Malta

They left the cold and damp of an English winter behind as they flew south. Previous reinforcements of Spitfires had travelled by aircraft carrier until they reached the coast of North Africa, but the new Spitfire IX with which the squadron had recently been equipped was fitted with 170 gallon long range slipper tanks, enabling them to dispense with the carrier and fly direct from Gibraltar to Malta. The flight out to Gibraltar was uneventful. Even the weather in the notorious Bay of Biscay had been co-operative for once. They did not spend long on the Rock. With fuel tanks full to the brim, the squadron's Spitfires lifted off and headed across the Mediterranean for the tiny island fortress that was a thorn in the Axis side.

Ginger was just beginning to look at his fuel gauge more frequently when the archipelago came into view on the horizon. He breathed a sigh of relief and briefly touched the talisman in his breast pocket. Malta was such a small target, it would have been so easy to miss it and run out of petrol like the luckless Hurricanes who had flown off a carrier. He did not relish the prospect of a ducking in the Mediterranean with scant chance of rescue.

As the small island and its near neighbour, Gozo, grew larger, Ginger gazed at it with curiosity. The patchwork of small fields was criss-crossed with stone walls, which boded ill for any forced landing, he thought.

He glanced across at Tug in formation on his wing then followed Biggles and Algy as his leader lined up to land. The evidence of the bombing the island had suffered was clear for all to see as they swept over on their approach; ruined houses had not been repaired and rubble was everywhere. The runways showed signs of filled in bomb craters.

"Keep your eyes open," warned Biggles tersely as he turned onto final approach. "We don't want to get bounced."

It was a timely warning, but his fears proved to be unfounded as the squadron landed safely at Hal Far and taxied to dispersal in blast proof pens around the airfield. The propellers swished to a stop, the noise of the Merlin engines replaced by deafening silence after the long flight over the sea. The aircraft had barely come to a halt before the ground crews were swarming over them, re-arming and refuelling. Ginger looked curiously at the pen that surrounded his machine; it seemed to be made of used petrol cans with a camouflage net draped over the top. He hoped that the cans were filled with earth rather than their original contents.

"Welcome to Malta, sir," a bronzed armourer smiled ironically from the shadows beneath the wing as Ginger climbed stiffly out of the cockpit and slid to the ground.

"Thanks," acknowledged Ginger briefly as he stretched his cramped muscles. The air was warm despite the early hour.

"Is the weather always this good?" he enquired, glancing at the sky.

The airman laughed. "You should have been here a couple of days ago, sir," he replied. "It would have blown you backwards into next week! And rain! We were nearly washed away."

"Just like Blighty, then," smiled Ginger as Bertie strolled towards him, his flying helmet dangling from his hand and his eyeglass glinting as the sun struck it.

"Thank heavens for terra firma," exclaimed Bertie. "I think the old girl was running on fumes," he added facetiously.

Ginger nodded. "I didn't have a lot left," he admitted. "I was glad to see land."

Further conversation was cut short by Biggles who marched across from the next dispersal point and waved to them to join him.

"Let's get under cover," he urged. "From what I've heard, the Huns are pretty regular in sending over raids once reinforcements have landed. We don't want to be caught out in the open."

He strode briskly across to a heavily sandbagged administration building. The squadron filed in and found seats in the briefing room. Ginger sat next to Algy, his flight commander, with Tug on his left. Bertie shepherded his flight round him and sat in the back row while Angus and C Flight drew up chairs by the door. Henri was absent from their number; his posting had not come through in time for him to accompany them. A large map of the area was pinned to the wall. Malta looked very small surrounded by the Mediterranean. Enemy bases in North Africa, Pantelleria, Sicily and Italy were marked. Ginger regarded them with disfavour and thought there were more than enough of them to keep the squadron busy during their detachment.

