A few days later, the mail arrived with a large bundle for Harry, most of which was from Kitty. ‘Look,’ he said to Edward pointing out the postmarks on each, ‘she’s been writing since she got back.’
‘I told you you shouldn’t have worried.’
Harry grinned. ‘I know. You were right.’
Edward had some post too – his first since arriving on Malta. His letters had also been held up; the first was postmarked February. He read his letters alone, in a quiet corner of the mess, clutching the light blue paper that his mother always used. He could picture her writing them at her small bureau in the corner of the drawing room. The writing was so familiar – the same handwriting he had read throughout his schooldays and beyond: careful, legible, with always a word misspelt somewhere. Her news was about village life, of the garden, and the increased rationing. News about the local Spitfire Fund having raised enough money for its second aircraft. Her worries for him, of course. ‘I hope you are taking good care of yourself and not taking any more risks than you have to.’ There were letters from his father, too, full of equally inconsequential news. The annual grudge cricket match between Chilton and a neighbouring village had been held as normal, the teams made up from old men and a few younger ones home on leave. ‘We could have done with you, though,’ his father had written. ‘We were very short of batting and I’m afraid we didn’t score enough runs. I managed a magnificent seven not out, including a streaky four through gulley!’
Reading them through again, he felt his eyes begin to water. He couldn’t help it, and glanced around the room to check no-one was looking at him before raising his handkerchief to the corners of his eyes. He wished he was a child again, protected by his parents; wished he’d not been so anxious to join the war. The enthusiasm with which he’d signed up for the Air Force and headed off to fight now ashamed him. Later, he tried to write a reply, but what could he say? What would he say even if there was no censor? That he was brushing with death every day, that he weighed less than ten stone and that he was alive and largely unscathed only due to a twist of fate he was unable to explain?
Dear Mother and Father, he began, then stopped. For a while he tapped his pen on the table, then eventually he wrote:
Thanks so much for all your lovely letters, which arrived all in a rush together this morning. You can have no idea how avidly one devours mail of any sort in this place. I think I’ve read them all at least four times! As you have gathered, things are pretty hectic here, but I’m well and taking good care of myself, so there’s no need to worry (although a bit more to eat would be an improvement!) Life here when not flying is pretty dreary – there’s little to do, (except reread letters!) and right now it’s very hot. I’m glad to hear the garden’s looking so lovely. There are pretty wild flowers here, but it’s very dry and dusty, not at all the green lushness you get back home. I’m very glad to have had Harry here with me. His ‘girl’ has just sent him a bundle of letters so he’s happy as anything at the moment. Mind you, most of the others are good sorts too.
We’re getting through a fair few books here. Penguin paperbacks are always welcome so do send some if you get half the chance, I’ll probably be back home by the time the next mail arrives if it’s anything like as slow as the last lot.
I sometimes wonder what my other friends from school are doing.
Don’t think there’s anything more to say at the moment.
Your loving son,
Edward
PS Hopefully next year I can play in the cricket match and score an unbeaten century – that would show them!
*
He wondered whether he really would be in England next summer. Unlikely, but good to end on an upbeat note. Sealing the envelope, he scrawled the address and sat back and wiped his brow. The mess was cooler than most places – the thick stone walls and high windows ensured the sun rarely had a chance to penetrate the inner sanctum of the palace – but he still felt hot, his clothes clammy. A fly buzzed about his head then flew off and briefly he followed its flight, then glanced around the room. Quiet. The drink had all but run dry, the pilots were tired, and in this heat most simply hid out in their rooms once dinner, such as it was, had finished. I want to go home, he thought to himself. Just a few more weeks. Changes had been made to the length of tour for pilots serving on the Island. Only the day before, new arrangements had been announced. The intensity of the air fighting over Malta had, Baggy told them, now been ‘officially recognised’. Any pilots who had been on the Island for six months or more would be leaving on the first plane flying out, while henceforth three months would be considered a full tour. Well, Edward and the other so-called ‘originals’ had already been there for nearly five. Lucky reckoned they’d be expected to do six. ‘We’ll be out of here in July,’ he told Edward. ‘They won’t want all the old hands leaving at once.’ And then what? Instructing, most likely – it was seen as a break, a chance for tired and battle-worn pilots to take it easy for a while. Most probably England; at any rate, he hoped so. He wondered whether he and Harry would stick together. Unlikely. Rather, they and the others would be split up and posted all over the place. New friendships would have to be made, and yet he could not believe he would ever find such good friends again. This lot, this squadron, they were the one good thing to have come out of this posting to Malta.
