‘Was the pilot all right?’ Edward asked. ‘The one that just came in?’
‘Bobby? Yes, he should be. A bullet grazed his head. I think he’s suffering concussion more than anything.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Harry, pointing to a lone building standing shakily on the far side of the airfield.
‘The Mad House,’ Chuck told them. He grinned. ‘We were still using that as a mess when we first got here. Amazing place, all marble and grand staircases. Of course, it was a lot bigger then.’
‘I think Jerry uses it as a marker,’ added Tony. ‘They’ve been chipping away at it bit by bit, but it refuses to collapse completely. Can’t imagine it’ll be with us for much longer, though.’
‘Nah. Give it another six weeks, max,’ said Chuck.
The grinding of gears made them turn. Coming towards them was a bus, wheezing gently and clattering whenever it hit a rut or went over a rough bit of ground. ‘This should be the others,’ said Tony. They watched as the bus drew towards them. ‘That’s seen better days,’ Harry muttered to Edward. All the glass from the windscreen and windows had gone, as had one of the wings. Bullet holes peppered its sides, while one half of the bonnet flapped loosely, shaking from the uneasy rhythms of the engine.
‘Well, on you get,’ said Tony. ‘This is going to take you to your quarters. See you later.’
They joined the other five pilots, all of whom had made it safely, but who were equally dazed by their first hour on the Island. Back around the airfield they jolted, before joining a road that led towards the citadel on the hill that overlooked Takali. Rubble littered their way. For the most part, the driver was able to easily wind his way through, but occasionally rock scraped against the side of the bus, grinding noisily and causing the bus to judder and the pilots to clutch their seats. No-one said much. What was there to say? Most had volunteered for this. Edward looked at Harry, and smiled weakly. What have we done?
The bus began to climb up a long hill towards the town. Edward looked out through the glassless window, squinting from the dust worked up by the bus, towards the towering walls and buildings of the citadel, and the great dome and pinnacles of the church. The ground then dropped and rose again, climbing towards another cluster of buildings and what appeared to be a clock tower, standing proudly against the blue sky. ‘I don’t know anything about this place,’ he said to Harry. ‘I didn’t even really know where it was until we reached Gib.’
‘All I know is that St Paul was washed up here during a storm,’ Harry told him. ‘And there was a siege in fifteen-sixty-something. The Knights Templars held out against the Turks.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Nelson came here too, after the Battle of the Nile, and helped the Maltese kick out the French. That’s when it became British – or around then, anyway. Didn’t you do any history at school?’
‘Yes, but not that.’
The driver crunched the gears again, the engine coughed, and the bus came almost to a standstill before lurching forward again just as the first buildings rose directly beside them. Then the driver turned, climbed a further stretch of even steeper hill and stuttered into a market square that overlooked almost the entire Island. The town was bare of almost any vehicles, save an equally dilapidated but less bullet-riddled bus. Mules stood forlornly at the head of carts, their ribs bulging through mangy coats. Maltese men and women ambled past; children, many without shoes, ran and shouted.
They trundled on, past the market square and onto a stone bridge across what appeared to be a dried moat, and under a large ornate gateway. It reminded Edward of the castles of North Wales he had visited as a boy. He thought: we’re the knights of this new siege, and wondered whether the men of four centuries before had walked beneath these same gates with similar waves of nausea and dread churning in their stomachs.
The citadel was quiet and still. High walls loomed above them, casting dark shadows across their way. The din of the engine, its rough spluttering, was accentuated in these closed surroundings. They turned a corner, down a narrow street, then emerged into a courtyard before an ornate palazzo. The driver braked squeakily and brought them to a halt. ‘Here we are,’ he said in a thick accent.
