He reached for the banister, but couldn’t grasp it in time.
He felt the blow to the right side of his head, as his legs gave way at the top of the stairs.
Then, blackness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
15th January 1942, Valletta, Malta
They were almost the only uniformed women on Malta; every other servicewoman had been evacuated due to the inherent danger on the island. Aileen and Elsie stepped from the Lascaris War Rooms—the nerve centre of the Mediterranean operations—and the inquisitive glances and double-takes started immediately.
‘It’s actually very pleasant for January,’ Aileen quipped, threading her arm through Elsie’s.
‘It’s certainly milder than England,’ Elsie replied. She turned to face three young pilots, all staring, practically with their tongues on the floor. ‘Good morning!’
The men mumbled some kind of garbled response.
Aileen squeezed Elsie’s arm. ‘Think we’re a bit of a novelty here.’
‘A distraction from the destruction,’ Elsie agreed.
They started down the Strada Reale towards the Westminster Hotel, where they were to take their meals—it was not felt proper that the two new women should eat in the all-male headquarters’ mess—and all around them was evidence of the pounding that the island had taken from German and Italian aircraft; there were gaps—some still smouldering—where houses had once stood and giant pieces of sandstone rubble had been heaped in piles along the street, the remnants of homes and businesses. It was a sorry state, but one which Elsie had grown accustomed to seeing. It was no better or worse than London or Coventry, she considered, as they side-stepped a child’s bicycle that had been twisted and buckled as to almost defy recognition.
Elsie nodded to a gaggle of sailors loitering, smoking and chatting on the street corner, receiving a wolf-whistle in reply.
‘Woof WAAF!’ one of them called.
Elsie thrust her head into the air, relishing the attention.
‘Might I remind you that you’re a married woman?’ Aileen whispered.
‘If you have to, yes.’
The two women laughed and continued through the streets until they reached the Westminster Hotel, an imposing mustard-coloured building with ornate balconies bedecked with bright pink bougainvillea flowers. They entered the cool lobby, filled with high-ranking men from each of the services. Elsie and Aileen instinctively straightened, hurriedly unthreaded their linked arms and saluted. At the reception desk, a young woman directed them to the restaurant, where a handsome, olive-skinned waiter in a white shirt and black trousers greeted them in excellent English.
‘Yes, we have been expecting you,’ he said with a smile. ‘Please, follow me.’
He led them through a restaurant, mainly occupied, it seemed, by British and American military personnel of varying ranks. ‘Is this table satisfactory?’ he asked.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ Aileen answered.
The table was situated beside a large bay window, which overlooked the Grand Harbour. All around them were the densely built, honey-coloured buildings and forts, scarred from centuries of conflict in the Mediterranean.
‘What can I get you ladies?’ the waiter asked.
‘What would you recommend?’ Elsie replied.
‘Something local?’ he suggested.
‘I would love to try something local,’ she answered with a wide smile.
‘Maybe a sweet tea and a pastizzi? It’s a pastry with cheese?’
‘Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘The same for me,’ Aileen said.
The waiter smiled and headed off to the kitchen.
Aileen looked out of the window. ‘Look at it. Palm trees. Blue seas. Golden sands. Sixty degrees in January. You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of a ruddy war, would you?’
‘No,’ Elsie muttered, not really listening. She inhaled pensively, realising that her mind was wandering off, thinking about their stay on the beleaguered island. They had flown in yesterday by seaplane to assist with the island’s Y-Service. Without telling him the reason for the request, Flight Lieutenant Budge had been asked for the names of his two best operators. Aileen and Elsie had been put forward for an interview at Air Ministry in London and, despite some grave reservations regarding the wisdom of sending two women to a place of such prolific danger, they had received approval from above.
‘You were quite flirtatious with him just then,’ Aileen said.
‘Was I?’
Aileen shrugged. ‘Well, considering you’re wearing a wedding ring, yes.’
