Sergeant McCallum had died that day. Pursued by 109s, he had made for Takali and, following instructions, had dropped down inside the ring of anti-aircraft guns. It had made no difference; the Messerschmitts had swooped and Mac’s Spitfire had crashed upside down and exploded in the middle of the airfield.
Suddenly, Yeoman wished that he was an artist. That was the true way to capture the contrasts of Malta; the golden light of the island’s central plain, sweeping down from the higher ground in the north to the deep anchorages of Grand Harbour through ancient towns whose names sounded like clarions through centuries of ravelled history: Birkirkara, Hamrun, Floriana and finally Valletta itself, where the Knights of Malta had defied the Turks; the gold and ivory pastel shades of churches and cathedrals, their spires a glory against the blue of sea and sky. There was a kind of beauty, too, in the darting, twisting aircraft that played like shoals of fish over the island, their wings glinting in the sun, in the multi-coloured flak-bursts that blossomed and drifted and evaporated.
And then the horror and the fear, the stench and the dust and the flies. The fearful stomach cramps that accompanied the Malta Dog, the nausea and the vomiting and the diarrhoea, the panic-stricken sweating of face and palms that accompanied the endless wait before each alert. The continual discomfort; the freezing cold at twenty-eight thousand feet, the muscles that ached from the strain of hurling one’s fighter around the sky, almost always on the defensive, the utter weariness, the ever-present knowledge that there was nowhere to hide from the bombs and the strafing fighters and that the next sortie might be one’s last, the dreadful feeling of lassitude and. weakness and anticlimax when one got down safely each time.
The words swam in front of Yeoman’s eyes. He had tried to capture everything, all the disjointed impressions of beauty and horror. An old Maltese couple, working unconcernedly on their patch of barren earth close by the airfield perimeter as the sirens wailed, looking up briefly and waving to him as he taxied past in his Spitfire. The dusty, ragged girl in Naxxar, seizing his hand and pressing her worn prayer card into it. (Although far from religious he carried it with him constantly, in his shirt pocket.) The Junkers 88s, howling down over Rabat towards the smoke cloud that hung over Takali, some dropping their bombs short so that they plunged into the town. The fallen masonry choking the streets, the merciful shroud of white dust hiding the human debris. An occasional glimpse of something bloody and inhuman on a stretcher.
The pilot, one of the old Malta hands, all of twenty-two years old, twitching and screaming, running naked from the billets in Naxxar in broad daylight and blowing out his brains with his Service revolver because he couldn’t take any more.
The broken debris of aircraft, strewn around the perimeter of the airfields, skeletal in the sunshine. The burning wreckage of Junkers and Messerschmitts and Spitfires and Hurricanes and Macchis, spiralling earthwards. Parachutes, shining in the sun, drifting through the clusters of flak. The airmen, burned dark brown by the sun, toiling ceaselessly, always grumbling yet paradoxically always cheerful.
The faces that vanished from the Mess with each new day, some known, some nameless.
It was all so jumbled. Yet this was Malta in May 1942: a crazy jigsaw puzzle in which none of the pieces quite fitted together, a kaleidoscope of whirling events that robbed a man of any delusion that he was in control of his own destiny. You flew and you fought and you hit the enemy whenever you had the chance, and if you were lucky you got back. Sometimes you were very lucky, and caught the bombers without a fighter escort. Like those eight Italian Cant Z 1007s the other day, for example. He searched for his account of the action among the scrawled words, and re-read it.
*
21 May. Several false alarms this morning. Eventually scrambled at noon with four Spits. Graham, self, Powell, Wilcox. Joined by two Hurricanes from Hal Far. Douggie ordered us to climb to Angels thirty over Gozo. Visibility perfect, with Sicily clearly visible. Spotted the Italians almost at once, in beautiful formation; two ‘diamonds’ of four aircraft. There wasn’t a fighter in sight except our own. Came in from astern in pairs. Enemy took no evasive action whatsoever. I was conscious of how beautiful the enemy bombers were; elegant and streamlined, so different from the angular Junkers 88s. Long, slender fuselages, three engines and twin fins. Closed with the machine on the extreme left of the second formation, fired short burst. Thin smoke-trail from his starboard engine. Dived under him, dodging fire from his ventral gunner. Gerry Powell finished him off.
