Another bonus to the week that 666 spent stood down was that more mail had arrived via the regular airline service that operated nightly from Gibraltar. The vagaries of the postal system meant that Ginger received three letters from Jeanette in the same delivery. Delighted at the prospect of hearing from his sweetheart, Ginger collected the letters waiting for him in the Mess and stuffed them in his tunic pocket, intending to devour them as soon as he was alone. As he gathered his letters, Ginger noticed that Henry, too, had some mail from home. He thought no more about it until he came across his comrade sitting in the ante room, deep in contemplation, with the missive lying on the table in front of him. An engagement ring lay on top of the discarded envelope.
"Bad news?" queried Ginger hesitantly, as Henry sat sunk in gloom.
"You could say that," muttered Henry despondently. "My girl has decided she doesn't want to marry me after all."
Ginger sat beside him. "That's rotten luck," he commiserated.
"I suppose I rushed her," admitted Henry, "but I thought with my coming here I ought to get her to commit to us, so I asked her to marry me. She accepted, but she's obviously thought better of it."
Ginger breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness that he had decided to wait until he got back before asking Jeanette. "I suppose she's met someone else?" he ventured.
"I don't know," admitted Henry. "She just says that she isn't ready to marry me." He indicated the letter and ring lying on the table with a despairing hand.
"Maybe it's just as well," observed Ginger philosophically. "If she doesn't think it's right, it wouldn't work out."
Henry sighed, knowing that Ginger was right. "What about you?" he queried. "Have you asked Jeanette?"
"Not yet," confessed Ginger. "I thought it would be putting too much pressure on her to accept when I was leaving. Whatever happens, I'll ask her when I get back."
Henry nodded sagely. "Very wise," he affirmed. "I'd make sure I asked her as soon as I could, if I were you," he averred. "Don't waste any time. Life's too short," he added lugubriously.
"I won't," Ginger assured him. "I'm planning to take her out as soon as I can once I'm back and pop the question."
"I don't suppose you want to buy this engagement ring?" asked Henry tentatively.
Ginger hesitated. The sapphire and diamond ring was tempting, but he was wary of taking on something that was tainted by failure. Reluctantly he shook his head.
"I think I'll buy one when I'm back in England," he murmured.
"Don't blame you," Henry told him. "Jeanette deserves better than a cast off."
"It's not that," protested Ginger, although in his heart he knew that he was unwilling to risk rejection by default.
Henry shrugged. "I'll pawn it," he said in a resigned tone. "At least that means I'll get a few beers out of it."
Ginger felt saddened by Henry's cynical tone, but he felt at a loss for words to counter the sentiment. He knew that if Jeanette had decided she wanted to break off their engagement he would have been devastated.
"Don't you think you should keep it?" he ventured eventually. "After all, you might meet another girl and decide to marry her. She won't know that it was second hand. I've heard that some people even use their grandmother's ring; sort of keeping it in the family, you know." He paused. "Your girl may even change her mind and regret giving you the push off," he speculated. "People do get back together after a break up."
Henry sighed. "I suppose you're right," he admitted grudgingly. "At the moment I feel I don't want anything to do with women, but I expect I'll get over it."
"That's the spirit," encouraged Ginger, wondering if he would feel the same if he lost Jeanette. He doubted if he would want another woman, but would he get over it? He had no idea. He hoped that he would never have to answer that question. Henry's words made Ginger wonder if Bertie had had an unfortunate experience in love. Perhaps, he pondered, that was the reason for the antagonistic attitude towards his and Jeanette's relationship.
Henry stuffed the letter and the ring in his pocket. "No use crying over spilt milk," he observed philosophically. He looked out of the window of the Mess. "I see the weather's closed in again," he muttered. "I'd welcome some flying to take my mind off it."
Ginger nodded. "I know what you mean. All I can think about when I'm mooching around is how much I miss Jeanette and how long it'll be before I can get home to see her."
"Three months is the standard posting here or so they told me in the Admin Office," stated Henry gloomily. "Three months! We'll all be starved to death or dead of some noxious disease if the Jerries or the Eyeties don't get us first."