Biggles waited until they were all settled and the noise of chairs scraping on the bare boards had subsided before he began. He had barely started speaking when the wail of sirens announced the arrival of enemy aircraft. The ack-ack Bofors guns at the perimeter of the airfield cracked their response. Ginger could hear the sound of machine guns and surmised that some Messerschmitts were strafing the aerodrome.

Tug half rose, but Biggles barked at him to sit down. "Don't be a fool," he grated. "You wouldn't get to your machine, let alone into the air. Wait until the odds are in your favour."

Tug grimaced, but accepted that Biggles was right. There was no point in throwing his life away. His mission was to kill as many Germans as he could and the longer he lived the more he would get. There would be plenty more where they came from. He sank back into his seat.

Moments later he was diving for the floor as the roar of engines and the rat-a-tat of machine gun bullets swept towards the briefing room. He landed on Ginger who, guessing what was coming, had been quicker to take evasive action. Seconds later glass shattered and a burst of fire sprayed the wall, ricocheting from the stonework.

"Welcome to Malta!" growled Algy sarcastically as they picked themselves up when the all-clear sounded.

"That's enough fooling," snapped Biggles, dusting himself down. "You can see what we'll be up against. The Huns mean business." His eyes swept over the pilots who were shaking dust from their uniforms as they got to their feet. "Anybody hurt?"

There was a general murmur of denial. "I've lost my bally eyeglass," complained Bertie wistfully.

"It's in your face," Biggles told him shortly.

"By Jove, so it is!" exclaimed Bertie. "Jolly good show."

Surreptitiously Ginger felt his tunic pocket to reassure himself that his talisman was still there. Much to his relief, his fingers found the shape of the medallion nestling in the corner of the material.

Bertie shook the dust off his uniform. "I can't wait to take a bath," he observed.

"There will be no bathing except in the sea," Biggles told him shortly. "Every drop of water has to be brought in by tanker, so nobody can afford to waste it. Your washing and shaving water will come from your daily allowance."

Bertie sat down, looking disgruntled. "Oh I say!" he exclaimed. "How disgusting!"

The others made no remark, but the unwelcome nature of the announcement could be clearly read from their expressions.

Biggles completed his briefing without further interruption and the squadron wandered off to find their billets and settle in.

None of the pilots were to live on the airfield due to the risk of attack. Ginger found he was accommodated near the beach. From his window he could see waves breaking on the shoreline and the steady sound of surf was at first intrusive, but he soon learned, if not to ignore it, at least to find its rhythm comforting and familiar.

The warm, settled weather lasted for the next few days, enabling them to start flying immediately. The following day Biggles led a sweep over the area of operations, providing air cover for one of the convoys laboriously making its way to the island with provisions. They spotted a pair of ME 109s in the distance, but the Germans were clearly unwilling to take on superior numbers as they turned tail as soon as the squadron was observed. The rest of the patrol was uneventful and the ships continued unmolested.

Ginger was pleased at the prospect of returning to base after a successfully deterrent sortie, although he suspected Tug would have preferred the chance to have a crack at the enemy. As his Spitfire's wheels touched the runway and started to roll along the uneven surface, however, any satisfaction Ginger might have felt was quickly dispersed when he had the misfortune to have a tyre burst. The aircraft swung wildly and only his quick reactions prevented disaster. As the machine came to a lopsided halt, Ginger breathed a sigh of relief, swiftly tempered by the realisation that either he would be left behind on the next mission or that he would have to fly an unfamiliar replacement aircraft, if one were available, until his own was repaired.

"Ah, well," he told himself philosophically as he heaved himself out of the cockpit, "any landing you can walk away from is a good landing." Ruefully he surveyed the damage. It would have been much worse if the fighter had ground looped, but the wheel rim was buckled and spares would have to be found. Given the siege nature of the island's position Ginger wondered if that was going to be possible.

The ground crew ran up and quickly took charge of manhandling the machine under cover to be serviced as quickly as possible.