The Xara Palace – pronounced Shara. Owned by the Baron Chapelle, a Maltese Knight of St John, but requisitioned by the RAF, and one of the largest houses in the ancient citadel of Mdina. The pilots stepped out, clutching their bags. Flight Lieutenant Bagshawe, the intelligence officer at Takali, ushered them into a long cool hallway of thick stone. It seemed dark after the brightness outside, the air filled with a damp mustiness. ‘Most of us are here now,’ he said. ‘The officers at any rate. The night-fighter boys were the first in, but most of the other places have all been bombed out. So far, this has proved impregnable.’ He looked around, then touched a chair. ‘Touch wood.’ Bagshawe was short, with a clipped and greying moustache. Edward guessed he was about forty. He spoke with a faint Scottish lilt. ‘I’ll show you your rooms, and the mess. We’ll have lunch then get you back to the airfield. Sound all right?’
The rooms were large, with high ceilings, wooden floorboards and thick walls. Butch Hammond was given a room of his own, while the others were split into threes. Edward and Harry were put in a room with Lucky. The paint was peeling in the corners and spots of mould flecked one wall, but although the same pervading smell of damp filled the air, it was front-facing, built into the bastion walls. Harry pushed back the wooden shutters and looked out of the window. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘what a view.’ Edward and Lucky came over. Below, a mile or two away, was Takali, but beyond they could see a number of small towns and villages, church towers and domes rising above the houses. In the far distance were the harbours, and the capital, Valletta. Smoke was still drifting into the sky. Further south, Luqa airfield was also clearly visible. ‘Must be the best view on the Island,’ said Edward.
It wasn’t. Two floors above them was the mess, with its open balcony. From here, even more of the Island lay spread before them. ‘Just there – almost next door – with the clock tower, that’s Imtarfa,’ Bagshawe told the assembled pilots. ‘The military hospital. I’m afraid the enemy use the tower as another bomb marker for Takali. Rather unfortunate, really. And that’s Mostar,’ he continued, pointing to a huge domed church that dominated the town just beyond the northern edge of Takali. ‘Bloody good mess, don’t you think? Now I’m afraid I can’t tell yet which of the three fighter squadrons you’ll be joining, but you will be staying put here and operating from Takali. The AOC is going to visit this evening along with Woody, the Ground Controller, so I’m sure they’ll put you in the picture then.’
Lunch in the Mess. Two thin slices of corned beef and a slab of stale bread. Edward was starving – breakfast felt like a lifetime ago and he was still hungry after he’d eaten what he’d been given. He was not alone. Most of the pilots looked dejected. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me that there wouldn’t be much food,’ Harry said to him. ‘I mean, it’s obvious when you think about it – the Island’s under siege – but this is going to take some getting used to.’
‘You’re telling me. I wonder what the drink situation is like.’
‘Probably not very good. Eddie, what are we going to do?’
They were told the bus would collect them again at three. Edward was getting some sleep when, just after two o’clock, air-raid sirens began wailing over the Island. He woke feeling disorientated, then Lucky came in and said, ‘Come on, we’re going up to the balcony to watch.’
‘Shouldn’t we be taking cover in some kind of shelter?’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘No,’ Edward confessed.
‘Well, then. Anyway, look at the width of these walls.’
A number of pilots were already there, including some of those who had been at Takali earlier, leaning on the wooden balcony to watch the show. Eight Hurricanes had taken off already, but were now out of sight. The bombers were still
invisible when the first puffs of anti-aircraft fire began peppering the sky, their reports following hollowly some seconds later. Once again, the enemy had made for the docks first. Explosions and the muffled crump of bombs exploding began filling the air. More smoke shrouded the harbours.
‘Here they come,’ said someone. Edward strained his eyes, then saw a formation of around ten bombers wheeling over Hal Far and Luqa airfields. Tiny dots began swirling high above. ‘The Hurricanes,’ said Hammond. One bomber was seen diving towards the sea, smoke trailing. They all cheered. The guns based around the airfields began opening up, deep, sharp cracks from the heavy guns and a lighter, more rapid rate of fire from the Bofors. Black puffs dotted the skyline. Suddenly enemy bombers were diving over Takali once more, the anti-aircraft guns and sound of exploding bombs now quite deafening, even from where the pilots were watching. The airfield disappeared under a cloud of dust, smoke and debris, then five 109s appeared through the haze, just fifty feet from the ground, climbed and screamed over them.