Edward sighed and heaved himself up out of his seat. Although he felt drained, he knew would be unable to get to sleep – not yet at any rate. Outside, the heat was still oppressive, so he went to his room instead. Harry was there already, lying on his bed. He looked up when Edward entered. ‘Eddie – what’s the matter?’
‘This place,’ muttered Edward. ‘There’s nowhere to go, nothing to see and nothing to do even if you went there. And it’s too bloody hot.’
*
15th June, 1942. A day spent on convoy patrol. A double convoy had been mounted, one from Gibraltar, one from Alexandria. It was the first to be attempted since the failed convoy in March, and at his pep talk the previous evening Hugh Pughe Lloyd had made it clear that, once again, the future of the Island depended on the successful arrival of these two convoys; it was critical, a matter of life and death, that one or more of the ships made it to port. Without them, the Island faced starvation and the defenders a drastic shortage of fuel and ammunition. It was as simple as that. And while there was now no shortage of Spitfires – more had arrived during the last month – without petrol and bullets they might just as well still be in England, for all the good they could do. ‘We’re all depending on you,’ Lloyd told them. ‘It’s up to you to make sure you bring these ships safely into port.’
Not until his third flight of the day, did Edward finally spot the enemy: two cruisers and a dozen destroyers glinting brightly in the late evening sun. He watched amazed as the Albacores – flimsy navy biplanes – wobbled uncertainly and gently dived down towards the ships, the sky around them busy with puffs of flak and tracer. Most of the torpedoes ran wide as the Italian ships dodged and swerved to avoid them. But one of the cruisers seemed to have been hit: a huge explosion of water and smoke suddenly pitched into the sky. From the narrow confines of his cockpit, Edward cheered to see such a sight.
16th June, 1942. News of the convoys reached Takali by mid-morning. Just two ships had made it into Grand Harbour. Two out of seventeen. The previous evening, as the Albacores had been attacking the Italian fleet, the decision had been made to send the entire eastern convoy back to Alexandria. ‘We lost sixteen fucking pilots trying to protect that lot,’ grumbled Butch. ‘What a fucking waste of time.’
Later, in the mess, they were all there to hear the Governor, Lord Gort, make a broadcast to the island. The convoy had largely failed, he admitted. It was a blow, but every effort would be made to send another at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, it was up to every man, woman and child to do their bit and make the most of what little was left. ‘We have our conviction that our cause is just,’ Gort told them, his clipped, grai
ny voice crackling across the mess, ‘we have trust in ourselves and we have a still greater belief – our faith, in Almighty God. Strong in that faith, let us go forward together to victory.’
Baggy Bagshawe stood up and turned off the radio. The room was silent, except for the sound of the adjutant’s footsteps on the wooden floor. ‘Well,’ he said as he sat down again, ‘my wife always said I could do with shedding a few pounds.’ There were a few laughs but not many. Their aerial victory of May 10 seemed little more than a distant memory.
21th June, 1942, and a messed-up attack on some Cants – lumbering Italian bombers that should have been a gift. Harry had led the flight perfectly. They’d had the advantage of height, surprise, and even the sun behind them as well. Red section had successfully drawn off the fighter escort leaving Edward’s Blue Section to attack the bombers. They’d been sitting ducks, a gift if ever there was one.
‘What happened?’ said Harry once they had landed back down at Takali. ‘I got one, the others missed,’ said Edward as he jumped off the wing of his aircraft. He ached all over and winced as he stretched his legs. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. We cocked it up.’
