“It’s difficult to imagine what this island went through,” Riley said as they passed from one room of the museum to the next. Here, glass cases showcased uniforms, guns, and bayonets.
“Yeah. And for what?”
Riley shrugged. “I was in the military for seven years, and I’m not sure I can answer that one.”
“Power and wealth.”
“Which are about the same thing,” she said.
Cole nodded. “One buys the other. Look around us. Think about all the uniforms, weapons, and vehicles from cars to planes to ships. It takes millions of dollars to run a war.”
“Make that billions. Worldwide, the amount spent on the military must be in the trillions. There was a time when governments made their own weapons and supplies, but with each new conflict, more and more of the business of war has been privatized.”
“Yeah. Like my father wrote in his journals, the men who have been pulling the strings behind the scenes cared far more about dollars than ideology.”
“But what about the Knights of Saint John and the Crusades? Surely back then it was about religion.”
“Riley, I’m not saying that the soldiers, the boots on the ground, weren’t fighting for ideals. The Knights saw themselves as soldiers for Christ. But to the pope, it was all about the power of gaining control of Jerusalem. And during the Second World War, there’s evidence the pope was on the side of the fascists.”
Riley pointed to a photo of a group of young British artillerymen. “I guess these men would have said they were fighting for freedom, for king and country.”
“Yeah, but remember, my father was one of those men. While he thought that way when he first joined up, he later had his eyes opened. Throughout history, the fight has always really been about power—to defend it or to increase it.”
“What about the Middle East today—what’s going on in Afghanistan and Iraq? Surely that’s about religious extremism.”
“To some it is—just the modern version of the Crusades. Or the continuation of it,” Cole said. “The young men strapping on the suicide vests think they are doing it for Allah, but I don’t think for a minute that the men at the top on either side care much about that. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the lands where we’re fighting today are among the richest oil fields in the world.”
The next room they entered told the story of the maritime war in Malta.
Cole saw a display titled The Submarines of the 10th Flotilla in Malta.
“Great. More submarines,” he said.
He heard fast footsteps behind him and a voice called out, “Good morning!” It was Dr. Najat Günay.
“Morning, Dr. G.,” he said.
She kissed Riley on both cheeks. “I think it’s so cute when he calls me that,” she said.
Cole pointed to the photos of subs at anchor in Marsamxett Harbour off the submarine base at Lazaretto, Manoel Island. “It is difficult to be cheerful when reading about this chapter of your island’s history.”
“The captain of the ferry we take across to Sliema pointed out the sub base the first time we came across,” Riley said.
“Yes, the Tenth Flotilla was made up of British U-class submarines. They inflicted great damage on Italian shipping trying to supply the Axis forces in North Africa.”
“It says here the submarines even brought in supplies sometimes.”
“Yes,” Najat said. “The blockade was making things very bad on the island. People were starving. They called it the ‘Magic Carpet Service.’ Every submarine that was transferred to Malta would arrive loaded with food, medicine, even aviation fuel. Sometimes they even welded external containers to the submarine’s casing. But that’s not the most fascinating story about our subs.”
“What is?” Cole said.
“Well, when the Germans took most of continental Europe in 1940, the British wanted to invade France, but they weren’t ready yet. So Churchill organized the first commando units. He gave a famous speech announcing they would ‘set Europe ablaze.’ These commandos were the first British Special Forces operatives.”
“My father was a British commando paratrooper. He parachuted into Italy.”
“Really? I’d love to hear more about him,” Dr. G. said. “Here in Malta, we had the Special Boat Unit. They had these flimsy little folding kayaks made of canvas and bits of wood. The men and their boats were assigned to the submarines. The sub would surface in the dead of night and these fellows would paddle off in their little boats. They attached limpet mines to enemy ships, blew up railroads, and pulled off all sorts of secret missions.”
“Oh my God,” Riley said. “Cole—” She yanked her shoulder bag open and pulled out her notebook.
“What is it?”
“Cole, I’m looking at all these dates on the exhibits.” She stuck the pencil in her mouth and started leafing through the pages of her notebook. “Your father was British!” she said, her words slurred due to the pencil.
Cole looked at Dr. G. She seemed just as puzzled by Riley’s behavior. “Yeah. That’s right,” he said.
She pulled the pencil out of her mouth and looked at him like he was some kind of dullard. “They do it the other way around.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dates. I’m talking about dates.”
“Okay.”
“Cole, British people write out dates not with the month and then the day. They do it the other way around. Your birthday wouldn’t be 11-19. It would be 19-11.”
Cole bit his upper lip then said, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
Riley set her notebook down on a glass case filled with military medals. It was open to the page with her graph. She changed the numbers to read 19111973.
“It only changes two letters,” she said. “The second and the fourth.” She counted off the numbers on her alphabet and changed the V to a P and the G to an O.
