Dom Mintoff gazed at the bloody, battered angular frame of the young man in the ill-fitting borrowed United States Navy uniform dozing, his handsome head lolling, in the chair outside the C-in-C’s makeshift office in the old seaplane hangar.
A lump came reluctantly to his throat as he briefly contemplated what that exhausted; ridiculously youthful destroyer captain had done the previous afternoon. The Americans would have rescued Malta sooner or later but the two small British ships which had suicidally hurled themselves at the enemy fleet had by their valour and courage saved countless lives across the Maltese Archipelago. By their actions they had cut short the agony, probably by hours; once the shelling had stopped the surviving Soviet parachutists had surrendered in droves, knowing that Malta would not, could not possibly fall. The killing had ended; and hundreds, more likely thousands of his — Dom Mintoff’s — people were still alive on this new day because of the selfless bravery of that bruised and no doubt, traumatised young officer and his men.
It was a rare, albeit brief, moment of personal humility for the leader of the Maltese Labour Party, a man not overly prone to introspection or known to ever freely give the British the benefit of the doubt.
The forty-seven year former Rhodes Scholar at Hertford College, Oxford, had half-expected to be arrested when the soldiers had arrived at his house. After the October War during the regime of Admiral Sir Julian Christopher’s predecessor he had been arrested several times and spent many frustrating months locked out of the political process. By profession an architect and journalist, Dom Mintoff was the kind of man who was never going to forgive that ignominy. Anybody who knew him understood that holding grudges and never forgetting a slight was in his blood. He had actually been Prime Minister of the colony for three years in the 1950s, and until the October War had been itching to be the first Premier of an independent Maltese Archipelago. But for the war Malta might, even now be preparing for its Independence Day. Unlike other leading Maltese politicians Dom Mintoff was never, ever going to be cowed by or in any way supplicant to the colonial power. Notwithstanding, he had wondered if his summons to the British headquarters was a prelude to another spell under detention, or perhaps, worse.
Dom Mintoff hesitated, tempted to rouse the sleeping naval officer.
If ever there was an Englishman whose right hand he might shake without worrying about who was watching, it was this man.
However, the moment passed.
Another time perhaps?
The Leader of the Maltese Labour Party’s recent ‘interview’ had given him a great deal to ponder.
‘Thank you for coming over, Mr Mintoff,’ Air Vice-Marshal French had said, coming around his desk and taking the suspicious Maltese’s hand. The Acting C-in-C was one of those infuriating Englishmen with whom it was inordinately hard to take offence with or to, no matter that he was an unwelcome foreign interloper, an imperial overlord foisted upon the Maltese Archipelago by a cruel accident of history. French had been punctiliously correct, even friendly, on all their previous meetings despite Mintoff’s calculated attempts to rile him. ‘May I introduce Vice-Admiral Clarey, the Commander of the United States Sixth Fleet,’ the Englishman went on, turning to the balding middle aged American who had risen from his chair when the Labour Party Leader had entered the room.
Mintoff shook hands with the American whose uniform, unlike that of his British comrade, was immaculately clean and freshly pressed.
Mintoff’s associates had been excluded and the two senior officers’ staffers had left the room. The Labour Party leader was waved to take a seat, and Air Vice-Marshal French and Admiral Clarey had retaken seats behind the C-in-C’s map-strewn desk. The three men had viewed each other like wrestlers circling, attempting to spot the best death grip.
‘I’ve asked my people,’ Dan French said, breaking the sudden tension, ‘to make sure that your people get coffee. Hopefully, they’ll bring some in for us in a minute.’ He sobered. ‘You will have heard the rumours about what happened at Mdina. It is my sad duty to inform you that Admiral Sir Julian Christopher died of wounds sustained defending his headquarters. The garrison of Mdina suffered approximately seventy percent casualties in yesterday’s action before eventually repelling the Soviet invaders. Further, I regret to have to inform you that Mr Borg, the leader of the Maltese Nationalist Party, may be among the dead. He was known to be attending a meeting in Rabat with other senior colleagues. We don’t know the full details yet but it seems paratroopers broke in and murdered,’ he hesitated, ‘everybody. At the height of the battle we believe that several pre-positioned ‘hit squads’ targeted leading Maltese political and business leaders. I fear that many prominent citizens will have been killed or injured.’ The Englishman pursed his lips, sighed. ‘Please take my words at face value Mr Mintoff,’ he requested quietly, ‘I mean what I say when I tell you that it was with no little relief that I learned of your survival unscathed.’
Dom Mintoff had guffawed uncomfortably, unable to take the sentiments at face value. His thoughts were still reeling from confirmation of the news of the death of Sir Julian Christopher and all that it portended for the future of the archipelago and possibly, his own liberty.
Dan French did not linger over this apparent rebuff.
‘Admiral Clarey and I have agreed to co-operate fully in the rescue and relief operation now getting into full swing across the archipelago. For your information Anglo-American operations in the Eastern Mediterranean will proceed as planned. In the mean time the United States Sixth Fleet’s ships and aircraft have thrown a protective screen around the archipelago. Until the main runway at Luqa is repaired — that will be sometime in the next twelve to eighteen hours — Admiral Clarey’s helicopters will continue to ferry personnel and equipment onto Malta, and to transfer seriously injured servicemen and civilians onto ships off shore, several of which have advanced medical facilities including modern operating theatres. Admiral Clarey has sent all the medically trained officers and men who can be spared ashore, and supplied armed naval details to support British, Commonwealth and local Maltese forces in maintaining order on the streets and facilitating the ongoing rescue operations.’
Dom Mintoff was genuinely astonished that he was being told this. Any of it. He had been a thorn in the side of the British for years, in the 1950s an advocate of Malta’s ‘integration’ into the Empire and when this had been rebuffed, an equally outspoken advocate of independence at any price. Now he was suddenly being treated as an ally and he honestly did not know how to react.
Vice Admiral Clarey cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted and forestalled by a light knocking at the door.
An elderly Maltese woman had entered bearing a metal tray and several chipped mugs.
‘Thank you, Mrs Bonnici,’ Dan French smiled, rising to his feet and helping the old woman place the tray on the maps on his desk. ‘That’s most kind of you,’ he had added in Maltese. ‘Thank you.’
The woman departed, clucking to herself without saying a word.
‘Mrs Bonnici took shelter here when the bombardment began. She’s been making tea and coffee ever since,’ the Acting C-in-C confided to the leader of the Maltese Labour Party.
The coffee, black and strong, and tasted vile.
Admiral Clarey cleared his throat again.
‘Air Vice-Marshal French is in command here, Mr Mintoff. The Sixth Fleet serves at his command until such time as things have returned to an even keel and the politicians in Oxford and Philadelphia have sorted out the chain of command.’