‘Bloody nerve!’ shouted Hammond, who shook his clenched fist at them as they disappeared from sight. ‘Just wait ’til I have a go at those bastards.’ He glowered at the other pilots, then turned and went inside.
An afternoon spent hanging around dispersal, talking to the old hands and trying to make a rapid adjustment to their new surroundings. Most of 636 Squadron had disappeared. They appeared to work in shifts; 126 Squadron was now on duty. ‘There’s no point in us all being here,’ said one. ‘After all, there’s nothing like enough aircraft for us all.’ The steamroller had been damaged on the last raid, so a number of the ground crew were frantically trying to repair it. ‘Without it we’re buggered,’ said another of the pilots. ‘It’s hard enough filling in the craters as it is.’
Edward listened attentively. It seemed Takali had only recently started to come under regular and heavy attack. During the first week of February, the pre-war station offices had been destroyed. A week later, the old barracks blocks, where the ground crew had lived, had also been destroyed. Rubble and contorted steel lay heaped in piles; shards of glass twinkled in the sunlight. Their ten Hurricanes were the first fighters to arrive on the island since the previous November. ‘These crates we’ve been flying are pieces of crap,’ said one. He was an American – there were a number in the squadron, all volunteers. ‘Couple of weeks back, my engine cut out on me five times.’ He held up his hand to emphasise the point.
‘What did you do?’ asked Harry.
‘Well, fortunately it was while we were providing air cover for a ship, so I kept diving and the engine started again. If there’d been any yellow-nosed fuckers humming around I’d have been toast. Another of the guys was coming in to land and a hundred feet off the deck his engine seized completely. Of course, he had to crash land. What else could he do? Let me tell you, this is no place to crash land in a hurry. You may or may not have noticed, but the whole goddam place is covered with stone walls – there’s not a field on the island long enough to land a plane. So he crashes straight into one of these walls, smashes his head open on the gunsight, and breaks his shoulder. And he was lucky. The Hurricane was nothing but a piece of scrap. And he was a good guy.’ He cleared his throat, spat, then said, ‘Ah, hell. I tell you, it’s bad enough trying to fight when you’re completely outnumbered without that kind of shit happening.’ Even a brand-new Hurricane straight out of the factory would struggle against the latest 109s and Italian Macchi 202s, he told them, but the ones they had on Malta had been repaired and botched and patched up so many times, and often with ill-matching parts, that their performance levels had shrunk further. It took them at least fifteen minutes to climb to fifteen thousand feet, by which time the enemy were already over the Island. ‘The moment you try to attack a bomber, you’ve got half a dozen 109s and 202s bearing down upon you.’
‘So what are the tactics?’ asked Edward.
‘Tactics?’ The pilot snorted. ‘There aren’t any. Have a quick squirt at the bombers and pray to God you haven’t already been hit yourself so you can dive out of the way. Hit the deck, then home.’ Landing was also hazardous in the extreme, he warned them, because by that time, the airfield would be covered in bomb craters. ‘Look, sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to put the fear of God into you or anything, but there’s no point beating about the bush. We haven’t a hope in hell here. Not until they give us some better machines in which to take on these fucking Krauts and Eyeties. Better machines and plenty of ’em.’
*
7.10 p.m. Air Vice-Marshal Hugh Pughe Lloyd strode into the mess at the Xara Palace, followed by Group Captain ‘Woody’ Woodhall. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said the Island’s commanding officer, then turned to face them, hands on his hips, legs spaced apart, and with his cigarette holder still clamped into one side of his mouth. He stared at the pilots assembled in front of him, his pale eyes sweeping briefly from man to man. Two creases ran from either side of his nose to the corners of his mouth. Almost a sneer, Edward thought. ‘Hugh Pughe’ the others had called him; everyone seemed to have a nickname, even the chief.