"It's going to take a while, sir," the senior NCO told Ginger, sucking in air through his teeth disapprovingly, when he saw the damage. "Spares is scarce, see," he added ungrammatically, thus confirming Ginger's fears.

Ginger nodded unhappily.

"Could've been worse, though," the NCO continued, taking pity on the lad's dejection. "Nice bit of flying, sir. There's plenty as would have turned her over."

"Thanks," acknowledged Ginger as he released his parachute harness and slung the equipment over his shoulder preparatory to walking back to the briefing room.

Belatedly the rescue tender pulled up in a cloud of dust. "As you're not needed, you might as well give me a lift back," observed Ginger dryly as he hopped on.

The tender dropped him outside the administration block. Ginger went in and made his report, not without some leg-pulling from his fellow pilots.

"Are you alright?" asked Biggles briefly.

When Ginger nodded, Biggles listened to Ginger's explanation and consulted the list of available replacement aircraft.

"There's no serviceable Spitfire immediately available," observed Biggles, "but I'll get the Duty Sergeant to make one of the reserve machines airworthy as a matter of priority." He lit a cigarette and tapped it irritably on the ash tray. "In the meantime, you'll just have to sit it out."

When Ginger looked glum, Biggles told him to cheer up. "At least the weather is good," he observed. "You'll be able to go swimming."

Ginger nodded, thinking gloomily that he would have jumped at the chance if he could have had Jeanette's company. As it was, the last thing he wanted was to be left behind kicking his heels while the rest of the squadron flew patrols. The loneliness made him acutely aware of his separation from his love and underlined the misery of being so far away. Flying at least kept his mind off the longing he felt to hold Jeanette in his arms and filled the void in his waking hours when she was not there.

There was nothing for it, however, he told himself as he mooned around the airfield while the rest of the squadron did escort duty and flew offensive bombing patrols. He would just have to make the best of it. Following Biggles' suggestion he went down to the beach. It was deserted so he stripped off and ran down the sand. Plunging naked into the waters of the Mediterranean, he could not help thinking about the last time he went swimming, with Jeanette in Algeria. The pang of loneliness he felt without her made him vow not to repeat the experience and hastened his exit from the sea. He towelled himself down and sunbathed briefly to finish drying off before he put his uniform back on. The roar of Merlins made him look up as he saw his squadron pass by on its return from a patrol. One of the aircraft flew closer and waggled its wings. Ginger waved back and dressed hurriedly so he could rejoin his comrades and have some company in the Mess. He had to put up with some ribbing about wrecking a perfectly good aeroplane so he could spend his time lazing on the beach, but he took it in good part.

After dinner he retired to his room to write to Jeanette. The act made him feel she was not so far away. Chewing the end of his pen, he agonised over what to say. He reminded her that his letters would be read by the censor, so he hoped she would understand how he was feeling about her without him having to put it into words. He wrote of the weather, mentioned that he had been swimming and that he had been thinking of the last time, which was so much more fun that he was not going to go to the beach again until he got home and they would be able to go together. He explained that he had some free time and hesitated about giving the reason. Knowing there were no spare available aircraft could be vital information to the enemy, he realised, so he simply wrote that there was not much flying for him to do at the moment and he was looking forward to exploring the area. He re-read what he had written and felt it did not amount to much. Perhaps he should wait until he had more news before he posted it, he reasoned. Accordingly he tucked it in his breast pocket with the medallion and fastened the button securely before getting ready for bed.

Having dismissed swimming as a way of passing the time, Ginger explored the airfield and its surroundings. When that paled, he obtained permission to go into Valetta and wandered listlessly around the port. The remnants of the convoy he had escorted had managed to make it safely if damaged into harbour and the docks were a hive of activity as the much needed stores were unloaded in a race against the clock. Ginger watched the proceedings for a short time, feeling superfluous. Overhead Spitfires patrolled to protect the precious supplies that had been brought into port at such a terrible cost.

