Malta Victory

by Robert Jackson

  Yeoman’s eyes fastened on a man in a red skull-cap, balancing precariously on the deck a little to one side. His arms were raised in the air, his fists clenched. Yeoman put on the brakes. The man’s hands began to describe rapid circles and Yeoman opened the throttle slowly. The engine roared and the Spitfire shuddered, straining against the brakes. She began to slide. Out of the corner of his eye Yeoman saw a checkered flag go down. He released the brakes and the Spitfire shot forward. He eased off the back pressure on the stick and the tail came up as the grey tower of the island flashed past.

  The deck, which had seemed so huge last night, now looked ridiculously short. The bow dipped and Yeoman had a frightening glimpse of shimmering sea through the whirling propeller. Ruddering carefully to keep the aircraft straight, he pulled back the stick and the Spitfire bounced into the air as she reached flying speed, aided by the combined speed of the carrier’s twenty knots and a thirty-knot headwind. The bow fell away below and behind and he pushed the stick forward ever so slightly, gently lowering the nose to gain a few extra knots. The flight deck was sixty feet above the sea, affording a nice little margin for this kind of manoeuvre. The speed built up comfortably and Yeoman pulled back the stick again, his other hand holding the throttle wide open, and brought the Spitfire up in a broad climbing turn, pulling up his flaps and undercarriage as he did so.

  He circled the carrier, gaining height all the time, the warships looking like toys beneath his wings. One by one, the eleven other Spitfires of ‘B’ Flight took off and climbed to join him. Normally, twelve aircraft would have constituted a full squadron, but for the purposes of the flight to Malta the thirty-six Spitfires on the Wasp were split up into three separate formations, each one designated a Flight. Once on the island, they would be shared out among the squadrons already there, ‘A’ and ‘B’ Flights, in other words the Spitfires led by Graham and Yeoman, were assigned to Luqa, while ‘C’ Flight, bringing up the rear, was to land at Takali.

  With his Spitfires all in position, flying in three sections of four, Yeoman switched to his long-range tank and set course eastwards, into the glare of the rising sun. They climbed steadily to twenty thousand feet, flying due east. He looked to his left, and saw Gerry Powell’s Spitfire riding smoothly on the warm currents of air, just where it should be. On Yeoman’s right were the other two Spits of the leading section, flown by Sergeant Pilots McCallum and Wilcox, both of them Rhodesians. Completely inseparable on the ground, the two had spent the last few months flying fighter sweeps over France, and made a first-rate fighting team.

  They had flown off the Wasp when she was almost directly abeam Algiers, and when Yeoman looked over to his right he could see clearly the ochre mountains of Algeria’s coastal range. There was no sign of any other Spitfires, either in front or behind, but Yeoman knew that the carrier would by now have launched the twelve fighters of ‘C’ Flight and be turning back towards Gibraltar, HMS Eagle’s twenty-eight Spits were due to be launched half an hour later. The staggered times were to lessen the chances of the Spitfires all being caught on the ground by an enemy air strike. Each Spitfire was armed with two 20-mm cannon, which were loaded just in case, but the four .303 machine-guns had been removed to provide stowage in the wings for the pilots’ kit. The aircraft were all Mks vc, with special tropical dust filters fitted under their noses.

  The Spitfires droned steadily on, the burnished ball of the sun stabbing the pilots’ eyeballs through their smoked glass goggles. As it climbed higher, a grey haze obscured the horizon and soon the mountains of Algeria were lost to sight. Yeoman maintained a steady heading, checking his compass and directional gyro frequently. The shadows of the cockpit made a welcome contrast to the glare outside; far below the sea was a sheet of blue-green glass.

  They flew on for nearly three hours, the pilots stiff and cramped and soaked in sweat in their small, functional cockpits. Flying for long periods in a single-seat fighter was hell, for the dinghy packs on which the pilots sat felt as solid as concrete after a while, and no matter how one squirmed it was impossible to get comfortable.

  Yeoman leaned forward suddenly in the cockpit, peering at a darker smudge that materialized slowly out of the haze, ahead and to the right. It grew more solid and became a spur of land, jutting out into the sea. He identified it quickly as Cape Bon, the northernmost tip of Tunisia, and smiled to himself, pleased with his navigation. They were right on track.