Ginger laughed softly. "I'm sick of bully beef and tinned peas," he admitted, "and Malta cabbage makes me sick literally!"
"Talking about food again?" asked Algy who had just arrived. "Don't you ever think of anything else – apart from Jeanette?" he added with a twinkle in his eye.
Ginger remembered the letters in his pocket. "What else is there to do?" he asked innocently. "Anyway, I'm off to my room to get a bit of peace and quiet." With that he got up to go to his billet.
"Give her my love when you write back," called Algy after the lad's retreating figure. Ginger did not turn to acknowledge the shout, but Algy thought the youngster's ears reddened. He chuckled softly.
Ginger fumed inwardly as he strode back to his billet. If only he didn't go red every time he was teased about Jeanette, he told himself angrily. What was there to blush about? Falling in love was a perfectly normal activity; people did it every day. Why then did he feel embarrassed whenever the subject of their relationship was mentioned? He sighed and resolved to try not to be so sensitive in future.
Alone in his room, he eagerly opened the envelopes in the order in which they had been posted and devoured their contents greedily. Jeanette wrote as if she were speaking to him and he tried to imagine her sitting in the chair telling him her news, but he soon realised that was a mistake. It brought her so strongly to mind that it sent his pulse racing. He missed her physical presence so much he had to concentrate on the words on the page to get his thoughts in order. She wrote of the minutiae of her daily life. There was nothing of import, but Ginger found it a great solace to have some sort of connection with her, no matter how banal.
As she had in her previous letter, she ended each in French with a declaration of how much she missed him and how she was longing to see him again. Ginger could not suppress a beaming smile, gladdened by the affirmation of the affection that she felt for him. Jeanette was safe and well and keen to see him again. All he had to do now was survive his overseas tour of duty, get back to England and ask her to marry him. Surely she wouldn't refuse?
Ginger sighed again. Return to England seemed a lifetime away. He got out his pen, found some stationery and began to write a reply. He wrote of his trip to the harbour and the capital, but left out the description of the bombing. Instead he described the patchwork of fields surrounded by stone walls, the changeable weather, the donkey carts, the honey-coloured stone of the buildings and the stoicism of the population. He had just written 'love to you and maman' when there was a knock at his door.
Hastily Ginger stuffed the letter into the envelope and put it in his pocket. He went across and quietly unlocked the door before calling "come in".
Ferocity stuck his head into the room. "We're all going into Valetta," the Liverpudlian told Ginger. "Tex has commandeered a bus. Do you fancy coming with us?"
Ginger made up his mind swiftly. Anything was better than hanging around doing nothing. He nodded and grabbed his cap. "Have you got anywhere in mind?" he questioned his companion as they made their way across to the Mess.
"Tex has been talking to the ground crew," admitted Ferocity. "They told him the C & P Os is okay."
"What's that?" queried Ginger.
"The Chiefs and Petty Officers Club. It's on what they call the Gut, Straight Street, Valletta."
Ginger shook his head. "They'll never let us in," he pointed out. "We're officers."
Ferocity regarded him pitifully. "Oh ye of little faith," he chided. "One of the sergeants has offered to take us in as his guests."
Ginger raised his eyebrows at the thought of the squadron piling into the naval equivalent of a sergeants' Mess en masse, but said no more. They all crowded onto the ramshackle bus with the sergeant, a sunburned veteran of all of twenty-three years, sitting in the front passenger seat, giving directions to Taffy who was driving.
Ginger had found a seat next to Algy toward the rear. "Do you think it's wise to let Taffy drive?" he queried as the bus set off at a rate of knots, bouncing over the rough surface. "He's not called Buster for nothing."
Algy shrugged fatalistically. "Too late now," he responded. "We can't change drivers in mid road."
Ginger clutched at the back of the seat in front of him as Taffy narrowly missed a gharry and swung the laden vehicle round a sharp bend. He stole a glance at Algy who seemed to have abandoned his earlier sang-froid and was looking a bit pale around the gills.
