He paused, and poured a little more schnapps into their mugs. Somewhere across the airfield, an engine coughed into life and roared healthily for a few moments before its note died away to a low rumble.
‘Go on, Conrad,’ Richter urged. ‘Let’s have the full story.’
‘That I can give you,’ Seliger said, ‘because I first came here in April ’41, during the first offensive against Malta. Now, I’d survived the big daylight attacks on England the year before, and I thought I knew all there was to know about flak — but I’m telling you, the flak over Malta, and especially Valletta, has to be seen to be believed. You can practically walk on it. Their barrage is centrally controlled, and you’ve got layers of flak plastering the sky at varying heights between fifteen hundred and four thousand metres over the target. Even if you manage to get through that lot, light flak in and around the objective can give you an awful lot of trouble. I’m glad I’m flying Ju 87s; at least we are pretty manoeuvrable and can avoid a lot of the muck by rapid course-changes. The Ju 88s are not so fortunate, and we’ve lost a lot to flak. The Italians are the luckiest, because they almost always go in at high level, where they have only the fighters to contend with.’
‘Ah yes, the fighters,’ Richter interrupted. ‘From the way you talk, I get the impression that they rate a poor second to the flak.’
The other shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to imply that at all. They didn’t give us too much trouble during the first offensive, because the Tommies only had a handful of Hurricanes and our fighter escort managed to keep them pinned down. They were still using-Hurricanes in December, when I came back to Sicily after six months in the Balkans, and we still had the upper edge — in fact even more so, because the fighter boys were now flying Messerschmitt 109FS and the Tommies were no match for them.’
Seliger took another swallow of the fiery spirit, pulled a long cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it carefully. Addressing Richter through a cloud of blue smoke, he went on:
‘It was in April, about the middle of the month I think, when we got our first nasty shock. We hadn’t encountered any fighter opposition for days and we’d dropped so many bombs on Malta that the place looked like the surface of the moon. We certainly hadn’t counted on meeting Spitfires, but they were there all right. We lost a lot of aeroplanes that day. The Tommies brought in more Spitfires later in the month, and another batch about three weeks ago. It’s no picnic any more.’
‘Where the blazes do they come from?’ Richter wanted to know. ‘The Spitfires, I mean.’
‘They fly ’em off carriers, apparently, well outside our range. It’s a hell of a long haul for the pilots, but we hit the carriers pretty hard last year and the Tommies don’t like to risk them any more. It makes things very hard for the convoys they are trying to push through to Malta — we really plaster them, and hardly any of the ships get through. I expect that when the island has run out of essential supplies such as fuel, and the population is starving to death, we’ll walk in and take over.’
‘Do you think there’ll be an invasion soon?’ Richter asked him. Seliger shrugged.
‘Who can say?’ he answered. ‘All I know is that there are a lot of paratroops in southern Italy, and I’ve seen gliders in crates tucked away on airfields right here in Sicily, all ready to be assembled. I don’t know why the hell we didn’t invade the place months ago, before the Tommies had a chance to get organized.’
‘Too busy in the Balkans and Russia, I suppose,’ Richter said. ‘I must admit, though, I’ve often wondered why we didn’t give more priority to Malta. It seems senseless to let Rommel go dashing off to Cairo with a British base in his rear, threatening his lines of communication.’
‘It was senseless to attack Russia, too,’ grunted Seliger. ‘but we still did it. Well, now it’s your turn to tell me something of what things are like there. The way I ramble on, I’m bound to upset somebody sooner or later and get myself sent to the Russian front. I might as well be prepared.’
They sat and talked together for the remainder of the afternoon, and Richter could not remember a time when he had enjoyed himself so much in the last couple of years. From time to time their conversation was interrupted by the shrill clamour of the telephone, or by the entry of engineer officers or NCOS who wanted to get in touch with some other section on the airfield. One or two pilots drifted in, stayed for a while and chatted politely with Richter, then wandered off to have a word with the men who were servicing their aircraft.
