Redfalcon, page 20
This morning’s briefing had been anything but cheery, not that the pilots needed much reminder of their tightening resources. The convoy ploughing its way across the Mediterranean had been subject to every form of attack the Axis forces could bring to bear, including bombers, submarines and torpedo boats. According to the latest reports, of the fourteen merchant vessels carrying vital supplies no more than half a dozen remained afloat and a couple of those could not be located. Those that were left were strung out over five miles of sea along with their hard-pressed destroyer escort.
There was some good news, however. Cooperation between the Germans and the Italians had broken down amid long-festering distrust and mutual recrimination. The result was that the Luftwaffe refused to provide air cover for Italian naval actions while the ships of the Regia Marina declined to offer support to the Germans’ aerial campaign. On top of this, a series of bogus messages from the British commanders persuaded the Italian admirals that a force was being sent against them much more formidable than anything Malta could actually muster. As a result, they chose to withdraw to the relative safety of their own coastline, leaving the destruction of the convoy in the hands of their overbearing allies.
The squadron banked right over the bomb-scarred landscape of Malta and headed west over the waters of the Mediterranean, which today looked an ominous gunmetal blue. Communications with the convoy were sporadic, but the position of the ships had been determined closely enough for the RAF planes to zero in and provide them with protection on this last leg of their long voyage.
‘Ten o’clock low, boys,’ Markham announced at last.
Glancing down, Peter could see a merchant vessel, possibly the Rochester Star, which bore the scars of a recent attack but at present was sailing safely towards its destination. Markham led the way along the trailing route of the convoy until puffs of smoke and vapour trails were visible in the skies to the west.
‘Trouble up ahead, lads,’ he informed them grimly. ‘We’d better get in there and lend a hand. Watch your backs and make your bullets count!’
The squadron climbed rapidly to three thousand feet, carrying them above the enemy, who Peter could now see were attacking the great American tanker the Ohio. Her escort of three destroyers was putting up a barrage at the incoming Junkers 88s, and as a result several German bombs were falling into the sea around the target, sending explosive showers of spray washing over the vessel’s deck. The Ohio was already blackened with fire, and broken chunks of twisted metal stuck out from her decks in places where she had taken a direct hit. She was moving very slowly, and plumes of black smoke testified to the fact that her engines were labouring mightily.
The Malta squadron now plunged into the enemy formation, peeling off to engage in a deadly aerial ballet. Darting through the screen of nimble Messerschmitt 109s, Peter targeted one of the Junkers, laying a stream of fire directly along her fuselage. Flames erupted from the burning scar and a wing sheared off as the plane tilted violently, completely out of control. She plunged downward in a sickening spiral and hit the sea with an explosive crash.
Peter John barely had time to take any satisfaction from the kill before a hungry Messerschmitt came roaring down on his tail. He threw his plane into a wild corkscrew intended to shake off the pursuit as a stream of bullets streaked by, narrowly missing the Spitfire’s fuselage, and then the German pilot suddenly swerved away. Hollywood was coming at him out of the sun, his guns chattering in a staccato rhythm. The Canadian’s aim was true, piercing the German’s cockpit and sending the stricken enemy down into the waves.
‘Close one there, PJ,’ Hollywood called over the radio. ‘Look out, here comes another bandit!’
While the RAF men duelled with the German fighters, the Junkers, their payloads having been delivered, began to withdraw northward. They appeared to have added little further damage to the Ohio, but the attack was not yet over. Like a bat out of hell, a Stuka, the deadly demon of the skies, came swooping down towards the beleaguered tanker. Jacko was on his tail, blazing away to bring him down before he could reach her.
Peter saw his wingman score a direct hit on the enemy pilot, who slumped forward, releasing his bomb too soon. The explosive detonated in the sea, tossing up a frothing cascade, but the danger was not past, for whether it was an accident or the German pilot deliberately sacrificed himself, the Stuka was headed straight for the ship. The Ohio was too slow and bulky to manoeuvre out of danger, and the defensive guns blazed in a desperate frenzy, but the incoming dart could not be stopped. It smashed directly into the deck and exploded in a horrifying fireball.