Despite their misgivings, however, the party reached their destination intact and piled out following their host. There was a somewhat heated discussion at the door, but eventually they were allowed in to the accompaniment of much muttering about liberties being taken by Crabfat.
"What's Crabfat?" Ginger asked Algy innocently. "Some sort of seafood?"
His question was overheard by a Petty Officer at the bar. "It's your lot," he explained. When Ginger looked blank, he elucidated, "Brylcreem Boys."
"Why Crabfat?" asked Ginger curiously.
"It's the colour of your uniform," replied the Petty Officer enigmatically and turned back to the bar, thus ending the conversation.
Ginger looked at Algy, raised his eyebrows and shrugged, unenlightened. He had never seen any blue crab meat, even in the South Seas.
Algy forbore to enlighten Ginger that it referred to an ointment for a rather embarrassing and avoidable medical condition. The lad was innocent, he reflected, and did not need to be unnecessarily stripped of that status.
At the end of a merry evening, spent matching drink for drink with their initially reluctant hosts, they all piled into the bus for their return. There was a loud argument about who would occupy the driving seat before they set off, but eventually, much to Ginger's relief, Ferocity won. The return journey took much longer than the outward trip but at least they were all deposited safely on the airfield, to make their unsteady ways back to their billets.
Ginger wrestled his uniform off and flopped on his bed. He fell asleep almost immediately to dream of London in peacetime and Jeanette as his wife.
The following morning he felt as though his head was being attacked by hammers from inside. The bright sunlight sliced through his pupils directly into his brain and he heard someone groan. Belatedly, he realised the noise was coming from his own mouth and he heaved himself off the bed. He clutched at the wall as the room reeled unsteadily.
When he reached the Mess, he observed that everyone in the previous night's party was in the same state.
Ginger could not face breakfast. He poured himself a cup of coffee and winced at the sound of the cataract gushing from the spout and thundering into the cup.
Algy gently levered himself onto the seat next to him.
"What on earth were we drinking last night?" whispered Ginger.
"Nelson's Revenge, by the feel of it," replied Algy, also sotto voce. He contemplated the rack of toast and marmalade and then thought better of it. "Remind me never to accept hospitality in a naval wardroom ever again."
Ginger murmured agreement. He would have nodded, but he was afraid his head would fall off.
Bertie, who had either not been invited or had passed up the opportunity to visit the Club, observed his fellow fliers unsympathetically.
Biggles entered and surveyed the tables of subdued pilots. His lips pursed but he said nothing. Ginger knew his CO would soon have the full story and expected to be on the receiving end of a lecture before too long. He was not disappointed. The whole squadron was assembled in the billiard room of the house that served as their Mess to submit to a homily about the need to act sensibly in order to remain sharp and focussed in the air. Ginger listened to the dressing down in silence, knowing Biggles had a point.
The inclement Maltese weather, however, worked in their favour and gave them a breathing space. The Sirocco continued unabated for several more days, keeping the German and Italian aircraft at home and allowing them time to recover before flying was resumed.
By the time the weather cleared, Ginger was thoroughly bored and he welcomed the chance to take off on an offensive patrol at last. Their aircraft had been fitted with bomb racks during the lull so, armed with two 250lb bombs slung under the Spitfires' wings, they set off for the objectives of Lampedusa and the Italian aerodrome of Marghana on Pantelleria, a small island strategically placed between Tunisia and Sicily. On paper it was a straightforward operation, but Ginger knew that the reality seldom lived up to the theory.
The squadron took off in text book fashion, heading north-west, before splitting into sections to deliver their loads on their respective targets. Ginger took up his position on Algy's right, with Tug covering his tail in a finger four formation. The 140 mile sea crossing was uneventful and he saw his target dead ahead. The early warning system must have been faulty or switched off; surprise appeared to be complete as they dived down, dropped their bombs on the airfield and left as quickly as they had arrived before the flak started up. Belatedly a few puffs of smoke darkened the sky behind them.
