Redfalcon, page 19
Ravenstein’s eyes roved around his hired thugs and I calculated that any moment now he would signal them to attack. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I suggested, rapping a knuckle on the table to get his attention, ‘why don’t we cut cards for it?’
‘Cut cards?’ He gave a sceptical sneer. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
I took Blenkiron’s veteran deck out of my pocket and placed it on the table between us. ‘Whoever cuts the higher card wins the prize. Is that all right with you?’
He stared at me, dumbfounded, and I could tell that my startling offer had briefly knocked him off balance. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘I’m absolutely serious,’ I assured him. ‘It will avoid a lot of that unpleasant violence you were talking about. Since we’re both men of our word, I’m sure I can trust you to abide by the rules.’
A narrow smile spread across his lips and a mocking amusement glittered in his eyes. ‘It is true what they say about the English – you are all quite mad.’
I began to shuffle and riffle the cards. ‘We are also famed for our sportsmanship, aren’t we? So what about it? Are you game or not?’
He regarded me curiously for several seconds before nodding. ‘Very well, let us indulge this silly fancy of yours. But you must let me shuffle the cards also.’
He held out his hand and I placed the deck on his palm. ‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘We must play fair.’
Ravenstein shuffled slowly, never taking his eyes from me the whole time. Then he laid the deck down and asked, ‘Who draws first?’
‘I think it’s only right that you have first cut,’ I answered amiably.
His eyes flickered briefly to the cards, then back to me. He placed his fingers around the top half of the deck and carefully raised it, inspecting the card he had drawn. He displayed it for me with smug satisfaction. ‘The king of diamonds. I believe the advantage is very much with me.’
He replaced the cards and patted the deck together.
‘That is a strong draw,’ I admitted with a rueful sigh. ‘Let’s see what lady luck has in store for me.’
I rolled my shoulders, as if preparing for a feat of strength, then moved my left hand tentatively towards the deck, keeping it off to the side. When Ravenstein’s eyes shifted momentarily to follow the movement, I laid my right hand upon the deck and made my cut. I raised the cards and turned them to him. An irritated muscle twitched at the side of his nose at the sight of the ace of spades, which I had palmed earlier and slipped into the deck without his noticing.
‘Sorry, old fellow,’ I sympathised. ‘It looks as if the luck just isn’t with you today.’
Then I performed my second trick, bending the cards in my fingers and shooting them directly into his face. When he reflexively flung up his hands to ward them off, I grabbed the edge of the table and rammed it into his midriff.
With the breath knocked out of him, I continued to shove, bashing him right back into the wall. His men, being mere riff-raff, sat frozen, uncertain what to do without a direct command. In complete contrast, Jaikie, Dougal and Karrie had leapt from their seats and rushed to my side.
‘Get out now, while we have the chance!’ I ordered them, waving towards the exit.
We made our move in a group, but a few of Ravenstein’s minions had enough initiative to throw themselves in our way. A brief scuffle forced us back and I heard Ravenstein rasp out a vicious command in Spanish. Now the whole ugly crew were moving in on us. I snatched up a chair and smashed it into the face of one Moroccan, while Dougal treated another to a hefty crack on the jaw. As soon as they toppled, two more toughs took their place.
Those innocent customers who were not part of Ravenstein’s gang made a swift exit from the field of battle, while the two pale-faced waiters crouched quaking behind the bar. One of them grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a hefty swallow before passing it to his companion.
The fight was going full tilt now, with chairs and tables being knocked over in all directions. Dougal stood firm as an oak, his fists lashing out like twin hammers. Taking a fighting stance at his side, Karrie repeatedly swung her weighted satchel hard enough to crack the skull of anyone who dared to come within range.
Nimble as a Scottish hare, Jaikie darted among the enemy, delivering a flurry of well-placed blows. Though lacking the youthful energy of my companions, I was no less determined, and knocked down my fair share of opponents. But sheer weight of numbers was against us, and it was clear we could not hold out for long – until there came an unexpected intervention.