Only when they were alone did they speak of the conduct of the war, and the future of Germany, and only then because they trusted one another implicitly. Richter had seen men disappear overnight, quietly and with few questions asked, because their conversation in the Mess or the crew-room had implied criticism of the way the Nazis were running things. The regulations on ‘defeatist talk’, Richter had noticed, had been tightened up considerably since the German offensive in Russia had ground to a halt at the end of 1941.
Quietly, Richter discussed the things he had seen and heard with Seliger, and in the end came to the conclusion that such procedures were probably a necessary evil in time of war. Nevertheless, there were rumours, ugly whispers of the fate that befell those who opposed the aims of the Nazis, even in a minor way. Johnny Schumacher, returning from leave, had spoken of a party he had attended in Berlin. He had overheard snatches of conversation from a group of SS officers, all of them drunk: talk of executions and beatings, of men and women stripped naked and made to run round the compound of some camp in the middle of winter until they dropped from exhaustion and froze to death where they had fallen. The SS men had laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks, it was such a huge joke. Johnny Schumacher could not remember the name of the camp; he thought it was somewhere in Poland.
Richter had not believed half the story. The SS were braggarts, Hitler’s nancy-boys, treating the rest of the Wehrmacht with contempt. Richter was certain that the Wehrmacht would stand up to them in the long run, and that there would be a big sorting-out after the war was won. He voiced his opinion to Seliger, who nodded in full agreement.
The thought that Germany might lose the war did not even cross the mind of either man. It was the summer of 1942, and the eagles of the Third Reich were still soaring high.
Chapter Seven
Tony’s bar in Sliema was crammed with every conceivable kind of uniform. Yeoman and Powell had found themselves a table in one corner, and now they were surveying the scene through an alcoholic haze. Their forty-eight-hour pass would soon expire and they were morose, a condition aggravated by the amount of whisky and gin inside them.
Yeoman stared into the bottom of his glass, reflecting on the events of the last couple of days. He summed them up in four words.
‘Waste of bloody time.’
Powell looked at him. ‘What is?’ he asked.
Yeoman waved an unsteady hand. ‘This lot. Our leave. Everything. Bombed to hell half the time, the hotel where we should have stayed in Valletta knocked flat. Should have stayed in Naxxar. Bloody waste of time.’
‘Well,’ Powell said truculently, ‘whose fault’s that? What about those two chicks we picked up in the Union Club, those telephonists? With their own apartment, and all? A real exhibition you made of yourself, and no mistake, with that brunette. Pouring gin down her cleavage just because she upset you!’
‘She was a silly bitch,’ Yeoman grunted. ‘It was just the way she went on. Nose in the air all the time, babbling on about the Navy. Wanted to take her down a peg or two, that’s all.’
‘You did that all right,’ Powell admitted. ‘I thought she was going to take you apart. The thin veneer of civilization fell right off her, I can’t deny it. But I was getting on famously with her mate, you sod! End of a beautiful dream, that was. Anyone would think you have something against women, permanently.’
Yeoman toyed with his glass. ‘Maybe I have, at that,’ he said quietly.
Powell looked at him sharply,
sensing that there was something more deeply ingrained in Yeoman’s character than he had imagined.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘you can tell your Uncle Gerry. You got a girl back home?’
Yeoman was silent for a few moments, lost in thought. Then he said:
‘I thought I had. Someone I met when I was in France. She was an American — a newspaper correspondent.’
He lapsed into silence, remembering. Julia Connors. Julia of the red hair and the green eyes, who had told him that she loved him. The memory of the smooth touch of her skin was almost more than he could bear.
‘Well, what happened?’ Powell asked impatiently.
Yeoman sighed. ‘We saw each other in London a few times after that,’ he said, ‘then she was recalled to New York. She promised she’d write, but she never did — or at least I never received any letter. I made some enquiries and learned she’d been sent to Burma to report on the American Volunteer Group.’
‘So she’d still be there when the Japs attacked?’