Ginger thought briefly that it had been too easy and he anticipated they would be attacked on the journey home. Malta was the only place they could have come from and their course could easily be worked out. His premonition proved to be accurate. He had kept sweeping the skies for enemy aircraft as they headed back to the island he temporarily thought of as home and his vigilance was rewarded when he glimpsed a dark speck in the sun. It grew larger, resolving itself into the outline of a Messerschmitt. Ginger called a warning and turned into his attacker. Having lost the advantage of surprise, the Germans seemed unwilling to press home the attack and broke off as soon as they could safely do so. Ginger had noticed this lack of enthusiasm in previous encounters and thought it odd. The Italians, who had never had much of a reputation for valour as far as he was concerned, were much more likely to continue to fight than their Teutonic allies. Perhaps, mused Ginger, it was because they were closer to home, defending their own sea, Mare Nostrum as Mussolini had declared the Mediterranean.
As the formation neared Malta, Bertie's flight joined them. Ginger could see that the gun patches were still in place. They had not met any opposition.
There was a temptation to relax with land so close, but Ginger knew that they were approaching possibly the most dangerous time of their mission. The Luftwaffe had made a speciality of stooging around the circuit to pick off fighters as they landed. The Spitfire was made to fly; she was at her most ungainly at slower speeds trying to make the transition from air to land and positively clumsy when taxiing. The narrow undercarriage and long nose made travelling on the ground a delicate operation.
The skies remained clear, however, and all the aircraft landed safely, trundling into their respective dispersal pens to be serviced by the willing ground crews while the pilots went to debriefing.
"A piece of cake," was Bertie's description. "I think everybody was fast asleep," he added. "We never even saw another fighter."
"There was no flak," Ginger told the IO, "but three ME 109s did try to bounce us on the way back."
"I bet they'll be ready for us next time," opined Tug.
"Next time?" queried Bertie in mock horror. "Do you mean we'll have to do it all over again, old boy? I'm a fighter pilot, not a bomb aimer."
"I heard there was going to be a big push," put in Tex. "To knock out the Eyeties."
"And this is the start of softening them up," added Ferocity.
"That's enough," warned Biggles. "We don't want rumour mongering to get out of hand."
Despite Biggles' admonition, however, it was plain that the tide had turned and Malta had gone on the offensive. The Italians and Germans still sent over raids and attacked the convoys, but the number of squadrons on the tiny island had grown and the fight-back was increasingly effective.
The squadron did several more bombing raids, much to Bertie's disgust. As Tug had predicted the target's defences were not caught napping a second time and several aircraft suffered flak damage, although all made it back to base safely.
As a change from bomber ops against land targets, the squadron was sent on a convoy patrol with instructions to provide air cover for the Beaufort torpedo bombers who were out to deny Rommel's Afrikakorps essential supplies in his African campaign. The ships did not intend to go down without a fight and Ginger, keeping a vigilant eye open for enemy aircraft, could only admire the courage of the crews flying through the barrage. There was a tremendous plume of water and smoke and one of the ships began to list.
"Got him!" exclaimed Ginger viciously although it seemed that the Beaufort had paid the penalty for its success. A thin streak of smoke was issuing from its starboard engine.
The next moment, he was cursing his inattention as tracer hit his port wing. He turned into the attack and fired as a black-crossed aeroplane flashed past. He must have put a bullet through its petrol tank because the aircraft blew up in front of him. Ginger ducked as debris seemed to be hurtling straight for him. There was no chance of missing it.
Oil smeared his windscreen and the Spitfire started to vibrate. Ginger pushed the canopy back and tried to see over the side. The force of the slipstream slammed his head against the back of the cockpit. As far as he could see, the sky was miraculously clear. He throttled back, losing height and heading back for Malta.
"Red Leader, this is Red Two," he transmitted, "I've been hit and I'm returning to base." There was no response. He checked his mike lead was still home in the socket and tried again. Nothing. He could only assume that some of the debris from his kill had removed his radio antenna.
Ginger took stock of his situation; although he was a long way from base, the aircraft was still under control and his engine was still running. Cautiously he advanced the throttle, but the vibration increased immediately. He scanned the instruments; the engine temperature was within parameters as was the oil pressure. There was no sign of a glycol leak, he realised thankfully. It must be his propeller that was damaged.