‘Welcome to Malta,’ he began. ‘I know most of you have volunteered to come here and for that I’m most grateful. We are in the middle of a deadly battle, and each and every one of you will play a critical role. History is being made, and you are a part of it. Remember that.’ He paused dramatically. The room was utterly silent. Edward had a sudden urge to cough, but managed to control himself until Lloyd began speaking again. ‘We are in the middle of a siege, gentlemen, a siege that began twenty months ago when the Italians declared war on Britain and began sending their bombers over. Well, let me tell you that things have hotted up considerably in recent months. As you will no doubt have already discovered, the Germans have joined in too, and I’m afraid right now we have our backs to the wall. Hitler and the Duce have assembled a mighty air fleet against us. On Sicily there are over five hundred German and Italian aircraft – you’ve seen some of them already, I think. We have nothing like that number. We ask a lot of our fighter pilots, but so far no man has let us down. You are the Island’s defenders – you and the artillery. The gunners are splendid fellows and you will find them worthy comrades, but I’m not going to deny that a hard and arduous task faces you. Now I know you have flown in new Hurricanes, but you have all been brought here because you are Spitfire pilots, and when the Spitfires arrive – and they will arrive, very soon – you will be flying them. More will follow, and more complete squadrons, and then we will show the enemy that they’ve picked a fight with the wrong people. I know the German, gentleman. I fought him in the last war and believe me, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still nothing but a cowardly bully. And like all bullies, when hit back, he doesn’t like it.’ From outside a faint whirr could be heard, becoming rapidly louder. Harry nudged Edward. The others began looking around and even Hugh Pughe stopped and listened. ‘A slight interruption I believe, gentlemen,’ said Lloyd, just as the sirens rang out once more. Moments later there was a whistling in the air. Edward’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest. An explosion shook the building, bursting the wooden window shutters inwards. Scraping chairs as the pilots quickly lay down on the floor, hands over their heads. Only Lloyd remained standing, defiantly leaning against one of the walls. More bombs followed in quick succession. Edward glanced at Harry, saw him grimacing, his eyes shut tight. The noise was deafening, the whistling a terrible sound that seemed to signal an inevitable death. The building shook repeatedly, dust fell from the ceiling, followed by a chunk of plaster, which crashed to the floor and split into a million pieces.
It was over quickly. Silence returned, suddenly, save the increasingly faint whirr of aero-engines. I’m still alive, thought Edward, lifting his head. Hugh Pughe was back in the centre of the room. ‘All right, gentlemen, as I was saying.’ Bashfully, the pilots clambered to their feet, dusting themselves down as they did so. Edward was glad for his chair; his legs felt weak. So this was life in the front line,
he thought: bombed day and night, never knowing when a hundred-pound lump of iron and high explosive might land on your head. Harry looked pale. He’s thinking the same, thought Edward. Even Lucky was chewing his nails.
‘As I was saying,’ said the AOC once more. ‘636 Squadron has suffered badly over the past ten days. They’re low on pilots and are barely operational. But I’m re-forming it as of now. You men are going to provide the nucleus of the new Spitfire strike force, and all of you will be joining 636 immediately – all except Squadron Leader Hammond, who is promoted to Wing Commander and will become station commander at Takali. Squadron Leader Pallister will be your immediate CO, but Hammond will be responsible for turning you and later squadrons into the fist that strikes back at the Hun. Don’t forget that Malta’s primary role is an offensive one. We might not be taking the fight to the enemy much at the moment, but we will again, and soon. We will have our day, and it will be you who will be able to savour that victory. Years from now, you’ll all be proud to have been here. This is a great air battle and we are going to win. All clear?’ The pilots nodded. ‘And one final thing.’ He swept his eyes over them once more. ‘Good luck, gentlemen.’
Later, in their room. The canvas camp bed was rather like a stretcher and not quite wide enough to ever get really comfortable. Edward lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the dark nothingness above him. A monumentally long day – were they really still on the Furious this morning? – but despite his exhaustion, he could not sleep.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 15