Reeling back from the blast, the sailors recovered from the shock in time to close in with fire extinguishers. They battled hard to bring the flames under control, and as Peter passed overhead he could see the gnarled shell of the Stuka sticking out of the deck like some ghastly artwork in blackened metal. Yet the Ohio remained afloat, like a stubborn boxer who takes punch after punch and still battles on to the next round.
The attacking force was now fleeing back to their airfields in Sicily, and Markham called his squadron back together.
‘Time to head home before we run dry,’ he announced. ‘Everybody check in.’
One by one each of the pilots called in their status, but one voice was missing.
‘Looks like we lost Emersby,’ Markham concluded solemnly. ‘We’ll raise a glass to him tonight, boys.’
Peter John had lost count of how many comrades he had lost since the storm broke over France, but each fresh loss still hurt like a wound. He only hoped Emersby’s sacrifice was worthwhile, because if the battered hulk of the Ohio could not find a way to reach the Grand Harbour at Valletta, then the island must fall and with it the hopes of free men everywhere.
Shaking off such gloomy thoughts, he gazed once more at the picture of his sweetheart and projected his mind forward to a joyous reunion. He had no suspicion that another reunion, one he had not foreseen coming so soon, was waiting for him back on Malta.
32
THE BESIEGED
Thanks to the hard work and determination of our new pilot friends, we were able to take off from Tangier at first light in their twin-engined Wellington. Flying low over open water to avoid drawing the attention of the Axis coastal defences of Algeria and Tunisia, we reached Malta seven hours later and descended towards the airfield at Takali, a few miles to the east of the ancient capital of Mdina.
Seen from the air, the base was a roughly circular sprawl of landing strips, blast pits and slit trenches where relays of mechanics worked round the clock to keep the bombers and Spitfires ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Batteries of anti-aircraft guns ringed the perimeter, their upturned barrels glinting in the blazing summer sun.
Months of relentless aerial bombardment had left the main runway seamed and scarred like the face of a quarry. As we made our approach we passed over a repair party feverishly toiling to fill in the gaping bomb craters with rubble salvaged from fragmented outbuildings. Our landing was a rocky one, involving some tricky manoeuvring that would have taxed even Archie Roylance’s capabilities.
I accompanied Binns and Bolton to the command post, where they reported in to the officer on duty. Here I learned that Peter John’s squadron was en route back from their latest sortie. Rejoining my young friends outside, we all four scanned the skies to the west, eagerly awaiting the first sight of the returning fighters. All the while Karrie held the tablet in its satchel tightly in her arms, clinging – as I was – to the hope that here on the island it might finally give up its secrets.
We did not have long to wait before the squadron appeared, sweeping towards us in a disciplined formation. One by one they touched down, each plane being greeted with cheers from the men on the ground. From some of their sombre comments, however, I understood that at least one fighter had not made it home.
Flight crews swarmed to help the pilots out of their cockpits and there was a frustrating delay before I was able to spot Peter John peeling off his goggles. He moved stiffly away from his plane and paused to flex his neck. It was then he sighted me, and his face lit up with surprise. With a whoop of delight, he stripped off his flight helmet and rushed to meet me. Clapping both hands on my shoulders, he exclaimed, ‘Dad! By heaven, are you a sight for sore eyes! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘No need to worry, Peter,’ I reassured him. ‘I’m not here to talk about your school report.’
He laughed at this private joke of ours. He had never really taken to school and had sometimes worried about his marks. For my part, I had always made it clear to him that his academic performance was less important to me than his honest character, sharp mind and courage on the sporting field.
‘I suppose I should have expected you,’ he said wonderingly. ‘It’s just like you to pop up exactly where the action’s at its hottest.’