‘I hope not, but I’m very much afraid you’re right. Anyway, there’s damn all I can do about it. The trouble is, I can’t get her out of my system, not even when I’m with some other woman. I just have this strong feeling I’m going to see her again and I want it all to be right with us, like it was before.’
‘This war’s a bastard,’ Powell said sympathetically. ‘Tough luck, old son. It’ll probably all work out in the long run.’
Yeoman drained his glass, grimacing as the neat spirit hit his throat.
‘It’s nobody’s problem but mine,’ he said. ‘It would just help if I knew she was okay, that’s all. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I feel depressed enough as it is.’
‘Me too,’ Powell agreed. They looked round; the noise in the bar was frightful and images were blurred through drifting tobacco smoke.
Yeoman’s eyes focused on a group of Merchant Navy officers, standing in the far corner. He wondered where they had come from, as no vessels had got through to the island for some time, then realized that they must be the survivors of previous convoys whose ships had been sunk during the unloading process. He thought about going over and having a word with them, then dismissed the idea. They seemed quite happy on their own, and anyway he was not really in a conversational mood.
He looked at his watch. It was a little after half-past nine. Abruptly, he turned to his friend.
‘What say we get out of this dump?’ he queried. Powell shrugged.
‘If you like,’ he said. ‘What’s the suggestion — back to Valletta?’
Yeoman shook his head. ‘No, I was thinking about going back to Naxxar. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this.’
Powell looked startled. ‘Back to Naxxar? How the hell are we going to get there at this time of night?’
‘We’ll walk,’ Yeoman said. ‘It’s a nice night and I could do with some fresh air. A lot of it, in fact.’
Powell groaned. ‘You’re bloody well mad,’ he said. ‘Still, if you’re determined to shove off, I’m not staying around here on my own. Come on, we might as well grab our gear.’
They went upstairs to the room they had rented above the bar and collected their bags. Yeoman left a couple of pounds on the table and they slipped quietly out of the building, not wishing to be waylaid by the friendly proprietor.
Outside they paused, sniffing the night air. Sliema Bay lay directly in front of them, its placid water reflecting the light of the stars. Behind them, past the buildings of the town, the velvet of the sky gave way to a more luminous, lighter blue where the upper atmosphere caught the last flicker of the day from far beyond the curve of the earth.
‘What’s the quickest way?’ Powell asked.
Yeoman frowned, considering the question, then said: ‘Well, we can go down through Floriana and Birkirkara, the way we came, but it might be quicker to go straight through the town towards St. Julian’s and then turn off.’
‘Might get lost, that way,’ observed Powell.
‘Some bloody navigator you’d make,’ Yeoman said. ‘We’ve got the stars for reference, haven’t we? Come on, let’s go up through the town.’
They set off, keeping to a westerly course as far as the windings of the narrow streets would permit. Maltese men, seated in their open doorways and smoking pungent tobacco, called out greetings to them as they passed. Children, elfin-like in the shadows, darted to and fro across their path; many Maltese families had a habit of allowing their children to stay up until they became sleepy, which to Yeoman seemed far more sensible than the traditional English fashion of packing them off to bed at seven o’clock. Then he remembered that Maltese children usually slept for a couple of hours in the afternoon, which presumably meant that they had a lot of surplus energy to dissipate later on.
There were not many servicemen here, away from the waterfront bars; in fact Yeoman and Powell had walked on for a good ten minutes without seeing a uniform, so it came as something of a surprise when they suddenly heard the sound of loud voices, singing an unmistakably English song:
‘Oh, we’re off to see the Wild West Show,
The elephant and the kangaroo-oo-oo,
Never mind the weather, as long as we’re together
We’re off to see the Wild West Show!’
Four men burst out of a side street, almost running full tilt into the RAF officers. They wore naval uniforms, and one of them let out a yell:
‘Hey, Air Force! Come on, we’re all off to the party.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Yeoman, heartily wishing he had taken refuge in the shadows, ‘we were just on our way —’
‘No excuses, now!’ cried the naval lieutenant, for such the rank badges on his epaulettes proclaimed him to be. ‘Come on, chaps — press gang!’