Ginger nursed his Spitfire, hoarding every inch of height. Although he was inexorably nearing safety, he knew he would never reach the island before he ran out of altitude.
He was just making up his mind to jump when he saw Malta in the distance. It lifted his spirits. At least he would not have so long to wait for rescue if only someone realised he was in trouble, he told himself.
As if the thought had conjured up salvation, he spotted a pair of Spitfires heading on a reciprocal course. He turned gently towards them. In an attempt to stretch his glide, his speed was already near stalling. They must have seen him, he realised, because they turned in his direction. As they came closer, he realised it was Bertie and Algy, looking for him. They closed up in formation on either side. By sign language he managed to convey that he was going to have to bale out. Algy waggled his wings to show he had understood. The two escorts peeled off to give him some room and reduce the risk of running into his parachute.
Ginger took a deep breath, unplugging his radio lead and the bayonet fitting of his oxygen mask before undoing his straps and flipping his Spitfire over onto its back. He started to fall out of the cockpit, only for his parachute pack to catch on the canopy. Half in and half out of the doomed aeroplane, he struggled to free himself as the sea loomed ever closer.
Bertie, flying to starboard, could only watch in horror and pray. With what relief he saw Ginger break free and pull the D release of his chute is better imagined than described. The canopy blossomed and Ginger floated down towards the Mediterranean.
Bertie, exhaling his pent up breath in a long sigh, could hear Algy transmitting their position and calling for the Air Sea Rescue launch, but he could not take his eyes off Ginger's diminishing figure as the young man fell toward the sea. Bertie slipped off height, still keeping at a safe distance, to watch the landing.
As his feet touched the surface of the water, Ginger hit the quick release of his parachute harness and allowed himself to fall. He had no wish to be dragged under by the canopy. He surfaced, gasping, and started to tread water as he operated the CO2 bottle to inflate his life jacket. When that failed to function, he tried to inflate his Mae West by blowing down the tube, but was only partly successful. He felt for the dog lead that attached his dinghy to his parachute harness, but it must have been broken when he got hung up on exiting the aeroplane. There was no sign of the dinghy and he concluded it must have been damaged and sunk without trace. He resigned himself to an unpleasant wait until the HSL arrived.
He saw Bertie make a pass above him with the canopy hood open. He seemed to be wriggling in the cockpit. The strange antics became clear when Bertie swept by and threw an object out of his Spitfire. It hit the sea with a splash not far from where Ginger was floating. His curiosity aroused, Ginger swam over to it and discovered Bertie had dropped his own dinghy. He waved his thanks and removed it from its cover. When he activated the bottle of compressed air to start the inflation nothing happened. Kicking himself for not remembering what to do, Ginger removed the pin and the valve began to operate. Disappointingly, it only blew up half the dinghy. Better than nothing, Ginger told himself as he managed to heave himself out of the water, not without difficulty because his feet had become entangled in the shrouds of his canopy. Eventually he managed to kick himself free and hauled himself onto the rubber life-raft.
He was starting to feel cold. The Mediterranean was nothing like as bad as the North Sea in winter, but it was not warm. Overhead, Bertie and Algy circled like vultures. Ginger knew they were keeping a look out for enemy aircraft who might decide to fire on him and was comforted. His teeth were beginning to chatter when he became aware that Algy was alone. He hoped that Bertie hadn't experienced engine trouble; one of them in the drink was more than enough and Bertie no longer had a dinghy.
Soon, he saw Bertie's aeroplane returning. A short while later, he spotted the creamy bow wave of the HSL which had been led to him by the Spitfire. Gratefully Ginger submitted to being hauled over the gunwales into the launch by eager hands as his comrades peeled off to return to base.
"You're alright now, laddie," said a gruff voice as the medics removed Ginger's clothes and rubbed him down before wrapping him in blankets and giving him a hot, strong cup of sweet tea with a swig of brandy.
As his tunic fell to the deck, the St Christopher medallion slipped out of his pocket and tinkled onto the boards. One of the crew picked it up and put it in Ginger's numbed hand, closing the lad's fingers firmly over the precious object.