Attacked rearmost aircraft of leading formation. Noted odd camouflage, all mottled greens, browns and greys, with Italian insignia standing out boldly. Closed in to less than 100 yards; first burst blew chunks off his starboard fin, second set starboard engine on fire. Enemy aircraft went down in shallow diving turn to port and I followed. Next burst set port engine on fire and e/a’s dive steepened until almost vertical. Enemy aircraft hit ground near Qala (Gozo) and blew up. Observed two parachutes. Remainder of enemy formation totally destroyed, five by our chaps, rest by Hurricanes from Hal Far. One Hum hit by return fire and ditched; pilot OK and picked up by ASR, together with half a dozen Italians.
*
The Z 1007 was Yeoman’s second kill since his arrival in Malta; his only other claim was one Junkers 88 damaged. Gerry Powell’s score already stood at three Messerschmitt 109s, one Macchi 202 and a Ju 88, in addition to the Z 1007 he had destroyed, while Roger Graham had knocked down three Ju 88s.
Yeoman picked up his pencil, pondered for a few moments, then wrote:
*
It rained yesterday, which is unusual for this time of year. A great towering black storm-cloud built up over the island, all purple-black and grey, outlined in silver by the sun. There was no alert and we sat on the ground and watched a few 109s skimming round its edges, like minnows in a pond, but they didn’t come down and left us in peace. There was hardly any action during the day, but the enemy made up for it last night. Valletta again, and some bombs on Hal Far too. We’re all bog-eyed this morning — a hell of a start to our forty-eight hour leave.
*
The chair creaked as Yeoman sat back and stretched, laying down his pencil and closing his notebook. Leave! He chuckled inwardly. That was a laugh. Gerry Powell and he had arranged to spend their precious forty-eight hours in Valletta, and it would probably be a damn’ sight more dangerous there than at Luqa. Still, at least they would have two whole days free of the nerve-racking strain of waiting for alerts, of the sheer physical drain of flying four or five sorties a day.
‘C’mon, George, we gotta be going. We’re wasting valuable floozie time.’
Yeoman looked up and grinned as Powell came into the room. The Canadian was wearing his best uniform and positively glowed with anticipation of hitting the fleshpots of Valletta like a mini-tornado.
‘Don’t panic, Gerry,’ Yeoman said. ‘There’s still fifteen minutes to bus time, and it’s always late. Anyway, I’m ready now.’
He put away his diary and picked up a blue canvas bag containing a change of clothing and his shaving kit. Then, taking a last look round to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he followed Powell along the corridor, down the stone staircase and out into the morning sunlight.
It was just after nine o’clock, but already Naxxar’s small square was dancing with heat. They sat down to await the bus on the steps of the church, taking some comfort from the shade and watching the friendly, chattering Maltese people going about their business. Yeoman and Powell were not the only ones heading for Valletta; as the minutes ticked by a small crowd began to gather. It was composed mainly of civilians, Maltese workmen with their inevitable coating of white dust, but there were also three or four more RAF types from the Takali Wing. Yeoman didn’t recognize them, although he knew that they must have been sharing the same building for some time.
By nine-thirty the crowd was beginning to show signs of impatience, with the volume of chatter increasing. The bus was already twenty minutes late and it only had to
come from Mosta, a mile or so up the road.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Yeoman looked up, startled. The man had appeared from nowhere. He was small and dark-skinned, wizened by years of sun, and wore a khaki uniform of sorts. His shoulder flashes proclaimed that he was a member of the Royal Malta Artillery. He saluted smartly.
‘You are waiting for the bus, sir?’ he asked, beaming in a friendly fashion. Yeoman agreed that they were.
The soldier’s smile disappeared and he shook his head sadly. ‘It will not come, sir,’ he told the pilots. ‘I, Joseph Grech, know that it will not come, for the husband of my sister, Tony Camilleri, is its driver, and he is very sick.’
Powell rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. Yeoman looked at the diminutive Grech. ‘You are sure about this?’ he queried.
