by James Philip
The Commander-in-Chief raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry. You must be on that plane on Monday.”
“It can’t be helped, sir.”
It was not until Simon Collingwood stepped out into the street that it hit him and the numbness began to spread. He walked mechanically, retracing his steps back through the narrow alleyways to the gate house where he had left his driver, smoking and chatting with the other drivers.
HMS Dreadnought had been rushed into service this time last year, since when too many quick fixes had been implemented to keep her at sea and he had very nearly worked the boat to destruction. The submarine needed six months, possibly a year in dockyard hands and the nearest dockyard which had the specialist technicians, capacity and equipment to heal her many ills was in Plymouth, England. Another option under discussion was to send her to the Electric Boat Yard at Groton, Connecticut. Understandably, with the Scorpion incident unresolved in Philadelphia, the Admiralty did not want him going anywhere near the United States of America.
Simon Collingwood had wondered when the axe would fall.
The Bureau of Submarine Construction...
He had thought his masters would take longer to make up their minds about his next posting; never mind, so be it. There was no point moping about things. In a way it made things more straightforward, he had run out of time to prevaricate with himself, or to put off the inevitable any longer. If he was going to make a complete fool of himself it was better to do it sooner rather than later. In this brave new post-war World it was a criminal mistake to wait overlong, or to put off any decision that was better made quickly.
“Take me to the Pembroke Barracks,” he directed his driver. The man had leapt to attention at his return, grinding out his cigarette underfoot.
Collingwood stared out of the window of the car as it pitched and rolled, jolted and groaned over the disintegrating roads that seemed ubiquitous wherever one walked or drove on Malta. The dusty prickly pear bushes were mostly fruitless. He had been advised not to attempt to peel and eat the flesh of the ‘pears’ raw. Eating them uncooked was a sure-fire guarantee of the runs. He would have liked an opportunity to explore the island, to feel the warm sun on his face. Back in England it would be spring almost, chilly in the mornings, often wet and cloudy, a little dour and sad he suspected.
The last year had been an insane roller coaster; getting Dreadnought to sea, the hurried working up and trials period, the first surreal patrol which had ended with the sinking of the USS Scorpion and the near destruction of the boat. He was still trying to make sense of the controlled madness of the last month; the incident-packed first official war patrol of a Royal Navy nuclear-powered hunter killer submarine. Dreadnought had steamed into the Grand Harbour with a Jolly Roger flying from the raised periscope stack, the first submarine to return to Malta flying a Jolly Roger since World War II.
However, the thing he would never forget as long as he lived was the expression in Maya Hayek’s eyes as she looked back at the submarine in the moments before she and the others were driven off in the Bedford trucks taking her to the refugee reception centre at the Pembroke Barracks.
He had demanded to know where the twenty-two refugees, two old men and the twenty women and children he had rescued from their sinking boats between Cyprus and Crete – in what already seemed like another lifetime - were being taken, what was going to happen to them and who exactly was responsible for their immediate welfare. He had delayed their departure for over an hour until he had been reassured, exhaustively on all counts, by an irritated lieutenant-colonel on the C-in-C’s staff. It had transpired that there were quarters already allocated to the refugees, that they would be checked and assessed by medical officers, and allocated new documents as soon as they arrived at the Pembroke Barracks Reception Camp. Inevitably, the refugees would be stateless for a period while it was established if they wished to remain on the Maltese Archipelago, or to travel on elsewhere. They would not be ‘sent back to wherever they came from unless they so wished’. Moreover, while it was likely that officers from the Intelligence Staff would, at some stage, wish to interview the adults this was entirely routine for all newcomers. Thus reassured, Collingwood had spoken to all the adults, and very briefly privately to Maya, promising that he would ‘find time to visit you all in your temporary home and satisfy myself that you are well and that you are being properly treated’.