"I reckon you'll be wanting to hang on to this," he observed.
Ginger nodded, too cold and exhausted to speak. He wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes, but he was roughly shaken awake.
"Don't drop off, laddie," one of the seaman told Ginger brusquely as he was picked up bodily and taken below decks. "You mustn't go to sleep just yet or you'll die of hypothermia and shock."
Ginger fought the overpowering drowsiness. He did not want to die. Jeanette was waiting for him. He imagined her as he had last seen her, standing in the hall of her flat. He lay on the bunk, under a pile of scratchy blankets, surrounded by hot water bottles, the talisman clutched in his hand, gradually regaining warmth and strength. He was just beginning to recover when the launch hit the swell off the coast and began to pitch and roll. By the time the craft had ploughed its way back to St Paul's Bay Ginger was feeling wretchedly sea sick. Despite his protests that he was not hurt, he was disembarked on a stretcher and taken by ambulance to the Station Sick Quarters for a check-up before he was discharged. His knees and thighs were smarting where they had been grazed in his escape from his stricken machine, but otherwise he was uninjured.
His uniform had been dried off, but it was thick with salt and uncomfortably stiff. He fingered the medallion Jeanette had given him and felt incredibly lucky. His first priority, he decided, was to get his clothes laundered and find something to wear while that was being done.
As he walked out of the SSQ, Ginger bumped into Biggles, who had just arrived to see how his protégé had fared after his ducking. When Ginger explained his predicament to his CO, Biggles took charge of the situation in his usual efficient manner. Spare items of kit were rustled up to enable Ginger to hand his uniform over to the Maltese equivalent of the dhobi-wallah and the young man was reminded of the need to make his report to the Intelligence Officer.
Feeling much better for his change of clothes, Ginger strolled into the Mess after his debriefing to find the others disposed around the piano, beers in hand.
"What kept you?" asked Ferocity.
"Been for a swim?" enquired Henry innocently.
"Were ye thinking of transferring to the Navy?" queried Angus with mock seriousness.
Ginger grinned and shook his head. "I'm no Nelson," he averred.
"Oh I don't know," countered Algy with a smile, "Nelson was seasick, too."
The others laughed, but Bertie regarded Ginger sympathetically. He had no idea the young man suffered from seasickness. The time Ginger had spent bobbing about in the dinghy and then in the HSL must have been very unpleasant, he thought.
Ginger caught Bertie's eye. "Thanks for dropping me your dinghy," he murmured. "It was a stroke of genius. It was getting pretty chilly in the water."
"Think nothing of it, old boy," demurred Bertie, trying not to show his pleasure at Ginger's appreciation. "Your need was far greater than mine."
Bertie's deprecating tone left Ginger feeling slightly awkward. He knew that Bertie's action had probably saved his life.
"As I've joined the Caterpillar Club and the Goldfish Club at the same time, this round's on me," announced Ginger to ease his discomfort. The rest of the squadron responded with whoops of delight and headed for the bar. Any excuse for a celebration was not to be wasted.
Ginger signed the chits with a flourish. He anticipated that in the cold light of morning, once the euphoria of his rescue had evaporated, he would be receiving a lecture from Biggles to the effect that his pay was expected to settle his Mess bill at the end of the month, but for the moment, he was delighted that he would have the chance to be going home to Jeanette, a prospect that had seemed somewhat remote a few hours ago.
"Here's to Ginger cheating Davy Jones, look you!" exclaimed Taffy, raising his glass.
The others followed suit. "Ginger!" they echoed.
"Soft, if watery, landings!" added Algy.
"And no dud engines!" completed Biggles as he joined the pilots.
Ginger made his way to his billet after a riotous evening and sat down to write to Jeanette. Should he tell her what had happened? Would it worry her? In the end, he made light of the incident, emphasising that he was safe and that her gift and her thoughts and prayers for him were important to him.
As he told Jeanette that he would be having another break from flying he realised that he had now lost his own aeroplane permanently. Unless he could acquire another Mk IX from one of the other squadrons, or from a newly arrived consignment if one were due, he was going to be at a disadvantage again.