As if from nowhere, we were suddenly reinforced by four burly young men in leather flight jackets and scarves, the distinctive garb of military fliers. Seeing us hard pressed and outnumbered, they immediately weighed in on our side and set about laying our opponents flat to right and left with fists, knees and headbutts.
The tide began to turn, and while I grappled with a lanky Moroccan I saw Ravenstein reassess his situation. He spotted Karrie wielding her satchel as a weapon and instantly moved with the flashing speed of a predator. Ducking behind her, he snatched the bag from her grasp in one powerful, whip-like motion.
‘Out! Out!’ he yelled to his men, making a swift beeline for the exit. ‘Get to the cars!’
Breaking off from the fight, his bruised and bloodied gang tumbled out after him. With a furious bellow, Dougal moved to pursue them, only to find Karrie holding him back.
‘What are you doing, you daft lassie?’ he protested. ‘He’s got the tablet!’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Karrie assured him with a grin. ‘When nobody was looking, I swapped it for the sandwich platter. That’s all he’ll find when he opens my satchel. The tablet’s over there under the table.’
Dougal gaped at her in utter astonishment. ‘What are you like, woman!’ he exclaimed. Still flushed from the heat of battle, he waved a finger in front of her face and struggled to find adequate words to express his adoration. ‘You . . . you . . . you’re a gazelle!’
Karrie grabbed his hand and, yanking him forward, planted a solid kiss directly on his lips. While he was still reeling with astonishment, she examined his knuckles. ‘Look, they are skinned and bloody from the fight,’ she said, leading him away. ‘Come out to the courtyard and we’ll bathe them in the fountain.’
Now that I could take a proper look at our rescuers, I was taken aback to see that two of them sported the insignia of the Luftwaffe. The man who appeared to be in charge of the group wore RAF wings, and beneath his luxuriant handlebar moustache he grinned from ear to ear as he greeted Jaikie with the familiarity of an old comrade.
‘Well, Nipper, you’re never far from trouble, are you?’ he said laughing.
‘Binnsy! I hardly recognised you with that bush on your face,’ Jaikie exclaimed. ‘Sir Richard Hannay, this is Harry Binns. We played rugby for Cambridge together.’
‘Jaikie here was the weediest specimen on the squad,’ said the airman, ‘but by God he could move fast.’
‘And that’s why you called him Nipper,’ I guessed.
‘Binnsy here was a pretty fair centre half,’ said Jaikie. ‘Bit of a butterfingers with the ball, though.’
‘Careful, Nipper, I can still tackle like a charging bull,’ Binns warned.
He presented the RAF man standing next to him, whose boyish face was clean shaven. ‘This chap here is my wingman, Flash Bolton. And this pair are Dieter and Willi. They’re Luftwaffe, but good chaps, all things considered. We ran into them earlier and rather hit it off. We’ve been doing the rounds of the bars trying to outdo each other in outrageous flying stories.’
Bolton snapped off a jaunty salute while the two Germans attempted a swaying, military bow. I was aware that there existed a special bond between pilots of whatever nationality, and even in time of war it clearly persisted when they encountered each other on neutral ground.
‘I certainly appreciate your showing up in the nick of time,’ I said. ‘We were in a pretty tight spot.’
‘We would not stand by and see your brave little band overwhelmed by such a filthy mob,’ Dieter declared with the hearty geniality of a man well buoyed by alcohol. ‘Cowards of their sort deserve a good thrashing.’
‘Enough thrashing,’ slurred his fellow German, pulling him away. ‘We get drinks now.’
They strolled unsteadily to the bar and loudly placed a command for beer. The two waiters, emerging timidly from cover, made haste to oblige them.
Binns placed his fists on his hips and made a shrewd appraisal of Jaikie and myself. ‘Nipper, I know the game sort of chap you are,’ he declared, ‘and I’ve heard one or two tales about General Hannay. I’ve a solid hunch that you and your party aren’t here to enjoy the sights and those bleeders who set about you didn’t do it just for the exercise.’
With a sidelong glance, Jaikie deferred the question to me.