  He waited until the cape was abeam his starboard wingtip, then turned gradually on to a south-easterly heading. The other Spitfires followed, as though tied to him by invisible threads. The next few minutes might be dangerous, because their new track took them close to the island of Pantellaria, where there were known to be German and Italian fighters. Yeoman would have liked to remind the pilots to keep their eyes peeled, but strict radio silence was in force all the way to Malta.

  In the event, he need not have worried. The brown, rocky cone of Pantellaria slid by to starboard, and the Spitfires cruised on unmolested.

  Yeoman looked at his watch; the time was 8.45. Malta should be coming up in another few minutes, and Yeoman sensed that all the pilots were straining their eyes for a sight of it. He understood their eagerness, for the fuel in the Spitfires’ tanks was already getting too low for comfort.

  The minutes ticked by. By 9.05 Yeoman was starting to become a little alarmed; they should have spotted Malta by now from this height, even in the haze. Well, he told himself, our navigation’s been okay and they can’t have moved the bloody place. It was bound to appear sooner or later.

  He had hardly formed the thought when the haze far ahead of him seemed to change colour at one point. He blinked, thinking at first that his eyes were playing tricks, but there was no mistaking the dark patch that rose from the sea — or rather two dark patches, the smaller one closest to the Spitfires. That would be Gozo, with Malta beyond it.

  As the fighters drew nearer, the dark hue of the islands gave way to a russet colour; it was as though someone had tossed a couple of autumn leaves on the water. Gradually, as the Spitfires began their descent, more details emerged. Yeoman picked out steep cliffs, and beyond them a spider’s web of white lines spreading across the parchment surface of Gozo, and he knew that they must be white stone walls. There were houses, too, sometimes in clusters, all of them white.

  The radio burst into sudden life, startling Yeoman momentarily. The voice of the Malta fighter controller was rich and cultured.

  ‘All Talbot aircraft, pancake. I repeat, all Talbot aircraft pancake. As fast as you can.’

  Talbot was the call-sign of the reinforcement Spitfires. Malta’s radar would have picked them up while they were still a long way out over the sea, and the controller, waiting until the last moment to avoid giving away their presence to the enemy, was telling them that it was safe to land — for the moment at least.

  Down to four thousand feet now, and still descending, the Spitfires sped across Gozo and out over the blue channel that separated the two main islands. There was a third, tiny island in the channel, and Yeoman recalled that its name was Comino.

  The whole of Malta was clearly visible now, its features leaping into sharp focus. In days, their names would be as familiar to Yeoman as his own, but now there was no time to register more than fleeting impressions. As they crossed the coast, Yeoman was puzzled at first by a strange, hazy pillar, like red smoke, that slanted up towards the sun, as though the core of the island was being dragged up to meet the sky. Then, with a sudden shock, he realized that he was looking at the dust kicked up by dozens of bomb bursts, drifting slowly on the breeze.

  There was smoke, too, mingling with the dust, rising from an airfield that flashed beneath the Spitfires’ wings. That must be Takali. Several objects, presumably aircraft, were burning on the ground. Away to the left, more smoke rose from the deep gash of Grand Harbour, with the tiers of white, flat-roofed houses, the multitude of baroque churches, yellow and soft against the sea, clustered all around it.

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nbsp; Luqa was dead ahead, its face ravaged by the smallpox of bomb craters. The Spitfires swept overhead, breaking into the circuit with wheels and flaps down. Glancing up, Yeoman spotted two or three more Spits higher up, covering them as they came in to land. The Spits circled, their shadows fleeting over the grey-green landscape, the white walls and stunted trees as they queued up on the approach to the only runway that still looked reasonably intact. Yeoman counted the aircraft of his flight as they landed ahead of him, one by one, bringing his own section in last of all. A quick glance above and behind, a roll of the head to make sure that there was nothing on his tail, and he slid back the cockpit canopy, throttling back and fishtailing to reduce speed. A couple of hundred yards ahead, Gerry Powell touched down in a cloud of dust and stones. Then it was Yeoman’s turn. The Spitfire slid over some heaps of stone, the shattered wreck of an aircraft and a gravel track. Yeoman levelled out gently, easing back the stick and closing the throttle in one movement. The wheels touched, the Spitfire bounced slightly then settled down, rolling forward along the sun-baked strip.