Harry shook his head. ‘God, it’s not your fault. No bloody petrol, no bloody ammo, so no bloody chance to practise.’ He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. ‘But you’re right, we should have done better than that.’ The sun bore down. They’d been high up there – some 28,000 feet waiting for those bombers to turn up – and now, with the sudden change of temperature, Edward’s fingers throbbed and streaks of pain shot down his arms. He grimaced and clutched his hands under his arms. ‘You all right?’ Harry asked him.
‘Burnt my fingers getting in, then they froze, now they hurt like hell.’
‘You idiot. Well, make sure you see the MO.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Edward.
Harry cuffed him lightly on the head. ‘At least you got another one. Shouldn’t be any problem getting it confirmed.’
‘No, I don’t suppose so,’ Edward replied.
‘One more and you’ll be an ace.’
Edward nodded.
‘I thought that’s what you always wanted.’
‘I suppose I did. Doesn’t seem so important now, though, does it? Who shot down what – we still missed the other four.’ He looked down at the dust on his flying boots, on his knees and arms. ‘Christ, I’m sick of this dust and heat. I’m sick of Malta. After the war, remind me never to come back.’
Harry laughed and put an arm on his shoulder. ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘We’ll be out of here soon.’
‘B’ Flight was scrambled again later in the afternoon – just one section. ‘I’ll take Red Section,’ Harry told Edward. ‘You rest that hand of yours.’
Edward acquiesced. From dispersal he watched the four Spitfires roar down the runway and head off amidst clouds of swirling dust. He ambled over to the maintenance units. In a long pit, erks were busy at work hammering at damaged sections of wing or fuselage. Two Merlin engines sat hoisted on blocks. The smell of dry earth and oil was strong on the air. Edward looked down watching – they never stop, he thought.
‘Well done on your Cant this morning, sir,’ said a voice beside him.
Edward looked round and saw Pete Summersby.
‘Thanks.’
‘Several of us were over there at Luqa trying to get one of the Wellingtons back in the air and we saw it come down. Smashed into a wall – otherwise I reckon he’d have made it. We thought it must have been someone from Takali that got it.’
Edward said, ‘We should have had more.’
‘Actually, we went over to have a look,’ said Pete. ‘Well – it was so close. Right old mess and burning away. Could see the pilot slumped in his seat, but then the cockpit went up in flames too. Funny thing was that as he burned his muscles must have contracted or something, because his arm came up in a kind of Nazi salute. I know they’re Allies, but we thought that was taking things a bit far.’ He chuckled and looked at Edward to see if he was enjoying the joke. Edward stared at him. ‘It was pretty funny,’ Pete added.
‘I’d better get back,’ said Edward, turning away.
‘Keep up the good work, sir.’
Edward wandered back to dispersal trying to get the image of the Italian pilot’s arm out of his mind. The other pilots sat outside quietly; some, as ever, playing cards, others reading, others asleep. Edward sat down on a rock next to Mike Lindsay. ‘Want this?’ Mike asked, passing him a newspaper.
‘Thanks,’ said Edward. A Daily Express sent over from home. Out of date, but better than nothing.
The Spitfires began returning twenty minutes later, a faint hum at first, then suddenly two were circling Takali and coming in to land. A third joined them. Edward watched them roll across the field and taxi towards their blast pens.
The first two pilots arrived back at dispersal. They were two new boys, on the Island less than three weeks: Bryan Hilditch and Simon Ferguson. Their hair was damp, their shirts stained dark with sweat.
‘Who’s not back?’ the Intelligence Officer asked.
‘Harry,’ said Bryan.
Edward stood up immediately. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’m not sure exactly,’ said Bryan. ‘We ran into a few 109s. We chased around for a while but then they went off.’
‘We both got in a few squirts,’ said Simon, ‘but I don’t think we hit them. I didn’t, anyway.’
‘Simon and I were still together, so we headed home,’ continued Bryan.
‘I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute,’ said Edward.
The third pilot, an Australian called Keith Roberts, joined them. Pip had now come over as well. ‘Where’s Harry?’ the CO asked.
Tony shrugged. ‘He was on the tail of a 109 last time I saw him. Then I was busy keeping two off my arse. I dived and lost them, but I don’t know what happened to Harry. I’m sure he’s all right, though. He was right on that 109.’