‘You’re right, Captain Binns,’ I confirmed. ‘We’re here on important military business, and now that we’ve got the enemy on our necks the sooner we get out of Tangier the better.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the airman. ‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Malta,’ Jaikie replied, ‘and as soon as we can manage.’
Binns let out a hearty laugh and clapped his companion on the shoulder. ‘Hear that, Flash? We’ve got ourselves some passengers.’
‘You’re going to Malta?’ I asked, scarcely able to believe it.
‘We’re stationed there,’ Binns informed us cheerfully. ‘We flew here in a Wellington for a few days’ leave on neutral ground.’
‘We were aiming to head back soon anyway,’ said Flash Bolton, with a bleary-eyed grimace. He slipped a hand under his cap and rubbed his head. ‘I don’t think I can actually drink any more.’
‘Grab your kit,’ Binns exhorted us, ‘and we’ll head for the airport right now. Get the old girl fuelled up then it’s off into the blue.’
‘Here, sir, let me give you a hand picking up those cards,’ Jaikie volunteered. ‘It looks to me like they bring you good luck.’
A pair of taxis whisked us off to Tangier airport, which was located in mountain country behind and above the city. Binns and Bolton passed through the glass doors of the airport station and quickly cleared their flight papers with the authorities. The two pilots then went off to inspect their plane, while Jaikie and Karrie tried to scrounge up some food and drink for the trip. Once we were alone, Dougal approached me in a conspiratorial fashion that was very unlike his usual straightforward manner.
‘I wanted to ask you for a piece of advice, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I wouldn’t mind at all,’ I responded. ‘I hope I can be of some help.’
‘Well, the thing is this – it occurs to me that I’m very likely in love with that Greek lassie, and it might well be that she’s grown a mite fond of me.’
‘I would agree with you on both counts,’ I assured him.
‘The trouble is, this isn’t like Jaikie and his lass Alison,’ he continued awkwardly. ‘She’s back home in Scotland, so he doesn’t need to fash himself about her safety. But here we are, me and Karrie, sticking our necks out on this dangerous caper. It might be that in worrying overmuch about each other we’ll take our minds off the business at hand and put the whole party at risk. So it’s maybe not such a good idea to be giving in to these romantic notions.’
Dougal scowled down at his grazed knuckles and I could see he was genuinely troubled. I laid an encouraging hand upon his shoulder.
‘Dougal, when I first met my wife Mary, she was already an agent for military intelligence at the height of the Great War, and in her time she placed herself in just as much danger as I did. I had to believe that she could take good care of herself, even without me around, and she had to trust that I too would find my way out of any number of scrapes.
‘Now, I think Dr Adriatis has proved herself just as capable as you or I, and I’m sure she trusts that you too can handle any situation that’s thrown your way. That trust may come hard, but it will see you through, and it’s a lot better than letting any sort of fears rob you of a future happiness.’
Dougal beamed gratefully at me. ‘To be honest, sir, many’s the time over these past few days I’ve wished the great McCunn were here to give me sage advice. But I think it’s fair to say that you’re nearly as wise a man as he is.’
I was well aware of the exalted opinion all the Die-Hards had of the retired Glasgow grocer who had been their guardian and their mentor, so it was with absolute sincerity that I told him, ‘Dougal, I don’t believe I’ve ever been paid a higher compliment.’
Karrie and Jaikie rejoined us just as Binns and Bolton returned from the plane. Both fliers looked grave and more than a little angry.
‘Rotten news, I’m afraid,’ Binns reported. ‘Some dirty blighters have yanked out our fuel lines and taken a hammer to one of the engines.’
‘It’s going to take at least a full day to fix the damage,’ Bolton added with a scowl.
We turned at the sound of propellers bursting noisily into life. I could only watch in helpless frustration as a plane with German markings accelerated down the runway and lifted off into the sky. Whatever Ravenstein was up to, he’d bought himself a good head start over us.
31
KNIGHTS OF THE AIR
The thirteenth of August had dawned hazy and bright over Takali airfield, with the promise of blistering heat to come in the fullness of the day. The ground crew led by chief engineer Dennis Whitstable rolled the twelve planes of 249 Squadron out of their pens – crude shelters built from concrete blocks salvaged from Malta’s many ruined buildings, or out of empty oil cans filled up with sand – and checked that they were fuelled up and ready for action. Despite their makeshift nature, the pens offered the planes some protection from the relentless German bombing.