The soldier spread his hands, as though in apology. ‘Quite sure, sir,’ he answered. ‘The bus will not come today.’
Some of the people in the small crowd had overheard his words, and those who understood English were starting to drift away.
‘Well,’ Yeoman said to Powell, ‘there’s no point in hanging around here. Looks as though we’ll have to hoof it.’
Grech brought himself to attention, stiffening to the full height of his five feet four inches, and announced, dramatically:
‘Sirs, you will not need to walk. In a few minutes a truck of the Royal Malta Artillery’ — he pronounced the words with a proud ring in his voice — ‘will arrive, driven by my corporal, Angus Sultana. It is going as far as Hamrun. I myself will arrange for you to have a lift.’
Yeoman thanked Grech, who glowed with pride, and grinned to himself, wondering about Angus Sultana’s parentage. In fact, the man turned out to be a larger version of Grech, who spoke to him volubly in Maltese, explaining the sad business of Tony Camilleri, husband of his sister, who was sick, and who therefore was unable to drive the daily bus into Valletta, which therefore would not now arrive.
The corporal stuck his head out of the window of the dust-caked truck and grinned toothlessly at Yeoman. ‘Awright, sir,’ he said.
‘Awright, Corporal,’ Yeoman answered. He was beginning to pick up bits of Maltese. For generations, British troops and sailors had been greeting the inhabitants of Malta with the traditional salutation. ‘All right, Johnny?’, and the corrupted version had infiltrated into the language until it had become the accepted word for ‘hello’.
Grech offered the RAF officers a seat in the cab of the truck but they declined, indicating that it was the little soldier’s rightful place. He radiated pleasure and got inside. Yeoman, Powell and the airmen from Takali clambered into the back and squatted down on the floor. Like everything else, it was coated with white powder.
‘Bang goes our best khaki,’ Powell said ruefully.
‘It’ll brush off,’ Yeoman replied. ‘Anyway, it’s better than walking.’
The last was a fatal pronouncement, as he discovered a few minutes later. Sultana took the truck careering through the narrow streets of Naxxar as though all the devils in hell were in hot pursuit, increasing speed still more as the vehicle burst out on to the hot, dusty road that led down over the open plain towards Birkirkara. At one point it hit a massive rut and almost turned over, throwing the occupants into a heap in the middle of the floor. Yeoman’s head came into violent contact with the midriff of one of the Takali pilots, a bull-necked flight sergeant, and both men treated themselves to a bout of fluent cursing as they sorted themselves out.
‘Mind you,’ said the flight sergeant, ‘it might be uncomfortable, but it’s the only way to travel around these parts. You often get 109s cruising round the island in between raids, and they’ll shoot at anything that moves. You’re a sitting duck, out here in the open. They shot up a bus load of schoolkids the other day, and killed half a dozen of them.’
On this occasion the Messerschmitts were fortunately absent, and Sultana’s driving remained the only hazard confronting the truck’s passengers. Yeoman, clinging on grimly, peered over the tailboard through the cloud of swirling dust, catching brief glimpses of the landscape as it swept past. They swayed and jolted through Birkirkara, with its cluster of white, flat-roofed houses; Yeoman remembered that there was an army barracks here, and that it had recently been bombed with considerable loss of life. Small villages appeared and then vanished just as quickly behind the dust-cloud as the truck sped on, and then suddenly they were passing through the arches of an aqueduct and Yeoman looked around him with renewed interest as buildings appeared on either side.
The truck slowed appreciably as it entered Hamrun, for the streets of the ancient town were heavily congested. The engine whined as Sultana changed gear, slithered round a hairpin bend and took the vehicle up a short but steep hill. At the top he pulled off the road and stopped, switching off the engine.
The passengers climbed down gratefully, dusting themselves down, and gazed at their surroundings. The truck was parked by the edge of what appeared to be ornamental gardens of some sort — or at least that is what they might have been, before the army took over. They were now the site of a battery of anti-aircraft guns, their long barrels pointing skywards at an angle over the city of Floriana towards the deepwater inlets of Grand Harbour.