Cole looked at what she’d written in the box. He read aloud: “UPHOLDER.” He looked up at the two women. “Does that mean anything to either of you?”
Dr. G. said, “Of course! There’s a picture of it right there.” She pointed to a grainy black-and-white photo in a display on the wall. It showed a black submarine with her crew standing on deck. “That was the name of the most famous submarine in the Tenth Flotilla here in Malta. Her captain was awarded the Victoria Cross.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was lost on patrol. Went down with all hands.”
“Where?”
“No one really knows. There’s no record of her sinking. She simply never returned.”
The Silversmith Shop
Vittoriosa, Malta
April 17, 1798
The coffeepot represented months of work and was the finest piece Arzella had ever made. The woman in the magnificent embroidered silk dress stood examining the pot, holding it casually and waving it through the air as she spoke.
“This would never happen in Mdina. They have more respect there. The people understand their place there. The Knights have spoiled the people here in Vittoriosa. You understand that merely because my husband is Count Gallego is no excuse to charge this ridiculous price.”
Arzella kept her eyes lowered and waited for the woman to finish her tirade. She knew the price was fair. The three cast feet had paws at the bottom and were attached to the pear-shaped pot with delicate leafy foliage. The engraved grapes and leaves were exquisite. She had drawn the design herself. It was not an imitation of the latest styles from Paris, like what so many of the other local silversmiths created.
“You say Pierre Brun is your father?” The woman flicked her wrist and the pot swung by its ebony handle.
Arzella placed a hand on her stomach and thought, Please, don’t drop it. She said, “Yes, madame.”
“Hmm. I have heard the name.”
Of course you have. That is why you are here. He is the most famous silversmith in Malta. “Yes, madame.” Arzella’s stomach contracted, and s
he swallowed to force down the sour taste.
“Is your father here? I would like to speak to him about this exorbitant price.”
“I’m sorry, madame. He is not.” She swallowed again. “I am not certain when he will return.”
“My soiree is three days hence. This pot would serve me well, I should think. I return to Mdina in the morning, and I will pass by this shop before I depart. I expect to speak to Monsieur Brun himself.”
The lady exited the shop with a great swishing of her skirts. Arzella placed one hand on the counter to steady herself. After several seconds the dizziness passed.
“Arzella,” her father called.
She straightened her skirts and brushed her hands over her hair. After clearing her throat, she plastered a smile onto her face and walked into the shop’s back room, their apartment.
“Yes, Papa?”
“What an awful woman,” he said.
“Yes, she was even worse if you could have seen her.” She went on to describe the woman, embellishing the tale with details that she knew would amuse him.
He smiled weakly at her imitation of the lady’s posture. “I’m so sorry I cannot go out there myself and save you from these indignities.”
Her father had not left his bed in more than a week now. Not even to use the latrine. He knew more about indignities than she ever would. He used a pot kept under the bed, and had to ask his daughter’s help to bathe himself.
“Papa, please. Stop apologizing. I enjoy working in the shop, but I would rather be working back here—making things rather than selling things.”
“Selling is necessary, and the village knows you as a shopgirl. It would be best for you to go back to working only in the evenings when no one will see you.”
Arzella sighed. “Would you like a cup of tea?” She crossed to the stove and put the kettle on. “Are you warm enough?” She added some wood to the fire.
“Arzella, I need to talk to you.”
“Papa, I am very busy with the shop right now. Perhaps later this evening.”
“But that is the problem, my child. You go out every evening.”
She started to object, then she thought, I am not a child. “I would be happy to stay in one evening to talk to my father.”
“Only one evening? I worry about you, ma petite. He is a Knight. What decent man will want to marry you if your reputation is sullied?”
“Oh, Father.” Again she felt her stomach clench in a spasm. Tea, maybe that would calm her rebellious belly.
“I am serious,” her father said. “A good girl does not go out walking alone with a Knight—much less sailing. Please, my child. Before I go, I want to see you happily married to a husband who will care for you.”
“First of all, you are not going anywhere anytime soon.” Arzella wanted to believe this. She also wanted to tell her father that she would never love another man like she loved Alonso, but he would not understand. “And I can care for myself. You have seen the quality of the work I do. Never has anyone suspected it is not your own. I don’t need a husband.” She poured the hot water into the teapot.
“Yes, you are the most talented artist I have ever seen. I’ve had two apprentices in the past, and you learned the trade in less than half the time. But who will buy your work when I am gone? Do you think they will want it if they know it was made by a female artisan?”
“Why not?” She grabbed two cups, and they clanked loudly when she set them down next to the sugar bowl on the silver tray.
“You know very well that you can’t change what others think.”
She opened the cupboard to get her father a piece of cheese, and the odor enveloped her. Her hand flew to her mouth and she gagged.