He ought to have visited the Pembroke Barracks before now and he would have if he had not been in such a state of high anxiety. Normally, the calmest of men and as he had discovered in the last few months, positively icy in the direst and most pressured of combat, life and death situations, every time he thought of Maya and the two toddlers, Yelda and Yannis, that she and her younger sister had rescued from her Anatolian village ahead of the Red Dawn horde, the knees of the man of steel who commanded the Royal Navy’s most efficient killing machine threatened to turn to jelly.
Simon Collingwood had never really understood how otherwise perfectly rational, sensible men so frequently made complete asses of themselves over a woman. He had seen it happen countless times, shaken his head with despair, pitied the poor dope who had let himself be wrapped around some girl’s little finger. It was only now, six weeks into his thirty-ninth year that Simon Horatio Collingwood, that noted confirmed bachelor and misogynistic curmudgeon when it came to allowing feminine distractions to interfere with his naval career, belatedly understood the profound error of his former ways.
He told himself that it was probably just a stupid infatuation but it was no use. He felt what he felt and he was in turmoil. One way or another he had to resolve his churning emotions before he flew back to England. He might never see Maya, or Yelda or Yannis again and he knew that if he flew away without ‘sorting things out’ he would never forgive himself. He would always wonder if he had done the right thing; or stupidly thrown away the one God-given chance that would ever be presented to him to embrace a partner for life in whatever awaited humankind in this strange, half-demented post-cataclysm World.
At the Pembroke Barracks the duty sergeant at the Guard Office saluted crisply and clattered to attention. He could not get rid of the fierce-looking Navy Captain who had turned up unannounced quickly enough. The camp Adjutant felt pretty much the same way. Escorting his visitor deeper into the establishment past rows of huts erected between ancient limestone fortifications, the sound of hammering grew louder.
“Some chaps from one of the destroyers in the hands of the Admiralty Dockyard at Senglea were detailed to come up here and, well, improve the condition of the accommodation for the displaced persons who are being sent to us,” the Adjutant explained.
It transpired that the ‘chaps’ in question were wearing caps with the badge ‘Talavera’ on the brim and were being supervised by a four square red-headed and bearded bruiser of a Petty Officer.
“Petty Officer Griffin, sir!” The man reported. “HMS Talavera, sir! The MDF requested the loan of carpenters and electricians and suchlike, sir!”
“The Malta Defence Force?” Simon Collingwood queried, not unpleasantly or intending in any way to attempt to intimidate the man in front of him.
“Oh, that would be me!” Declared a flustered, girlish voice from behind his right shoulder.
HMS Dreadnought’s commanding officer turned around. A slight, very attractive young woman in her twenties with long, nut brown hair and wide almond eyes returned his stare. She was wearing a pale blue nursing smock and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.
“My boss, Surgeon Commander Seiffert,” she explained ‘was not happy about the new huts. So she asked me to ‘do something about it’.”
“Oh, and you would be?”
“Marija Calleja,” the woman replied, less flustered than before as she stuck out her right hand and perfunctorily shook Simon Collingwood’s larger, much paler hand.
“Collingwood,” he responded, knowing the woman’s name rang all manner of bells, yet utterly
unable to immediately recollect why. “Dreadnought,” he added. “I promised the refugees we picked up in the Eastern Mediterranean that I’d personally inspect their quarters and ascertain their wellbeing and so forth when they left my care. I also promised I’d look into any grievances or complaints on their behalf arising from the same.” He grimaced, realising that he had inadvertently made the bald statement sound like a threat. “And here I am. It will be one of my last duties as Captain of HMS Dreadnought, I return to England in a day or so.”
“Captain Collingwood!” Marija cried, her face suddenly lighting up with delight. She turned to the rough hewn Petty Officer who was starting to look nervous - if Marija had not detected the implied threat in the four-ringer’s introduction, Jack Griffin had - and playfully cuffed his teak-like left arm. “This is Captain Collingwood, Jack!”
Jack Griffin rolled his eyes, momentarily forgetting that what he really wanted to do was dig a hole in the ground and jump into it.