  Yeoman looked around him, not having any idea where to go next. Luqa was a scene of utter confusion, with Spitfires taxi-ing everywhere along bits of runway and winding tracks that disappeared into blast shelters and swarms of men in nondescript oddments of uniform running to and fro.

  There was a sudden thump and Yeoman turned his head, startled. A lean, sunburned soldier was standing on the wing, clinging to the cockpit rail, grinning at him. The man bent forward and mouthed something, at the same time pointing with his free hand. Yeoman, his eardrums singing with the four-hour roar of the Merlin, was unable to make out what he was saying. The man pointed again, urgently, and Yeoman gathered that he wanted him to turn off the runway and follow one of the makeshift taxi-tracks. The pilot did as he was told, steering the Spitfire carefully round piles of stones which, he learned later, were distributed all around the airfield in readiness to fill in bomb craters.

  At the end of the track a pen had been built, its walls constructed from sandbags and sand-filled petrol cans. He brought the Spitfire to a halt just short of it and, before he had time to make another move, he found himself practically lifted from the cockpit by a couple of burly airmen, one of whom switched off the fighter’s engine. As Yeoman jumped stiffly down from the wing, already conscious of the intense heat, three more airmen seized the Spitfire by the tail and swung it round, dragging it backwards into the pen so that its nose was pointing out towards the airfield.

  Yeoman was pushed unceremoniously aside while soldiers and airmen converged on the Spitfire from all sides, staggering under the weight of cans of fuel. Somebody removed the gun panels with a screwdriver and started throwing Yeoman’s kit over his shoulder. The pilot, realizing that it was fruitless to protest and that there was a very good reason for all the haste, made a dive to pick it up out of the dust and got his fingers trodden on in the process. His kit was not all the Spitfire had borne across the Mediterranean in its wings; he watched in astonishment as an airman produced cartons of cigarettes, a box of what looked like medical supplies, assorted tools and a mosquito net from the other gun bays. Yeoman hadn’t even known they were there, but it was clear that not an inch of room had been wasted.

  Yeoman, completely ignored, stood in isolation on the fringe of all the turmoil and watched the airmen and soldiers breaking all records to refuel the Spitfire with the aid of a large funnel. There was no such luxury as a petrol bowser on Malta; everything had to be done laboriously by hand. Other airmen checked that the cannon were fully loaded — the machine-guns would doubtless be fitted later — replaced the empty oxygen bottle with a full one and made sure the radio was in working order. In a couple of dozen more pens dotted round the airfield perimeter the same process was being re-enacted.

  An ancient bus, its sides dented and riddled with holes, screeched to a stop outside the pen in a cloud of dust and a pilot jumped out, running towards Yeoman’s Spitfire. Without a word to the newcomer he jumped up on the wing, reached into the cockpit, hurled Yeoman’s parachute pack overboard and substituted his own.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Yeoman protested. ‘My chute is perfectly all right.’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ the other answered curtly, in an accent that was either Australian or New Zealand. ‘What I do know is that I packed mine myself, and it’ll work all right. I’d get on the bus fast if I were you; there’s a raid coming in.’

  He swung himself into the cockpit and Yeoman turned away, clutching his parachute and his kit, most of which he had managed to retrieve. Someone was beckoning impatiently from the open door of the bus and he trotted across, recognizing Roger Graham. The bus was full of pilots, all of whom had flown in from the Wasp. Yeoman gathered that the vehicle had been dropping off pilots who were on readiness at each blast pen, and picking up the new arrivals.

  He still had one leg out of the door when the driver lurched off with a crash of gears, and he would have fallen headlong into the dust if Graham had not reached out a hand to steady him. The vehicle careered off round the airfield perimeter, its occupants clinging on grimly as the driver swerved round craters and mounds of rubble. Through the glassless windows Yeoman caught sight of more blast pens, some empty, others filled with the charred remains of aircraft.