Unable to stand the boredom any longer he headed for the town centre. The destruction the island had suffered at the hands of the Luftwaffe was still evident in the bombed out ruins, gaps where buildings had once stood and even whole streets reduced to rubble. The sight was a sobering one; the devastation brought home to him that only the rocky nature of the island, with its natural cave shelters and lack of wood, had allowed it to survive. It reminded him that Jeanette might be being bombed in London and he found the spectacle depressing. Miserable at the thought of Jeanette in danger while he was miles away from her, he hastened back to the airfield. Behind him, the sirens began to wail and he could hear the whistle of falling bombs to remind him that the Germans had not given up hope of pounding the island into submission.

The one bright spot in this unwelcome spell on the sidelines was a letter from Jeanette, brought on from Gibraltar by the convoy he had watched being unloaded. He was not expecting any post so soon, so when his name was called, his spirits immediately rose. He glanced at it to make sure the writing was Jeanette's before he stuffed the precious envelope in his tunic pocket and buttoned it securely. As he turned to leave he saw Bertie's eyes on him, but the look in them was unreadable.

"Got a billet doux, old boy?" enquired Bertie softly with just a hint of a sneer.

Ginger ignored the bait, nodded curtly and went to his quarters where he locked the door before he opened the missive with trembling fingers. It must have been written almost as soon as he had left, he realised. Longing for Jeanette hit him like a physical pain that refused to go away. As he read the lines, occasionally obliterated by the censor's blue pencil when she mentioned events in London, she seemed headily close to him. The paper even seemed to carry a faint scent of the soap he had given her for Christmas.

He devoured her news, reading and re-reading the lines. She mentioned that she was now working for a government department, helping to translate and interpret, thanks to the Air Commodore's intervention. Her mother had joined the WVS and looked very English in her new uniform, Jeanette commented. Ginger wondered exactly which department at Whitehall required French translation, but he guessed that even if Jeanette had elaborated, the censor would have removed the reference. He longed to be with her to ask all his unanswered questions.

She lapsed into French at the end because, she apologised, she found it easier to express her true feelings that way. "Tellement tu me manques, chéri," she had written, "que j'attends avec impatience ton retour. Je t'embrasse."

Ginger stared at the words, cursing himself for being too fainthearted to ask her to marry him before he left. She missed him so much. She couldn't wait to see him again. She sent love and kisses! Should he write and propose? Somehow it seemed too impersonal to ask her to make such a commitment in a letter. Such things should be done face to face, he decided. And anyway, what difference would it make if he did and she accepted? They would still be miles apart. As soon as he could once he got back, he vowed, he would declare his love and ask for her hand.

In the meantime, however, he was stuck in Malta and Jeanette was in London. Being grounded did not help as his impatient nature chafed at the enforced inactivity, but fortunately, he did not have many more days to endure the boredom and frustration of watching the others take off without him. The Maltese weather soon showed the fickleness of its nature by turning stormy. Flying was abandoned for several days as the Sirocco brought twenty foot waves pounding the shoreline and greatly reduced visibility. The squadron whiled away the hours in the Mess drinking the local bottled beer, for which they found amusing, if uncomplimentary, descriptions, and singing around the piano. Ginger received a certain amount of leg-pulling on account of his letter as despite, or perhaps because of, his secrecy, the other pilots had a shrewd idea who it was from.

"Have you any requests, Ginger?" asked Bertie as they stood around the piano. "I hear Judy Garland and Gene Kelly did a fine duet in For Me and My Gal. The Bells Are Ringing …" he started to carol.

"How about We'll Meet Again?" broke in Ferocity.

"Or There'll Be Lovebirds Over The White Cliffs of Dover?" suggested Bertie brightly.

"That's Bluebirds," corrected Henry.

"Oh yes, by Jove, so it is," murmured Bertie innocently, polishing his eyeglass. "Silly me."

Ginger blushed and smiled sheepishly. "How about Roll Out The Barrel?" he suggested dryly. "You seem to be well lubricated."