Once they were strapped into their cockpits, the Spitfire pilots went through their lengthy start-up procedure and the Merlin engines choked into life, coughing out dust as usual. There was dust everywhere you went on the island of Malta, much of it carried in by the sirocco wind sweeping in from Africa, but this was augmented by the debris tossed into the air each day by the German bombing raids.
Seated in his plane and awaiting the signal for take-off, Peter John Hannay took from his pocket a much worn but highly cherished photograph of a blonde girl whose smile seemed to light up the entire cockpit. This was Anna Halverson, the Norwegian girl on whom his heart had been set since they shared an adventure some years before, while they were still in their teens. He fixed the photo to the dashboard. He then kissed the tip of his forefinger before pressing it to the lips of the lovely face smiling back at him. So far, he reflected, this little ritual had brought him more luck than he probably deserved.
His other good luck token was tucked inside his tunic. It was an old copy of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress passed down to him by his father, who had inherited it from his old friend and mentor Peter Pienar. Old Peter had been an expert flyer and had died in action bringing down one of Germany’s most renowned and deadly aces. Only recently had Peter John begun to leaf through the well-worn volume and mark certain passages that struck him as pertinent to his life in the air. One read, I seek a place that can never be destroyed, one that is pure, and fadeth not away, and he thought of this as he gazed at Anna’s picture. She and her father were now safe in Scotland, beyond the reach of the Nazi invaders who had occupied their country.
He taxied into position, forming a diagonal queue with the rest of the squadron as one by one they took to the air, led by Squadron Leader Oliver Markham. As he watched his comrades lift off from the ground, Peter John was reminded, as always, of the grace and power of the hunting birds he had prized in the days of his youth, when he had been all but obsessed with the sport of falconry. He had trained goshawks, sparrow-hawks, merlins and innumerable kestrels, and through them he had become well acquainted with death.
Those noble birds, for all their beauty and strength, had seemed doomed to perish at the least provocation. Sometimes they died of apoplexy or a clot, sometimes one would become lost, tangle its jesses in a tree and die of starvation. Upon occasion death quickly followed a clash with a rival bird. It was his love of these birds and their power of flight which had prompted him to take flying lessons at the earliest possible opportunity, and then enlist in the Royal Air Force upon the approach of war. He learned all too soon that like a bird of prey’s, the life of a fighter pilot could be tragically short.
Now he was on the runway, driving forward with mounting speed, the blood rushing in his veins as the roar of the engine grew louder. There was a series of bumps as the wheels bounded over potholes newly filled in after the last bombing raid had once again pockmarked the whole field with craters. Then came that moment, that lurch as the wind caught the wings and the plane lifted clear of the confines of earth to ascend into the freedom of the skies.
That brief moment of exultation gave way to the familiar routine of checking speed and altitude and moving into a V formation with the rest of the squadron. Off to his left was Canadian Russ Hollingsworth, commonly known as Hollywood on account of his North American accent and his matinee idol looks. Next to Squadron Leader Markham, he was the most experienced flyer of them all and claimed he had once flown upside down over Buckingham Palace.
On his other wing was T. Jack Westerbrook, or Jacko, who came from Norfolk farming stock and had a habit of describing the Germans as foxes or some other form of vermin. Once, after downing a Junkers 88, he declared with unfeigned vehemence, ‘And that pays you back for Aunt Hettie’s henhouse!’
Markham’s confident baritone came over the radio, ordering everyone to confirm by number that they were in position. He then scrutinised the formation and barked out instructions.
‘Cuthbert, straighten up, you incessant dandy! You’re not on the dance floor now! Emersby, you’re wobbling like a jelly! What would your lady friend say if she saw you making such a hash of things? Get a grip, man!’
These were both newly arrived replacement pilots and they had learned right away that no fuel could be spared for practice flights. Their training took place in the full blaze of battle, and Markham told every fresh pilot, ‘You need to learn as fast as if your life depends on it – because it bloody well does!’