  There was a shattering roar overhead and the pilots peered out of the windows, craning their necks to see what was going on. Spitfires were taking off in rapid succession, whipping up their wheels and flaps and climbing hard towards the north. Yeoman searched for the aircraft he had flown in from the carrier, but it was impossible to distinguish one from the other, for squadron code letters had been painted out.

  The driver abruptly slammed on the brakes, throwing everyone in a heap on the floor, yelled ‘G Shelter!’ and vanished like lightning.

  The pilots seized their belongings and tumbled out of the bus, blinking in the harsh sunlight and wondering what to do. There was nothing in their immediate vicinity except a long, low building surrounded by piles of shattered masonry. Somewhere, a siren began to wail.

  A man wearing khaki battledress and tattered shorts appeared suddenly round one of the heaps of rubble, waving to them urgently. They ran across, panting under the weight of their gear, and as they turned the corner they found themselves in front of a narrow entrance, with a flight of steps leading down into the gloom.

  They groped their way down the dark, twisting passage, which led through solid rock and was lit further on by solitary electric light bulbs, positioned at irregular intervals. As his eyes grew accustomed to the half-light Yeoman saw that alcoves had been carved out of the rock here and there along the passage to serve as makeshift offices or space for generators.

  Eventually, they emerged into a large cavern, with benches around its walls and pin-up girls leering down incongruously from the tattered centre pages of magazines. Some of the benches were occupied by officers and airmen, who glanced uninterestedly at the newcomers before turning back to their newspapers. Yeoman and the others dropped thankfully into vacant spaces, grateful for the sudden coolness, looking about them in curiosity.

  In the distance, the sirens were going full blast. Then there was a heavy silence followed by the thump of explosions. One or two of the new arrivals flinched and then glanced around them, clearly embarrassed and wondering if anyone had seen their momentary fear, but Yeoman could tell that the explosions were some way off.

  To no one in particular, the man in the battledress, who Yeoman now saw wore a squadron leader’s braid on his epaulettes, announced:

  ‘They’re going for Takali. Thought so. We had the bastards at eight o’clock. I’m going up to watch the fun. Anyone coming?’

  He disappeared back up the steps, followed by Yeoman, Roger Graham and one or two of the others. From their vantage-point outside the entrance to the shelter they had an excellent view across the valley that sloped away to the north of Luqa, towards Takali. Aircraft, looking like black crows in t
he distance, were wheeling and diving through a spatter of anti-aircraft bursts. Black smoke boiled up from the ground, towering over the stricken airfield.

  The enemy aircraft sped away, pursued by a handful of darting fighters. Yeoman glanced at his watch: the attack had lasted barely five minutes, but it had been timed to perfection. Yeoman realized that much of the smoke he could see must be rising from HMS Eagle’s newly-landed Spitfires, burning on the ground.

  A distant siren moaned the all-clear. It was picked up by others, until the whole island seemed to ring with the sound.

  ‘Well, that’s knackered that, good and proper,’ the Squadron Leader said in disgust. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a drink.’

  He led the way to a small stone hut that served as the officers’ mess. There was just one room, with a square of threadbare carpet on the floor and a makeshift bar across one corner. The others emerged from the shelter in ones and twos and joined them. Someone produced a crate of Farson’s, the local brew; it was lukewarm, but the pilots, parched after their long flight across the sea, gulped it down blissfully.

  After a while, some of the pilots who had taken off to intercept the enemy raid began to trickle in. They looked hollow-eyed and exhausted, and Yeoman sensed that they had no desire to talk. He searched the face of each man who came in, trying to recognize the pilot who had taken his own Spitfire into action, but there was no sign of him.

  They found his body two days later, dashed to pieces among some rocks on Gozo. The grisly discovery was made by a goatherd, attracted to the spot by a streamer of white silk that fluttered from the dead man’s parachute pack.

  The rest of the canopy had failed to open.

  Chapter Three

  Although it was early evening the day had lost little of its heat, and the pilots, crammed together on the seats of the ramshackle bus, were thankful for the steady flow of air that streamed through the vehicle’s shattered windscreen. Yeoman, lost in thought, stared through a side window at the vast contrast of colours that whirled past: the yellowish-white of stone walls, the pink of churches on the skyline, the grey-green of the land itself, dappled now with shadow.