“Peter,” Marija explained happily, proudly, “my intended, sent Jack and his boys over here as soon as he heard Margo, sorry, that’s Surgeon Commander Seiffert, was angry about the state of things here.”
Suddenly, Simon Collingwood’s feet touched terra firma anew.
He realised he was confronted by ‘the Marija Calleja’ the fiancée of ‘the famous son of the famous Fighting Admiral’. Wasn’t the wedding tomorrow?
“The wedding is tomorrow?” He asked like an idiot.
Marija did not notice.
“Margo sent me here because I was being very ‘irritating’,” she confessed. “She said I would be happier if I was ‘fully occupied’. So she sent me here to ‘irritate’ somebody else.” Marija’s thoughts were moving at hundreds of miles per hour and had been for days. Tonight she had to go home and endure her Mama’s prattling and panic, and her Papa’s well-meaning attempts to convince her that everything was going to be ‘just fine’ tomorrow. “Jack,” she decided. “Send somebody to find Maya and the children.” When the red-headed and bearded Petty Officer hesitated she added: “Chop! Chop!”
Jack Griffin shrugged, saluted and backed away. It wasn’t entirely clear whether he had saluted the stern-eyed four ring post captain or Marija Calleja. Not that there was ever any doubt about who was actually in charge.
“Do you know a Miss Maya Hayek?” Simon Collingwood inquired tentatively.
“Yes,” Marija nodded. “I was on duty when the people from your submarine arrived. Maya is sort of the leader of the women, so I see her every day I am here.”
“On duty?”
“You are speaking to Nursing Auxilliary First Class Calleja, of the MDF Medical Directorate,” she proclaimed, laughing. “Well, actually, I’m still only a volunteer. I usually work at the St Catherine’s Hospital for Women in Mdina. You know, in the Citadel close to St Paul’s Cathedral.” Now that Marija had got into full flow there was no stopping her. “Maya, and the others, of course, say that you and your men were incredibly brave and that you saved them all from being murdered, or worse?”
The man flushed with embarrassment, momentarily tongue-tied.
Yelda and Yannis arrived first.
“Yelda’s name means Summer Rose,” the man muttered in disarray as the toddlers gleefully clung to his legs.
“Captain! Captain!” The youngsters cried happily.
And then Maya was standing in front of the helpless warrior.
Marija giggled, she could not stop herself.
It seemed that the heroic Captain Collingwood was at her new sister’s mercy.
Chapter 30
Friday 6th March 1964
Verdala Palace, Malta
Although the Verdala Palace had been the official residence of British Governors of the Maltese Archipelago for over a century, Admiral Sir Julian Christopher had until the last few days, eschewed its comforts and grandeur for humbler lodgings in Mdina and Valletta. His working day – in fact every day since his arrival on the islands – began before dawn and rarely concluded until well after midnight. Basically, he had had no time to spare to savour, let alone enjoy, the splendours of the magnificent castle – for that was what the Verdala Palace was – situated on the high ground overlooking the village of Dingli on the rugged western coast of the main island.
It was remarkable that such a tempting and vulnerable target had not been attacked by the Italian Regia Aeronautica fighter bombers ranging across the Maltese Archipelago that fateful evening in early December last year. Standing proudly undefended on a hilltop it must have presented an irresistible temptation to the attackers and yet, it had remained unmolested, its ancient stones untouched and its tranquil gardens surviving as an unsuspected oasis of calm amidst the chaos and devastation being visited in and around Valletta.
The personal effects and belongs of the late Hugh Staveley-Pope, the Commander-in-Chief’s oldest friend in the Royal Navy and immediate predecessor, whom he had come to Malta to relieve from command, remained crated and stored in the cellars of the old palace.
When he mentioned this to Margaret Thatcher she blanched.
The conversation at dinner had been a little stilted, somewhat terse. It was a strange gathering; the Commander-in-Chief entertaining the Prime Minister, her companion Lady Patricia Harding-Grayson, the wife of the Foreign secretary, the ten year old Thatcher twins, Mark and Carol, both totally over-awed by the occasion, with Julian Christopher’s old friend, Captain Nicholas Davey, Captain ‘D’ of the 7th Destroyer Squadron making up the numbers and trying manfully to jolly things along.