‘Cut cards?’ He gave a sceptical sneer. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
I took Blenkiron’s veteran deck out of my pocket and placed it on the table between us. ‘Whoever cuts the higher card wins the prize. Is that all right with you?’
He stared at me, dumbfounded, and I could tell that my startling offer had briefly knocked him off balance. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘I’m absolutely serious,’ I assured him. ‘It will avoid a lot of that unpleasant violence you were talking about. Since we’re both men of our word, I’m sure I can trust you to abide by the rules.’
A narrow smile spread across his lips and a mocking amusement glittered in his eyes. ‘It is true what they say about the English – you are all quite mad.’
I began to shuffle and riffle the cards. ‘We are also famed for our sportsmanship, aren’t we? So what about it? Are you game or not?’
He regarded me curiously for several seconds before nodding. ‘Very well, let us indulge this silly fancy of yours. But you must let me shuffle the cards also.’
He held out his hand and I placed the deck on his palm. ‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘We must play fair.’
Ravenstein shuffled slowly, never taking his eyes from me the whole time. Then he laid the deck down and asked, ‘Who draws first?’
‘I think it’s only right that you have first cut,’ I answered amiably.
His eyes flickered briefly to the cards, then back to me. He placed his fingers around the top half of the deck and carefully raised it, inspecting the card he had drawn. He displayed it for me with smug satisfaction. ‘The king of diamonds. I believe the advantage is very much with me.’
He replaced the cards and patted the deck together.
‘That is a strong draw,’ I admitted with a rueful sigh. ‘Let’s see what lady luck has in store for me.’
I rolled my shoulders, as if preparing for a feat of strength, then moved my left hand tentatively towards the deck, keeping it off to the side. When Ravenstein’s eyes shifted momentarily to follow the movement, I laid my right hand upon the deck and made my cut. I raised the cards and turned them to him. An irritated muscle twitched at the side of his nose at the sight of the ace of spades, which I had palmed earlier and slipped into the deck without his noticing.
‘Sorry, old fellow,’ I sympathised. ‘It looks as if the luck just isn’t with you today.’
Then I performed my second trick, bending the cards in my fingers and shooting them directly into his face. When he reflexively flung up his hands to ward them off, I grabbed the edge of the table and rammed it into his midriff.
With the breath knocked out of him, I continued to shove, bashing him right back into the wall. His men, being mere riff-raff, sat frozen, uncertain what to do without a direct command. In complete contrast, Jaikie, Dougal and Karrie had leapt from their seats and rushed to my side.
‘Get out now, while we have the chance!’ I ordered them, waving towards the exit.
We made our move in a group, but a few of Ravenstein’s minions had enough initiative to throw themselves in our way. A brief scuffle forced us back and I heard Ravenstein rasp out a vicious command in Spanish. Now the whole ugly crew were moving in on us. I snatched up a chair and smashed it into the face of one Moroccan, while Dougal treated another to a hefty crack on the jaw. As soon as they toppled, two more toughs took their place.
Those innocent customers who were not part of Ravenstein’s gang made a swift exit from the field of battle, while the two pale-faced waiters crouched quaking behind the bar. One of them grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a hefty swallow before passing it to his companion.
The fight was going full tilt now, with chairs and tables being knocked over in all directions. Dougal stood firm as an oak, his fists lashing out like twin hammers. Taking a fighting stance at his side, Karrie repeatedly swung her weighted satchel hard enough to crack the skull of anyone who dared to come within range.
Nimble as a Scottish hare, Jaikie darted among the enemy, delivering a flurry of well-placed blows. Though lacking the youthful energy of my companions, I was no less determined, and knocked down my fair share of opponents. But sheer weight of numbers was against us, and it was clear we could not hold out for long – until there came an unexpected intervention.
As if from nowhere, we were suddenly reinforced by four burly young men in leather flight jackets and scarves, the distinctive garb of military fliers. Seeing us hard pressed and outnumbered, they immediately weighed in on our side and set about laying our opponents flat to right and left with fists, knees and headbutts.