Two laughing, cheering naval officers seized Yeoman by the arms and propelled him along the street, while Powell was kidnapped in similar fashion. After a few yards, Yeoman gave in and surrendered with as much grace as he could muster.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘what’s all this about a party?’
‘Naval secret,’ the lieutenant grinned. ‘You’ll find out, soon enough. Not far to go now.’
‘Where are you from?’ one of the other officers wanted to know. ‘Takali?’
‘No, Luqa,’ Yeoman told him. ‘What about you?’
‘Hal Far. We’re Fleet Air Arm, for the benefit of you ignoramuses.’
‘Ignorami,’ Yeoman solemnly corrected him. ‘Are you fighter boys?’
‘Well, sort of,’ the other said. ‘We’ve got three Hurricanes between us, but we sling a couple of 250-pounders under ’em and make fast attacks on targets in Sicily. We really stirred the wops up at Syracuse the other day — we knocked out half a dozen flying-boats and then broke all records for low-level flying on the way back.’
‘It’s nice to know we’re hitting back,’ Yeoman commented. ‘See if you can clobber a few Stukas, while you’re at it.’
‘No bloody fear, old boy. That’s your job. Too much flak around their airfields, all of it nasty.’
Yeoman suddenly remembered Russell Kemp, the young naval pilot who had served with him at Tobruk and in Crete the year before, and asked if anyone knew him. The question was answered by one of the men walking with Gerry Powell, a couple of steps behind, his accent betraying the fact that he was a Scot.
‘Why yes, I do, quite well as a matter of fact.’ There was a note of surprise in his voice. ‘We trained together, and we’ve been bumping into each other at intervals for ages. Let’s see — I last saw Russ Kemp in December, I think it was. He was on his way to join Victorious, escorting convoys to Russia, or something. How do you happen to know him?’
Briefly, Yeoman related the story of their adventures, of the hopeless last battle in Crete with a handful of worn-out fighters. Just as he was finishing, the little group reached what was clearly its destination, a large flatroofed house set back some distance from the road. Yeoman suddenly became awa
re that they had been climbing steadily as they walked. The house stood at the top of a rise, commanding an excellent view of the lower part of Sliema and the sea beyond. Although it was hard to tell in the darkness, it seemed to have been untouched by the bombing that had laid waste large tracts of the town.
They passed through a courtyard and stopped in front of an iron-bound wooden door. The house was blacked out, but the noise coming from inside confirmed that revelry of some sort was in progress.
The lieutenant groped for the bell-pull, found it and tugged. A minute later the door creaked open, and a man’s voice said out of the darkness:
‘Oh, hello, chaps. Do come in, but watch your step. Can’t see a perishing thing.’
They went inside, stepping carefully over the threshold and the heavy door swung shut behind them. A moment later a match flared, and three candle flames grew, spreading their soft light over a large hallway.
The man who had admitted them, and who now held the candelabrum, was an army major. ‘Sorry about this, chaps,’ he apologized, ‘but the wretched electricity went off twenty minutes ago. It’s a good thing that Lucia’s old man had the foresight to lay in a reasonable stock of candles. Come on, this way.’
Yeoman and Powell dumped their bags in the hall and followed the major and the Fleet Air Arm officers along a short corridor. The sound of music and voices swelled as they approached the door at the far end. The major flung it open with a cry of ‘Reinforcements!’ and they passed into the room beyond.
It was filled with the light of dozens of candles, their mellow glow softening the faces that turned towards the newcomers. Yeoman saw at a glance that the room was exquisitely furnished; he was seized by the strangest feeling of having been swept back in time, to an age of gentility that had no place under a rain of bombs.
The strains of Glen Miller’s orchestra brought him back to reality, as someone put on another record, and he surveyed the people in the room. Many of the men — and some of the women, too — were in uniform, but there was a fair proportion of civilians. The naval officers appeared to be well known, for they dived into the throng and began talking to the other guests.
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