‘Perhaps I’m turning into Violet—not giving a damn about anything.’ Elsie raised her left hand and studied the ring. She wished she could take the damned thing off. It was a physical part of her that linked her unhappy past with a certain unhappy future when the war ended and Laurie returned. It was odd, but she no longer felt married to him. It had been more than two years since she had seen him; the two years of separation felt like double that. She eased the ring up to her knuckle but couldn’t quite bring herself to take it off.
‘Here you are, ladies,’ the waiter said, returning with a tray containing two plates and two cups. He set them out in front of the women. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, then headed off to another table.
‘Wow, that is sweet,’ Elsie commented, taking a sip of the tea. She picked up the pastizzi—an oval of pastry with pinched ends—and took a bite. ‘Nice.’
Aileen held her pastizzi up to her mouth and went to take a bite, but paused. ‘Tell me, Elsie, do you think you made the right decision?’
Elsie arched an eyebrow and smiled. ‘God, I’ve made so many decisions—good and bad—which one are you referring to?’
‘About the baby. Don’t answer if you don’t feel—’
‘-No, it’s fine. We’ve never really spoken about it, have we?’ Elsie took another sip of drink. ‘Some days I’m completely certain that it was the right decision—those are usually the days that I get some reminder or other of my old life. Of Laurie, of my old house back in Nutley—times when raising another man’s baby would be entirely impossible.’ She smiled, ate another bite, then continued. ‘Other times, I think of Christina and I question that decision. I do. I find myself wondering what might have been. It was stupid of me to think that I could ever have been strong enough to face that alternative path. I would’ve been thrown out of the WAAF, disowned by my family and friends and then, at some point in the future, divorced. What sort of life would that have been for either of us?’
Aileen leant across the table and touched Elsie’s arm. ‘Not all of your friends would have disowned you.’
Elsie smiled, her eyes beginning to prickle.
‘Sorry,’ Aileen said. ‘Insensitive of me. And ruddy nosey. Tell me to mind my own business next time. Let’s change the subject.’
‘It’s okay, really,’ Elsie insisted. ‘Sometimes it’s good to talk about it. I guess the short answer to your question is that I don’t know if I made the right decision.’ She took a moment, then asked, ‘Tell me about your love life.’
Aileen laughed. ‘Ha! What love life?’
‘Well,’ Elsie began, ‘if there’s one thing there’s two-a-penny of on this island, it’s men. Every nationality, every rank, every service, every age. Take your pick! Or maybe have one from each category.’
The women laughed and continued chatting about past loves, as they finished their breakfasts. They thanked the waiter and left, retracing their steps back to the War Rooms.
At the top of a steep winding staircase Elsie and Aileen showed their pass books to the guard and descended into the gloom below. A veritable rabbit warren of tunnels had been carved into the limestone rock beneath the ancient capital city of Malta. The tunnels, mostly poorly-lit by exposed bulbs, linked together offices, accommodation and the RAF Filter and Sector Operations rooms.
‘How do I look?’ Elsie asked Aileen, plumping her breasts.
‘Stop it,�
�� Aileen said with a grin, as she lightly tapped on a closed door.
‘Enter,’ a male voice thundered from the other side.
Elsie pushed down on the brass door handle and stepped inside, closely followed by Aileen. The two women stood to attention and saluted.
Behind the desk sat the chief signals officer, Wing Commander Shorter, a man bearing out his own name with a diminutive stature. He had wide frog-eyes, a high forehead and a bushy moustache. ‘Sit down,’ he directed. He waited until they were seated and he had their full attention, then continued. ‘Right, I’ll come straight to the point—you’ve been sent to hell. We’re being blasted night and day by hundreds of bombers at a time and the only place you’re safe is down here. Other than taking your meals at the Westminster, I wouldn’t advise you leave here unless it’s to board an aircraft home. Why they sent me two women, when I need several squadrons more Spitfires and a good four dozen pilots, I haven’t a clue. I’ve got plenty of other jobs more suitable for a woman; but there you have it. Now, which one of you is Mike?’
‘Me, sir,’ Aileen answered.