In this endeavour the portly hero – one of many – of the desperate fight to save the grievously damaged American super-carrier the USS Enterprise, felt himself to be wading uphill through ankle-deep treacle. The Foreign Secretary’s wife was an intelligent and gracious woman, the Prime Minister’s brats were very polite but the two leading actors were oddly subdued. Nick Davey had expected the indomitable Angry Widow to dominate the affair; and Julian Christopher to turn on his deadly charm and perhaps, to trot out a string of his best anecdotes. Instead, the whole thing was a tad flat and there seemed to be nothing he or Lady Patricia could do about it.
“Forgive me Admiral Christopher,” the Prime Minister apologised, patting her lips with her napkin. “I’m not used to the warmth of the evening. If I might I shall step outside for a few minutes.”
The Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations pushed back his chair.
“Might I accompany you, Prime Minister?”
The Foreign Secretary’s wife and Nick Davey rose to their feet as Margaret Thatcher and the Fighting Admiral made their exit. They exchanged hopefully knowing looks.
Outside on the terrace, their privacy guaranteed in the inner walled garden below the broad, marble veranda, Margaret Thatcher and Julian Christopher stood a little apart. Neither spoke for perhaps a minute, each collecting their thoughts and unscrambling their wits. They had spent the late afternoon being filmed, cheered and enthusiastically acclaimed as they toured the bomb sites left by the devastating sneak attack on Malta three months ago. They had visited half-a-dozen cemeteries, bowed their heads in unison to honour the dead. As darkness fell they had stood on the Saluting Battery ramparts and gazed upon the might of the combined British and American naval expeditionary force assembling in the Grand Harbour. They had had no time to be alone, no opportunity to be private, and no opportunity to voice any of the intimate words that needed to be spoken.
“This place was built in 1586 by Grandmaster Hughues Loubenx de Verdelle. Hence the castle became the Verdala Palace,” Julian Christopher explained. “As with most buildings on these islands it was built on the foundations of an even older building. In this case a hunting lodge owned by a certain Jean Parisot de Valette, for his pains a previous Grandmaster of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and of Malta.” He chuckled softly in the gloom. “I used to think being Commander-in-Chie
f of All British Forces and so forth was a bit of a mouthful until I came here.”
The woman said nothing.
“It is too dark to see it now,” the man continued, “but the Palace is pretty much surrounded by a boschetto, landscaped gardens by any other name. The gardens used to be more extensive in olden times. The Knights of Malta allegedly came over to this part of the island to do their hunting. The original 1586 Palace was improved upon and upgraded by at least two other Grandmasters. By the time Napoleon arrived on the scene and turned it into a prison the towers already had five floors and the layout of the inner ‘palace’ was, allegedly, more or less as it is today. Sir William Reid was the first Governor of Malta to take the place in hand and make it his summer residence. That was in 1858...”
Margaret Thatcher giggled...
Julian Christopher did not quite believe his ears.
“Do you remember when we were at Balmoral Castle?” She asked.
“Er, yes...”
“Just before the attack? You told me all about the history of that castle?”
“Yes, indeed.” He wasn’t about to forget it!
“I hope it isn’t an omen.”
“The RAF has assured me that it will shoot down anything that comes within a hundred miles of the archipelago this weekend, Margaret.”
“So much has happened since that day at Balmoral Castle,” she responded, searching for the right words. “It worries me sometimes when one is cheered and feted like you and I were this afternoon. It frightens me that so many people are depending upon us to make the World right again.”
Knowing that she did not really expect a reply the man held his peace.
Margaret Thatcher sighed.
“Before Ted Heath was assassinated in Washington you asked me if I would marry you, Julian?”
“Yes.”
“Is your proposal still on the table?”
“Yes.”
“If we were married; do you worry about what kind of marriage it would be?”