The pilots chattered about the flight, taking off their mae wests and lighting cigarettes. Edward stood next to Pip and scanned the sky. Nothing.
‘He’ll be back in a minute,’ said Edward.
Minutes passed. A faint whirr of an engine, but not Harry – perhaps an aircraft over Luqa. The other pilots were now sitting up, also searching the sky, straining their ears. Twenty minutes passed.
‘He’ll be getting short of fuel,’ said Pip. He marched over to the field telephone, Edward following. ‘Get Woody on the phone, will you?’ he barked at the duty orderly, then snatched the receiver. ‘Hello, Woody? We’re missing Harry . . . No . . . No . . . Right. OK.’
Edward watched the CO, trying to guess what his expression could mean. Come on, Harry, he thought. Where the hell are you?
‘Come on,’ said Pip. ‘Mike, you come too.’
‘What did Woody say?’ asked Edward as they grabbed their mae wests, helmets and goggles.
‘Harry told him he was going after the 109, but now can’t get through to him. Says he no longer has a plot but it could just mean he’s followed this Jerry out to sea and is under radar.’ They hurried towards the aircraft. ‘Come on, you lot!’ yelled Pip at the erks, ‘Get a bloody move on!’
A dull, nauseous sensation overtook Edward as they took off a few minutes later. One moment he feared the worst; the next he thought, No, Harry will be fine. ‘Please, Harry,’ he said out loud, ‘please be out there.’
‘OK, we’ll be White Section for this flight,’ said Pip. ‘Hello, Woody, White Leader here. We’re airborne.’
‘Hello, Pip, all right I’ve got you. Head out on a bearing of 355, north of St Paul’s. Look out north of Gozo. You’re clear at the moment, but keep a watchout for the little jobs.’
They headed out, Pip and Mike at a thousand feet, Edward at just three hundred. The Mediterranean twinkled benignly, invitingly, a deep soft blue. It’s so big, thought Edward. A needle in a haystack. He’d done a few of these searches – just two days before a 601 pilot had come down. They’d found hi
m, and had covered the air-sea rescue launch as it had ploughed across the sea to pick him up. Pilots were often baling out into the sea; an occupational hazard over Malta.
Over an hour they searched. Edward’s eyes ached. The sky was empty, the sea was empty. He thought of what Harry had said in the boat at St Paul’s Bay – about how strange it seemed that they should be in the middle of a war when the sky and sea seemed so peaceful. It was like that now; the war seemed to have vanished, taking Harry with it.
‘Come on,’ said Pip eventually. ‘Home.’
‘Ten more minutes,’ said Edward. ‘Please, Pip.’
They circled again. What if he’s still out there, thought Edward. What if he can see us and we can’t see him? He strained his eyes, blinked, stared again. A flash of white in the corner of his eye. He turned, but nothing; a wave breaking.
‘Woody, this is White Leader,’ Pip’s voice crackled in his headset. ‘Returning to base.’
No, thought Edward, this can’t be happening. ‘Harry, where are you? Where are you? Help me,’ he mumbled.
‘White Two, come on. We’re returning to base. Now. That’s an order.’
For a moment, Edward took his hand from the stick and clutched his head, crouching in the cockpit. No, he thought, I can’t do this. I can’t leave Harry here. ‘Oh, God,’ he said out loud, ‘please don’t let this happen.’ He wanted to scream, to shout out, and tell the world of the anguish he felt. If only I hadn’t burnt my hand. Harry would still be at Takali. His left hand found the throttle, rammed it forward, while his right turned the stick to the right. This was the moment, the moment hope was lost, the moment he was deserting his friend. Banking, he climbed to join the others, the vast expanse of sea slipping behind him. He knew then that his life would never be quite the same again.
Malta – June, 1995
There was nothing left of Takali, except for rows of post-war Nissen huts. The airfield had ceased to exist; at one end, where dispersal had stood, a football stadium had been built instead. They stopped, looked around, trying to remember where the pens and maintenance pits had once been, but the place had changed too much. Edward was glad it had gone, but it made him feel old.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 24