Shorter acknowledged this with a dip of his head, then faced Elsie. ‘And what’s your name? David? John? Richard?’
‘Elsie, sir.’
Shorter puffed out a mouthful of air, then stood and made for the door. ‘Follow me.’
Elsie shot Aileen a quick glance that expressed her amusement and bewilderment at the small man in whose shuffled footsteps they were now following along the corridor.
Shorter stopped and opened a door to his right. It was the controller’s dais. An RAF man wearing a set of headphones was peering down below. ‘Out,’ Shorter bellowed and the RAF controller scarpered past Elsie and Aileen without a murmur. ‘Look down over there,’ Shorter said, waving the two women over.
Below them was a large plotter’s table. It was a pale-blue map, on which was marked Malta and, just above it, the Italian island of Sicily. Five RAF men moved coloured wooden blocks around the map with long croupiers’ rakes, as several RAF officers looked on.
‘I don’t suppose you can identify the trouble, can you?’ Shorter muttered. ‘I expect you’re more used to pushing those jolly sticks about on the map than intelligence-gathering or military strategy. Let me explain in plain English—’
‘—The trouble,’ Elsie interrupted, ‘is that this dear island is in a critical position for the Allies, offering, as it does, a base from which to launch attacks into the Mediterranean and North Africa. However, being just sixty miles south of Sicily means that the Luftwaffe and the Règio Aeronautica are attempting to bomb the island into submission, so that they have free rein in the area. Up until now, your field stations have been monitoring German and Italian transmissions in Morse code, but you don’t have any operators experienced in decoding German R/T, which you’ve had a recent flurry of from Sicily. I would say that was your trouble. Sir.’
Shorter’s little round face reddened and his cheeks puffed. ‘Since you are so highly informed, I’m going to send you out.’ He barged between them and flung open the door.
Elsie shrugged and they reluctantly followed him out into the gloomy labyrinth, traversing the corridors until they reached the base of the stairs which they had descended only moments before.
‘Hear that?’ Shorter said, placing a foot onto the first step. ‘It’s starting again.’
He was referring to the air raid siren. It grew louder the higher they climbed.
‘Oh, it’s exactly the same sound as at home,’ Elsie complained.
Aileen laughed. ‘What were you expecting? Some jazz number?’
‘Be quiet,’ Shorter exclaimed, stopping to wipe sweat from his brow. ‘This war is bad enough without two women twittering on in my ear.’
They continued to the top in silence, where their senses were immediately overwhelmed. Elsie didn’t know whether to cover her eyes or her ears first. Instead, she wrapped her left arm over the top of her head, covering both ears and looked to the ground. The damned siren must have been situated directly above the staircase.
Eventually she looked up and saw a variety of personnel darting around the place—presumably seeking shelter.
‘Shouldn’t we be taking cover, sir?’ Aileen shouted over the din.
Shorter produced a nasty fake laugh. ‘And come back up when, exactly? 1952, when this is all hopefully over? Women.’ Slowly and deliberately—as if he had all the time in the world—Shorter waltzed over to a drab run of single-storey ochre buildings. He jabbed a pointed finger towards Aileen. ‘You go in there and ask for Sergeant Stanwick. You,’ he said, shifting his finger to Elsie, ‘follow me.’
Elsie mouthed a hurried goodbye to Aileen and walked beside Shorter. ‘Where are we going?’ she called.
‘Siggiewi,’ he yapped in reply.
Elsie matched his lethargic pace around to the back of the buildings. He stopped beside an Austin Tilly, kicked the front wheel with a grunt and proceeded to clamber inside. She had seen this type of utility vehicle used back in England but was surprised by the Maltese camouflage: sand-coloured rectangular blocks, making it look like a brick wall on wheels.
‘What’s at Siggiewi?’ she asked, sitting beside him.
‘You’ll see; if we get there,’ he answered, leaning forwards and peering up through the windscreen. He turned the key and the engine fired into a throaty rumble.
As he began to pull away, Elsie saw what he had seen in the skies above: at least a dozen Junkers 88s, circling in the distance.