"That's because I don't have any letters from home to sneak off and read, old boy," Bertie told him with studied solemnity. "When nobody loves you, all there is left to do is drink," he added with a touch of bitterness.

Ginger's blush deepened. He did not know what to say. The bar was momentarily silent after Bertie's uncharacteristic outburst of self-pity.

Algy, uneasy about the tone the banter had taken, started to play Roll Out The Barrel fortissimo. The tension was broken along with the silence as the rest of the squadron, including Bertie and Ginger, joined in with gusto. Bertie silently cursed the drink that had loosened his tongue and the hurt that had caused him to say too much in equal measure. Whatever had been in the letter Ginger had received had given the lad a glow that made him look so appealing and yet put him so far out of reach. Not for the first time, Bertie wished he was the same as other men.

By the time weather conditions had improved, the lull in operations had enabled the Repair Section at Kalafrana to bring a replacement Spitfire up to operational standard for Ginger to fly and he seized the opportunity to put the uneasy atmosphere in the mess and boring, if necessary, stints as duty officer behind him with gratitude.

The new machine was towed up the road to Hal Far. When it arrived, Ginger regarded it dourly. The Spitfire had clearly seen better days and was an earlier mark than the one he had flown to Malta so had a less powerful engine, which restricted its operation to 37,000 feet compared with his Mark IX's ceiling of 43,000. At least, he noted with relief, it was a standard Mark V, still retaining its wingtips and regulation Merlin, not a 'clipped, cropped, crapped' version. Reminding himself that beggars could not be choosers he tested the controls and checked the oxygen. The valve lever was stiff and he had difficulty opening it fully. He pointed out the defect to his fitter, who promised that it would be remedied immediately.

Ginger was just about to walk back to dispersal when the air raid sirens began to wail. The duty officer raced out and vigorously started ringing the bell to scramble the aircraft. Immediately the pilots piled out of the hut and began running to their aircraft. Turning on his heel, Ginger joined them and ran to his Spitfire. The machine felt hot to the touch as he scrambled over the wing and into the cockpit. His ground crew hastily did up the straps of his parachute and fastened the Sutton harness. He quickly ran through the litany of checks before the engine caught with a cough and a puff of blue smoke then settled into a throaty roar. He waved the chocks away and started to taxi, weaving slightly to see where he was going. Lining up with the other members of his flight, he advanced the throttle and felt the familiar surge as the machine gathered pace. The aeroplane was keen to fly and as soon as his wheels left the ground, he selected gear up, hoping that the German force consisted of bombers rather than fighters. There had been precious little warning and no time to gain height, leaving the squadron at a disadvantage. As he joined the formation and started to climb, it became painfully obvious that his machine lacked the speed of the rest of the squadron's aircraft. He heard Algy's voice in his headset, telling him to close up.

"I'm trying," he muttered grimly as he attempted to coax the maximum from his Merlin 50, but the 230 HP deficit negated his efforts.

"You'll have to pedal harder, old boy," Bertie told him facetiously.

"That's enough chatter," broke in Biggles as the controller's calm voice vectored them onto the enemy formation.

"Red Leader, this is Banjo. Steer three-three-zero. Big jobs and little jobs approaching Hot Dog, angels fifteen. They're out in force again today."

A large formation of fighters and bombers at 15,000 ft heading for Grand Harbour, translated Ginger as Biggles acknowledged and the flight peeled off onto the heading. Aware that as a straggler he was vulnerable, Ginger pushed the throttle through the wire in an attempt to narrow the gap between himself and his companions.

The squadron strained for height. They were all experienced enough to know that whoever had the altitude held the advantage, but the warning had been very short. Above him, Ginger could see Spitfires from one of the other squadrons, based at Luqa, already engaging the enemy. There was a standing patrol to protect the harbour against German raiders intent on destroying the cargo from any ship that managed to limp into port.