The tide began to turn, and while I grappled with a lanky Moroccan I saw Ravenstein reassess his situation. He spotted Karrie wielding her satchel as a weapon and instantly moved with the flashing speed of a predator. Ducking behind her, he snatched the bag from her grasp in one powerful, whip-like motion.
‘Out! Out!’ he yelled to his men, making a swift beeline for the exit. ‘Get to the cars!’
Breaking off from the fight, his bruised and bloodied gang tumbled out after him. With a furious bellow, Dougal moved to pursue them, only to find Karrie holding him back.
‘What are you doing, you daft lassie?’ he protested. ‘He’s got the tablet!’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Karrie assured him with a grin. ‘When nobody was looking, I swapped it for the sandwich platter. That’s all he’ll find when he opens my satchel. The tablet’s over there under the table.’
Dougal gaped at her in utter astonishment. ‘What are you like, woman!’ he exclaimed. Still flushed from the heat of battle, he waved a finger in front of her face and struggled to find adequate words to express his adoration. ‘You . . . you . . . you’re a gazelle!’
Karrie grabbed his hand and, yanking him forward, planted a solid kiss directly on his lips. While he was still reeling with astonishment, she examined his knuckles. ‘Look, they are skinned and bloody from the fight,’ she said, leading him away. ‘Come out to the courtyard and we’ll bathe them in the fountain.’
Now that I could take a proper look at our rescuers, I was taken aback to see that two of them sported the insignia of the Luftwaffe. The man who appeared to be in charge of the group wore RAF wings, and beneath his luxuriant handlebar moustache he grinned from ear to ear as he greeted Jaikie with the familiarity of an old comrade.
‘Well, Nipper, you’re never far from trouble, are you?’ he said laughing.
‘Binnsy! I hardly recognised you with that bush on your face,’ Jaikie exclaimed. ‘Sir Richard Hannay, this is Harry Binns. We played rugby for Cambridge together.’
‘Jaikie here was the weediest specimen on the squad,’ said the airman, ‘but by God he could move fast.’
‘And that’s why you called him Nipper,’ I guessed.
‘Binnsy here was a pretty fair centre half,’ said Jaikie. ‘Bit of a butterfingers with the ball, though.’
‘Careful, Nipper, I can still tackle like a charging bull,’ Binns warned.
He presented the RAF man standing next to him, whose boyish face was clean shaven. ‘This chap here is my wingman, Flash Bolton. And this pair are Dieter and Willi. They’re Luftwaffe, but good chaps, all things considered. We ran into them earlier and rather hit it off. We’ve been doing the rounds of the bars trying to outdo each other in outrageous flying stories.’
Bolton snapped off a jaunty salute while the two Germans attempted a swaying, military bow. I was aware that there existed a special bond between pilots of whatever nationality, and even in time of war it clearly persisted when they encountered each other on neutral ground.
‘I certainly appreciate your showing up in the nick of time,’ I said. ‘We were in a pretty tight spot.’
‘We would not stand by and see your brave little band overwhelmed by such a filthy mob,’ Dieter declared with the hearty geniality of a man well buoyed by alcohol. ‘Cowards of their sort deserve a good thrashing.’
‘Enough thrashing,’ slurred his fellow German, pulling him away. ‘We get drinks now.’
They strolled unsteadily to the bar and loudly placed a command for beer. The two waiters, emerging timidly from cover, made haste to oblige them.
Binns placed his fists on his hips and made a shrewd appraisal of Jaikie and myself. ‘Nipper, I know the game sort of chap you are,’ he declared, ‘and I’ve heard one or two tales about General Hannay. I’ve a solid hunch that you and your party aren’t here to enjoy the sights and those bleeders who set about you didn’t do it just for the exercise.’
With a sidelong glance, Jaikie deferred the question to me.
‘You’re right, Captain Binns,’ I confirmed. ‘We’re here on important military business, and now that we’ve got the enemy on our necks the sooner we get out of Tangier the better.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the airman. ‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Malta,’ Jaikie replied, ‘and as soon as we can manage.’