“Do not be foolish.”
She wiped her mouth. “Times are changing, Papa.” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“Not so much that you can be in a Knight’s company without a chaperone. I dare not think what you are doing. What would happen if the Order thought you presented a problem for them?”
“I do what I choose,” she said softly. “Those old stories about shipping girls off to Gozo were just to scare us into doing what our parents wanted us to do.” She placed the tray on the small table beside her father’s bed.
“Take my hand, my child.”
The skin on her father’s hand felt loose over the bones. “Yes, Papa.”
“They are not just stories, ma petite. Do you think, living together here in this small room, I can’t smell him on you when you return in the evenings? Do you think I have not noticed the change in you?”
She lowered her eyes. “Papa, please.”
“You think I don’t see the color of your skin in the mornings? I see more than you credit me for. I will not let them take you from me. You cannot let anyone else become aware of your condition.”
“What condition?” The voice came from the doorway at the back of the shop. Madame Benier stood just outside the door, at the base of the stairs that led to her first-floor apartment above. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but I was looking for Pierre Antoine.”
Arzella let go of her father’s hand and stood. She opened her mouth to answer the woman, but she felt it coming. She tried to make it to the sink in time, but she bent at the waist in the middle of the room, and vomit splashed onto the floor.
“Oh,” Madame Benier said, stepping back. “That condition.”
The National War Museum at Fort Saint Elmo
Valletta, Malta
April 13, 2014
Riley looked at Cole. “Do you think?”
“Must be.”
Najat looked back and forth at them, a tentative smile on her face. “I don’t really understand any of this, but I take it this is good?”
Cole stepped over to the door of the exhibit room and looked both ways down the hall. When he returned, he asked Najat, “Is there someplace we could talk? Someplace quiet?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led them through a door marked “Private” to a large workroom. Two people stood at a table, working on some large photographs. The museum workers nodded as the three of them walked through. The door on the far side of the workroom opened into a gray kitchen with a refrigerator, a stainless-steel sink, and a Formica dinette.
She motioned for them to sit. “No one will be coming in here for another hour or two. They take their lunch here.”
When they were settled, Cole told Najat the story from the journal, about his father’s internment in an Italian POW camp. “He wrote about meeting another commando there from Special Forces. He hid part of the story in a cipher. My father liked to kid around,” he said.
Riley liked how Cole downplayed his father’s paranoia. Just kidding around.
“I never really knew my father, so I want to learn as much as I can about him. But we have a plane to catch, so we haven’t much time. What can you tell us about the Upholder?”
Najat looked at her watch. “I can tell you what I’ve learned working here, but there is someone else who possibly could tell you more.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the volunteers here at the museum is a retired shipyard worker. He is ninety-five years old, but in excellent health. He enjoys telling our patrons his stories about working on the submarines during the war.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “He lives close by. If he’s free, perhaps he can meet with you.”
“That would be amazing,” Cole said.
“I know he worked on the Upholder because I have heard him mention Captain Wanklyn.” She swiped her finger on her phone until she found what she was looking for, then she pushed back her chair and said, “Excuse me.” She stepped away from the table and began speaking in Maltese into the phone.
“What do you think?” Riley asked.
“If this guy worked in the dockyard here during the war, maybe he’ll be able to tell us who my father was talking about.”
“Why do you think your father was pointing y
ou to the submarine?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. What would a World War II submarine have to do with the Knights of Malta?”
“I can’t figure it out, either.”
From Najat’s tone of voice it was obvious her call was ending. She turned around, slid the phone back into her skirt pocket, and announced, “The fates are smiling on you. He’s on his way over. He was already close by, so he’ll be here shortly. I think one reason he has lived so long is he takes long walks every day. The front desk will call us when he gets here, and we’ll join him on his walk.”
“Thank you so much for setting that up. What can you tell us about the Upholder in the meantime?”
“David Wanklyn was her commander from the day she was launched. He was a career navy man, Wanklyn. He entered the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth when he was only thirteen years old. It was his preference to go into submarines, in spite of the fact that he was quite tall. He was ambitious, and perhaps he thought he would rise through the ranks faster there. It worked. He was appointed to command the HMS Upholder in 1940 at the age of twenty-eight. During his sixteen months in the Mediterranean, Wanklyn and the Upholder destroyed more ships than any other sub. She became the most successful British submarine of the Second World War.”
“No wonder they gave him the Victoria Cross,” Riley said.
“Yes, he was quite a remarkable man. We have several photographs in our collection of Commander Wanklyn and his crew. They look so happy in some of the photos. It’s heartbreaking.” Dr. Günay looked away.
Riley leaned forward and touched her arm. “You’ve told us so much about him without using any notes.”
Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3) Page 12