‘It seems some of us aren’t destined for the quiet life,’ I said. ‘Maybe when we’ve finished toppling the Reich we can slip away for a spot of salmon fishing.’
At close quarters I could see that the shortage of food and the strain of constant warfare had taken their toll on my son. His face was noticeably thinner and his well-worn flight suit hung loose on his frame. Despite these privations, his eyes were as bright as ever and his air of resolve undiminished.
‘Look, I’d better go and have a word with Markham,’ Peter said, pointing out his squadron leader, ‘explain to him who you are. I suppose I can tell him truthfully that you’re here on some important business?’
‘I think it’s fair to say that.’
Once he had permission from his officer to join me, I introduced Peter to the other members of my party. I explained to him as briefly as possible what it was that had brought us here, and couldn’t help but note the scepticism with which he greeted my story.
‘I’ve got to tell you honestly, Dad,’ he stated apologetically, passing his gaze across Dougal, Jaikie and Karrie, ‘and the rest of you, but with all we’ve been going through here, it’s hard to see how this treasure hunt of yours is going to do us any good.’
‘It’s a puzzle to us as well,’ Dougal agreed gruffly.
‘I suppose we must have faith that our journey has a purpose,’ said Karrie, touching a hand to the satchel at her side. ‘I cannot believe we would have come through so many dangers and difficulties if it was not somehow meant to be.’
At this point Harry Binns came jogging up to us. ‘I’ve had a word with the chaps here,’ he reported, ‘made a big noise about you being a general, Mr Hannay, and they’ve agreed to let you borrow one of their cars for the trip to Valletta. They’ve phoned ahead to let HQ know you’re coming.’
‘Give me a minute to get out of my flying gear and I’ll come with you,’ said Peter John.
Soon we were headed north with Dougal at the wheel, Jaikie beside him and myself squeezed in at the back between Peter John and Karrie. Like the airfield at Takali, the road had been badly damaged, forcing Dougal to steer an erratic course through potholes and rubble. My son gave us a brief and self-effacing account of his time on Malta, displaying more concern for the sufferings of the civilian population than for his own safety. The hospital at Valletta, he told us, was working flat out to deal with the constant stream of casualties.
‘Our old friend Peter Paterson is a doctor there,’ said Jaikie. ‘I’ll bet he’s happy as can be at having his hands full.’
‘And Thomas Yowney’s got himself stationed here as a chaplain,’ Dougal added. ‘It seems like the Gorbals Die-Hards are here in force.’
‘I believe your gang did a pretty good job of pulling my old man out of a pickle when you were all in Paris,’ said Peter John.
‘Och, that was nothing,’ said Dougal. ‘Your father did all the hard work on that caper.’
It did boost my confidence to know that the whole group was here on Malta, as Stannix had assured me they would be when we spoke back in London. These four young Scots seemed to have between them a range of talents that made them equal to any challenge.
Peter John told us that medicines were in short supply and food was running low. Rationing was made stricter every week so that hunger pangs were just part of the daily routine. He added that we were lucky to be given the use of a car, as fuel was such a rarity that the bicycle was the most common mode of transport for soldiers and civilians alike.
The farms and villages we passed along our route bore all the hallmarks of deprivation and heavy bombardment. In spite of this the people seemed to hold themselves proudly and waved cheerfully at our military vehicle as it rolled past.
‘You could hardly blame the locals for wanting to be rid of us,’ said Peter John, ‘and yet the more they suffer, the more pride they take in their alliance with us. We may be short of many things here, but there’s plenty of guts and nerve to go round.’
We all fell silent at the sound of sirens in the distance. This was soon followed by the drone of aircraft high above and before long we heard the first bomb burst some distance ahead.
‘Better pull over under cover,’ I advised.