The second that they were out of the compound, Shorter hit the accelerator, flinging the car forwards in a dusty surge. Elsie squealed as she reached out and grabbed the dashboard to stop herself from flying out of her seat.
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped on for dear life.
Her fear increased as they sped along the deserted streets, heading in the general direction of the enemy aircraft.
They were quickly surrounded on all sides by dry barren meadows, but Elsie’s attention was not on the ground. Through the veils of thick dust, she stared upwards. Her eyes were sore and watering, but she dared not blink. They were now directly underneath the circling aircraft and she could feel the car quivering with the vibrations from the machines above. She glanced at Shorter, sweating and smiling, wondering if this was some kind of misguided attempt to scare her into leaving the island. Or was it a suicide mission? She couldn’t decide.
She bit her lip and stifled a gasp as she watched two objects tumbling from one of the Junker’s open bomb doors. They fell, seeming to take an age to reach the ground. Then they did—less than a mile away—and a giant geyser of dirt, rubble and smoke gushed up into the air. The deafening sound shook the car. Yet, Shorter drove on, obliviously.
Then Elsie spotted what the aircraft were targeting: Luqa Airfield. ‘Is that where we’re going?’ she asked.
Shorter shook his head and drove on a further couple of miles. More bombs dropped around the airfield, shaking the car and shaking Elsie’s nerves.
She lowered her gaze and saw that they were heading straight for a roadblock. She glanced at Shorter, wondering whether or not he had seen it. She was certain that there was no way now that they could stop in time. She closed her eyes and braced herself for impact, when Shorter suddenly stood on the brakes, bringing the car to a complete stop just inches from the red and white barrier that blocked their path. The force sent Elsie shooting down into the foot well onto her behind.
Shorter wound down his window and passed out his papers. ‘Sorry about her, she’s a timid little thing just arrived from England,’ he quipped.
The guard chuckled and waited as Elsie hauled herself up, took out her papers, thrusting them past Shorter’s fat sweaty face, and placed them into the guard’s outstretched hand.
With the papers checked and returned, Shorter drove the car into the complex at a more reasonable speed. The tall aerials and official-looking buildings with arched windows told Elsie that he had brought her to some
kind of field unit.
He brought the Austin to a standstill beside a small squat building with no windows and killed the engine. Definitely the type of hovel that the RAF would consider a suitable location for an intercept station. Shorter grinned and slapped a hand hard on Elsie’s thigh. ‘How was that?’
Elsie smiled. ‘How was what?’ she said casually, hurrying from the car. She looked the building up and down, then, once he was standing beside her, added, ‘I assume this is some kind of intercept field unit?’
Shorter nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Go on inside.’
Elsie pushed open the heavy door. Inside was dark but for a small, flickering lamp that stood on a rickety table in the centre of the room. An RAF operator lifted his headset from his ears, smiled uncertainly and saluted.
‘This is Skinner,’ Shorter introduced. ‘Skinner, this is a WAAF operator from England. She’s come here to tell us how to do things.’
Elsie extended her hand. ‘Assistant Section Officer Finch,’ she said. ‘Elsie. May I sit down?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Of course.’ He was a young corporal, thin with a pasty face and brown eyes.
‘I’m going over to the mess,’ Shorter huffed. ‘You’ve got an hour to see how we do things here. If you need longer than that, you’ll have to hitch a ride back at another time.’
The door closed and Elsie sighed. ‘What an objectionable man.’
Skinner grinned. ‘You’ve noticed, then?’
‘Right. One hour,’ Elsie breathed. ‘Give me a quick rundown of how the Y-Service operates on the island.’
Skinner sat back and addressed her. ‘All I can handle here is German Very High Frequency traffic. There’s a lot of it. The High Frequency German and Italian R/T is monitored from the Royal Navy Station at Dingli—just up the coast from here.’
‘Right. Is it a similar operation up at Dingli as here?’ Elsie asked, scanning around the barren room.
The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5) Page 25