Binns let out a hearty laugh and clapped his companion on the shoulder. ‘Hear that, Flash? We’ve got ourselves some passengers.’
‘You’re going to Malta?’ I asked, scarcely able to believe it.
‘We’re stationed there,’ Binns informed us cheerfully. ‘We flew here in a Wellington for a few days’ leave on neutral ground.’
‘We were aiming to head back soon anyway,’ said Flash Bolton, with a bleary-eyed grimace. He slipped a hand under his cap and rubbed his head. ‘I don’t think I can actually drink any more.’
‘Grab your kit,’ Binns exhorted us, ‘and we’ll head for the airport right now. Get the old girl fuelled up then it’s off into the blue.’
‘Here, sir, let me give you a hand picking up those cards,’ Jaikie volunteered. ‘It looks to me like they bring you good luck.’
A pair of taxis whisked us off to Tangier airport, which was located in mountain country behind and above the city. Binns and Bolton passed through the glass doors of the airport station and quickly cleared their flight papers with the authorities. The two pilots then went off to inspect their plane, while Jaikie and Karrie tried to scrounge up some food and drink for the trip. Once we were alone, Dougal approached me in a conspiratorial fashion that was very unlike his usual straightforward manner.
‘I wanted to ask you for a piece of advice, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I wouldn’t mind at all,’ I responded. ‘I hope I can be of some help.’
‘Well, the thing is this – it occurs to me that I’m very likely in love with that Greek lassie, and it might well be that she’s grown a mite fond of me.’
‘I would agree with you on both counts,’ I assured him.
‘The trouble is, this isn’t like Jaikie and his lass Alison,’ he continued awkwardly. ‘She’s back home in Scotland, so he doesn’t need to fash himself about her safety. But here we are, me and Karrie, sticking our necks out on this dangerous caper. It might be that in worrying overmuch about each other we’ll take our minds off the business at hand and put the whole party at risk. So it’s maybe not such a good idea to be giving in to these romantic notions.’
Dougal scowled down at his grazed knuckles and I could see he was genuinely troubled. I laid an encouraging hand upon his shoulder.
‘Dougal, when I first met my wife Mary, she was already an agent for military intelligence at the height of the Great War, and in her time she placed herself in just as much danger as I did. I had to believe that she could take good care of herself, even without me around, and she had to trust that I too would find my way out of any number of scrapes.
‘Now, I think Dr Adriatis has proved herself just as capable as you or I, and I’m sure she trusts that you too can handle any situation that’s thrown your way. That trust may come hard, but it will see you through, and it’s a lot better than letting any sort of fears rob you of a future happiness.’
Dougal beamed gratefully at me. ‘To be honest, sir, many’s the time over these past few days I’ve wished the great McCunn were here to give me sage advice. But I think it’s fair to say that you’re nearly as wise a man as he is.’
I was well aware of the exalted opinion all the Die-Hards had of the retired Glasgow grocer who had been their guardian and their mentor, so it was with absolute sincerity that I told him, ‘Dougal, I don’t believe I’ve ever been paid a higher compliment.’
Karrie and Jaikie rejoined us just as Binns and Bolton returned from the plane. Both fliers looked grave and more than a little angry.
‘Rotten news, I’m afraid,’ Binns reported. ‘Some dirty blighters have yanked out our fuel lines and taken a hammer to one of the engines.’
‘It’s going to take at least a full day to fix the damage,’ Bolton added with a scowl.
We turned at the sound of propellers bursting noisily into life. I could only watch in helpless frustration as a plane with German markings accelerated down the runway and lifted off into the sky. Whatever Ravenstein was up to, he’d bought himself a good head start over us.
31
KNIGHTS OF THE AIR
The thirteenth of August had dawned hazy and bright over Takali airfield, with the promise of blistering heat to come in the fullness of the day. The ground crew led by chief engineer Dennis Whitstable rolled the twelve planes of 249 Squadron out of their pens – crude shelters built from concrete blocks salvaged from Malta’s many ruined buildings, or out of empty oil cans filled up with sand – and checked that they were fuelled up and ready for action. Despite their makeshift nature, the pens offered the planes some protection from the relentless German bombing.