Dougal turned into a grove of olive trees, concealing us beneath the drooping branches. The thunder of aircraft engines grew louder as the raiders swept in from the coast, accompanied by the hideous din of exploding bombs. To my horror I realised that we were directly in the enemy’s flight path. Instinctively we crouched low in our seats as the heavy bombers roared overhead. As the last one passed over us, from a couple of hundred yards to our left there came a sickening detonation that rocked the ground beneath our wheels.
Now, in addition to the rumble of the bombers, we could hear the drone of our own fighters, which had been launched into the sky. Then there came repeated bursts of anti-aircraft fire, like a series of sharp punches. Gradually the din abated as the enemy planes were forced to disperse. The sound of the all-clear was as welcome to our ears as sweet music.
Climbing out of our car to survey the aftermath of the attack, we discovered that the farmhouse overlooking the grove had taken a direct hit. In its place was a blackened crater surrounded by smouldering rubble. An old man staggered out from the shelter of a nearby barn and shook a furious fist after the departed raiders. Neighbours converged to offer him what help and comfort they could.
Seeing there was nothing we could do, we climbed back into the car and continued on our way in a grimmer mood following this demonstration of the punishment being inflicted on the brave little island. Soon we could see the roof-tops and ancient fortifications of Valletta directly ahead.
Four centuries earlier, to guard the entrance to the Grand Harbour, the Knight of St John had built forts on the twin promontories of Senglea and Birgu. Following the great siege of 1565, they celebrated their victory over the Turks by constructing a magnificent town along the ridge on the other side of the water with richly ornamented churches and splendid fortified towers.
The new town was named after Jean de Vallette, the Grand Master who had commanded the Order during that long battle. In the old town the ramparts of bastions which had withstood the Ottoman assault still reared up in all their strength, a testament to the men who built and defended them.
As we drove down the main street we saw heaps of rubble everywhere and buildings reduced to fire-blasted shells. The length of the Great Harbour was dotted with the skeletal hulls of ships destroyed by the incessant German bombing, but now that the raid had passed the quayside was swarming with well-organised teams unloading a recently arrived merchant ship, presumably an outlier of the Pedestal convoy, most of which still lay beyond the reach of safety.
We reported in to headquarters, once an elegant manor, now fortified with sandbags and turned to military use. When I requested a meeting with the governor I was informed that he was busy inspecting the submarine pens and would not be available until the next day. Knowing how odd my tale must sound to the officers on duty, I decided not to press the urgency of my mission, since it seemed advisable not to stretch their goodwill.
On a positive note, they found accommodation for us, this being some cramped rooms in the Kevala Hotel, one wing of which had already been reduced to rubble. The remaining walls were riven with cracks, and the windows covered over with paper, so that the whole place gave the appearance of being held together with sticking plaster and prayer. The staff could not have been more hospitable, and appeared to take pride in carrying out their duties as if there was no danger to be feared and all their guests were simply here for a restful holiday.
When we had checked in, Dougal and Jaikie announced they were going to the hospital to surprise their fellow Die-Hards, and Karrie and I sat down with Peter John to try, unavailingly, to decipher the ancient tablet. It was no good – the meaning of the symbols remained closed to us.
That night my thoughts were once again of Mary, wondering how she was coping with the burden of sending those newly trained young women off to France where they would face danger on every side. Would a day ever come, I wondered, when all of this would be over, when the just and lasting peace we thought we were fighting for would finally become a reality? In my sleep my dreams were filled with those taunting symbols. They appeared to dance before my eyes, seeking some sort of pattern that would speak whatever message it was that had been left to us by Redfalcon.
In the morning, I left the rest of my party to their breakfast while I smartened up as best I could and marched over to headquarters. I was kept waiting for only a half-hour before being admitted to the office of the governor, Viscount Gort. Lack of sleep and the heavy weight of his duties had made him short on patience, and when I told him what had brought me here he gaped in blank disbelief at my tale of knights, tombs and ancient codes.