Soon he was in the thick of the mêlée. A black-crossed machine flashed in front of him and he flung his machine round to follow it. As he banked, he saw tracer flash past his wing. Twisting and turning, he tried to get his sights on the enemy and keep his own tail clear. He saw a German pilot bale out of his stricken machine and narrowly avoid being hit by a diving Spitfire that was streaming glycol. What happened next made him feel sick. He could only surmise that the Messerschmitt pilots thought the parachutist had left the plunging Spitfire when he saw two of the German machines shoot at the descending airman. The tracer tore the canopy to shreds, but the pilot's body had already gone limp before he fell to earth.

If Ginger had ever entertained any doubts about what he was fighting for, this callous act of murder swept them from his mind. Grim-faced, he strove to bring his sights to bear on one of the perpetrators. Allowing maximum deflection he pressed the gun button and saw strikes, only to have his cannon jam after a few rounds. The German started to stream coolant and broke for home, accompanied by his companion. With only his four machine guns functioning, Ginger thought it wise not to hang around. He hoped fervently that the German pilot would fail to make the sea crossing back to his base. If this was war, Mediterranean style, he had been warned. That the Germans had killed one of their own pilots was ironic, but it could so easily have been himself or one of his companions, he realised. Clearly they would have to try to protect anybody who was unfortunate enough to bale out.

As is so often the case in dog-fighting, the sky that moments ago had been full of wheeling machines was suddenly empty. He glanced down to get his bearings and headed back to the airfield. He landed without mishap and remembered to tell his ground crew that he had broken the boost wire. They received the news that they would have to work overtime to give his engine a thorough examination before he was able to fly again with phlegmatic resignation.

At the debriefing, he recounted what he had seen. It was clearly not news to the intelligence officer, but the rest of his squadron was as shocked as Ginger had been.

"Oh, I say," exclaimed Bertie. "That really isn't cricket, old boy!"

"They're Nazis," ground out Tug. "What else would you expect?"

"Ginger is right," interposed Biggles as the pilots expressed their disgust. "Now we know the score, we shall have to try to keep the Huns from shooting at anybody who has to abandon ship in a hurry."

"And anybody in a dinghy, according to the IO," added Ginger. "The Huns have been strafing survivors, the HSL rescue boat and the Walrus."

"What a bunch of degenerates," growled Tex.

There was a general murmur of agreement. Ginger surreptitiously touched his breast pocket with his talisman. He had discovered that he was not the only pilot who carried a St Christopher. Some of his predecessors at Hal Far had also taken the saint with them into battle, gifts from a devoutly religious and grateful populace.

Back in his room, he agonised over whether to tell Jeanette about his being in battle. In the end he confined his news to letting her know that he was flying again. He feared worrying her if he gave too much detail, even if it were allowed past the censor. At least he could tell her that St Christopher was doing his job. He thanked her for her letter and mentioned how pleased he was by what she had said in French, before signing off and taking the envelope to the orderly officer who had been detailed to censor the post. Toddy had not accompanied them to Malta since a squadron adjutant was deemed surplus to requirements. Although the situation had eased from the dark days of the height of the siege in 1942, rations were still tight and all superfluous personnel had been evacuated and not replaced.

The poor rations soon began to take their toll on the squadron as the pilots started to experience short bouts of fever and the debilitating Malta Dog. One after another the squadron succumbed to high temperatures and sickness until it was necessary to withdraw the unit from front line readiness and send them to recuperate at Ghajn Tuffieha. The week's idleness also allowed the Repair Section to showcase their ingenuity by conjuring spares out of nowhere. They made a wooden mould of the Spitfire wheel hub that needed to be replaced and sent it to the dockyard along with several bagfuls of chopped up propeller blades to be cast. The resultant new hubs were ready to replace the damaged item on Ginger's Mark IX by the time he was well enough to resume operations. He saw his Mark V being flown off by a member of one of the Takali squadrons without a moment's pang of regret. He knew his Mark IX was a far superior machine and he was delighted to get her back.