Grech came round to the rear of the truck and saluted. He said, apologetically:
‘This is as far as we can take you, sirs. In any case, no vehicle can pass through Floriana. The streets are completely blocked.’
‘That’s all right,’ Yeoman replied, ‘we can easily walk from here. I’d like to thank you and Corporal Sultana for your help. Good luck to you.’
‘It was a pleasure, sir,’ the little man said. ‘And if you come to Mosta, come also to the Union Bar. It is owned by the cousin of my sister-in-law, and there you will always be welcome.’
Yeoman nodded and smiled, thanking Grech, then set off down the road with Powell into Floriana.
‘It’s a bit puzzling,’ Powell exclaimed suddenly. Yeoman looked at him questioningly. ‘What is?’ he asked.
‘The little feller’s family ties,’ his companion grinned. ‘He seems to have brothers and cousins and sisters-in-law all over the place. Still, the Union Bar might be worth visiting. You never know — sister-in-law might be a respectable bit of crumpet.’
‘Fat and fifty, more like,’ Yeoman grunted. ‘Anyway, you want to watch your step with this lot. Start mucking about with their nearest and dearest, and you’re liable to get a stiletto up your backside.’
Floriana was a shambles. It was as though the old city had been systematically smashed to pieces, street by street, with a giant hammer. The buildings, constructed in the main from blocks of soft limestone, had proved completely incapable of withstanding bomb blast; the shock waves had crushed them like eggs, choking the streets with mountains of collapsed masonry.
The pilots picked their way through the stone wilderness, past gangs of Maltese workmen labouring under a dusty shroud to clear a road through the rubble. Miraculously, they appeared to be succeeding, at least in part; as Yeoman and Powell walked on, the narrow track between the shattered houses broadened steadily until it became a recognizable roadway, wide enough to allow the passage of transport. They stuck carefully to the middle of it, for here there were many empty shells of buildings on either side, their walls cracked and leaning at all sorts of odd angles. One of them, taller than the rest, caught Yeoman’s attention and he stopped, gazing at it in fascination. Its outside walls had crumbled away completely, stripped off by some mysterious trick of blast, but the walls of the rooms inside were still intact. It looked like a house of cards, capped crazily by what was left of the roof. Broken and splintered furniture was still inside, piled haphazardly into the corners, and here and there a torn lace curtain fluttered, caught in a jagged tangle of stone.
‘I wonder who lived there,’ Yeoman said, voicing his thoughts aloud.
‘Well,’ Powell retorted, ‘whoever it was they certainly aren�
�t living there now. Come on, for Christ’s sake, before the bloody place falls down on us. Besides, I’m parched.’
They turned into a narrow lane, a defile sliced through the living rock that plunged steeply down towards the harbour. It was shady here, and the doors and windows of houses gaped at them, dark caverns of gloom in which one sensed movement. The bombs had done their work here, too, as scattered blocks of stone and pock-marked walls testified, but most of the buildings were still intact, the depth of the street having sheltered them from the worst of the onslaught. As the pilots descended towards the rectangle of light that marked the far end of the alley they encountered growing numbers of people, most of them converging on a single shop outside of which black-clad women stood in a long queue, waiting patiently. The whole shop front was open to the street and Yeoman peered in as they went past, catching a glimpse of an enormously fat woman weighing rations on a pair of iron scales. Some of her customers glanced with brief curiosity at the two men, then looked away disinterestedly. Yeoman was reminded of the ‘business as usual’ signs outside battered shops in London’s bombed-out East End during the blitz, and of the ‘London can take it’ slogans chalked on the walls. Malta was taking it, too, with magnificent courage, and Yeoman felt a sudden great surge of affection for her dauntless people.
They emerged into the sunlight at the far end of the street and turned on to what had once been an avenue. It was still lined with the blast-shattered remnants of trees. It had become the main thoroughfare between Floriana and Valletta, for the main road that ran parallel to it was completely blocked by rubble, piled fifteen feet high in some places. Beyond the rubble was a stone wall, with great gaps torn in it. The pilots picked their way across to it and stood at one of the gaps, looking down into one of the deep inlets of the harbour.
Malta Victory Page 7