Once they were strapped into their cockpits, the Spitfire pilots went through their lengthy start-up procedure and the Merlin engines choked into life, coughing out dust as usual. There was dust everywhere you went on the island of Malta, much of it carried in by the sirocco wind sweeping in from Africa, but this was augmented by the debris tossed into the air each day by the German bombing raids.
Seated in his plane and awaiting the signal for take-off, Peter John Hannay took from his pocket a much worn but highly cherished photograph of a blonde girl whose smile seemed to light up the entire cockpit. This was Anna Halverson, the Norwegian girl on whom his heart had been set since they shared an adventure some years before, while they were still in their teens. He fixed the photo to the dashboard. He then kissed the tip of his forefinger before pressing it to the lips of the lovely face smiling back at him. So far, he reflected, this little ritual had brought him more luck than he probably deserved.
His other good luck token was tucked inside his tunic. It was an old copy of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress passed down to him by his father, who had inherited it from his old friend and mentor Peter Pienar. Old Peter had been an expert flyer and had died in action bringing down one of Germany’s most renowned and deadly aces. Only recently had Peter John begun to leaf through the well-worn volume and mark certain passages that struck him as pertinent to his life in the air. One read, I seek a place that can never be destroyed, one that is pure, and fadeth not away, and he thought of this as he gazed at Anna’s picture. She and her father were now safe in Scotland, beyond the reach of the Nazi invaders who had occupied their country.
He taxied into position, forming a diagonal queue with the rest of the squadron as one by one they took to the air, led by Squadron Leader Oliver Markham. As he watched his comrades lift off from the ground, Peter John was reminded, as always, of the grace and power of the hunting birds he had prized in the days of his youth, when he had been all but obsessed with the sport of falconry. He had trained goshawks, sparrow-hawks, merlins and innumerable kestrels, and through them he had become well acquainted with death.
Those noble birds, for all their beauty and strength, had seemed doomed to perish at the least provocation. Sometimes they died of apoplexy or a clot, sometimes one would become lost, tangle its jesses in a tree and die of starvation. Upon occasion death quickly followed a clash with a rival bird. It was his love of these birds and their power of flight which had prompted him to take flying lessons at the earliest possible opportunity, and then enlist in the Royal Air Force upon the approach of war. He learned all too soon that like a bird of prey’s, the life of a fighter pilot could be tragically short.
Now he was on the runway, driving forward with mounting speed, the blood rushing in his veins as the roar of the engine grew louder. There was a series of bumps as the wheels bounded over potholes newly filled in after the last bombing raid had once again pockmarked the whole field with craters. Then came that moment, that lurch as the wind caught the wings and the plane lifted clear of the confines of earth to ascend into the freedom of the skies.
That brief moment of exultation gave way to the familiar routine of checking speed and altitude and moving into a V formation with the rest of the squadron. Off to his left was Canadian Russ Hollingsworth, commonly known as Hollywood on account of his North American accent and his matinee idol looks. Next to Squadron Leader Markham, he was the most experienced flyer of them all and claimed he had once flown upside down over Buckingham Palace.
On his other wing was T. Jack Westerbrook, or Jacko, who came from Norfolk farming stock and had a habit of describing the Germans as foxes or some other form of vermin. Once, after downing a Junkers 88, he declared with unfeigned vehemence, ‘And that pays you back for Aunt Hettie’s henhouse!’
Markham’s confident baritone came over the radio, ordering everyone to confirm by number that they were in position. He then scrutinised the formation and barked out instructions.
‘Cuthbert, straighten up, you incessant dandy! You’re not on the dance floor now! Emersby, you’re wobbling like a jelly! What would your lady friend say if she saw you making such a hash of things? Get a grip, man!’
These were both newly arrived replacement pilots and they had learned right away that no fuel could be spared for practice flights. Their training took place in the full blaze of battle, and Markham told every fresh pilot, ‘You need to learn as fast as if your life depends on it – because it bloody well does!’
