macchi 202 fighters. Five enemy aircraft were shot down. People from around the island watched the action overhead. They knew the difference between a Spitfire and the enemy. Every time an Italian or German plane went down there were cheers, whoops and clapping. By the end of the day there was a tangible change in the island’s mood. The Maltese went streaming back to their homes wearing large grins and shouting up to neighbours’ windows about the victories they had seen. At the RAF aerodromes there was some back-slapping too, along with excited hand-gesticulating as the Spitfire men related their own aerial accounts.
The German commander, Kesselring, could almost detect the optimism sweeping off the Mediterranean. Radar had shown the relief force slip unhindered into the besieged citadel. The Generalfeldmarschall was not a man accustomed to being outwitted. He ordered every available bomber to pound Malta.
At dawn the following day, the plucky Royal Navy minelayer HMS Welshman crept into Grand Harbour with her priceless cargo of ammunition and Spitfire spares. Pounding at her top speed of forty knots she managed to avoid warships and U-boats in the dash from Gibraltar.
At 11am a force of thirty German bombers with fighter escorts made for Grand Harbour. A solid cone of flak came up to meet them, tearing into men and machines, sending several plummeting into the sea. For a moment the Luftwaffe thought they had got through the worst of it as the AA guns went silent. The more experienced pilots knew this meant only one thing. They began urgently scouring the skies. It did not take long to see what was heading for them. A force of thirty-seven Spitfires and thirteen Hurricanes tore into the German force.
Kesselring was incensed and now threw everything he had at Malta.
RAF pilots flew sortie after sortie during the fiercest aerial combat seen over the island. Maltese civilians again refused the sanctuary of shelter to watch the overhead battle, cheering whenever a German headed down to destruction.
That night the Axis-run Rome Radio broadcast that thirty-seven Axis aircraft had been lost to forty-seven Spitfires. In fact, just three Spitfires were downed, with the loss of a single pilot.
