“I must wash and shave before I go,” he apologised. A car would be coming for him in less than thirty minutes. Not usually a man moved to state the patently obvious he said to his wife: “You are completely beautiful…”
By the time he had shaved, nicking his chin twice in his rush, spruced himself up somewhat and donned a fresh uniform Marija had prepared a mug of tea and carved doorsteps off a crusty loaf of brown bread. There was butter, cheese and a small bowl of green olives on the table.
“Eat, drink, husband,” she directed, employing the tone she reserved for adults and children who foolishly refused to take their medicine as per prescribed. “You are far too thin!”
It was thing Peter had noticed ever since he arrived on Malta, albeit a thing that had not immediately sunk in, that the Maltese had a particular love affair with their food. He had asked an old Malta hand about it once. ‘The people on the islands nearly starved during the siege in forty-one to forty-two — ever since then families drum it into their kids that they must eat when there is food, feed themselves up against the day when the famine returns…’
“And you, wife,” he retorted, “are…”
“Beautiful,” Marija pre-empted him. “You said. I don’t forget these things. Stop talking and eat, drink.”
He slurped his tea and munched his bread.
As she slipped past him Peter pulled his wife close, gently mauled her with greedy fondness, kissed her lingeringly and fled the house, tossing his travelling bag ahead of him into the waiting car.
HMS Talavera was to be moved to the ammunition pier to take on her full war load: nearly a thousand 4.5-inch fixed rounds, half ‘common; and half ‘armour piecing’ fixed rounds; several thousand rounds of 20 and 40-millimetre shells; and four 21-inch torpedoes. Further, the ship was ordered to provision for fourteen days at sea and scheduled later that afternoon to take on over six hundred tons of heavy bunker oil. This latter would necessitate moving the ship round into Marsamxett where the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Brambleleaf was moored opposite the entrance to Lazaretto Creek. Thirteen additional Royal Marines were also to be accommodated, bringing the ship’s contingent up to thirty men. Once the thirteen extra troopers reported aboard, HMS Talavera’s complement would number twenty-one officers and two hundred and thirty-eight other rates. Once ammunitioning, provisioning and oiling was complete HMS Talavera was to anchor on Destroyer Buoy Number Two in Sliema Creek, maintaining one boiler ‘lit’, at two hours notice to leave harbour. It seemed that Talavera, and the Type-12 frigate HMS Yarmouth, were to stay at Malta as ‘guard ships’ while the rest of the Mediterranean Fleet ‘had all the fun’. The Yarmouth was currently at sea; when she returned to port Talavera would depart to patrol the waters around the Maltese Archipelago out to a distance of thirty miles. Much as the Battle class destroyer’s young commanding officer was upset not to be participating in Operation Grantham, he could not deny that the coming weeks would be a marvellous opportunity to work Talavera up to the highest possible pitch of efficiency.
It seemed that Talavera’s increased compliment — according to ‘the book’ — was rather too many men for a mere Lieutenant-Commander to ‘command’. Thus, appended to HMS Talavera’s orders had been the notice of two ‘acting’ promotions: Miles Weiss was, with immediate effect, promoted ‘acting’ Lieutenant-Commander, and Peter was, with similar immediate effect, promoted ‘acting’ Commander.
Peter was guilty he had not told Marija the good news; but what with one thing and he simply had not got around to it. The news would wait for another, better time although, on reflection, it was hard to imagine a ‘better time’ than he had enjoyed with his new wife last night.
“How are we today, Lieutenant-Commander Weiss?” He inquired with a broad smile as he and his Executive Officer fell into step on the way to Peter’s day cabin to review the day’s program.
“Top hole, sir. And you?”
“Never better, Number One!”
Peter Christopher had worried — not overly, but he had worried — how he and Miles Weiss would settle into their respectively ‘inherited’ roles on the destroyer. Miles was Peter’s best friend; likewise he was his new Executive Officer’s best friend; and it had never occurred to Peter to ask any other man than Miles Weiss to be his best man. They had always enjoyed each other’s company when they were relatively junior members of the wardroom in those grim days back in Fareham Creek after the October War, once or twice they had even got blind drunk together on runs ashore. Neither man had a plethora of close friends and valued their friendship, except friendship was tricky thing between a commander of one of Her Majesty’s ships and the man who was directly responsible to him for the condition and the combat readiness of his ship. Thus far the two friends had managed the situation by simply getting on with things. How though would their friendship fare in the coming months?
“I think our Supply Officer is a little distracted,” Miles Weiss chuckled.
“Um,” Peter rejoined in a similar tone, “I think the poor fellow is a little taken with a certain young lady of our mutual acquaintance.”
The two men chortled sympathetically. Alan Hannay was smitten with Rosa Calleja, which was odd because he was not the sort of fellow most of those who knew him would have guessed was very easily smitten.
Marija had confidentially mentioned to her husband that her sister was also somewhat taken with Alan. When he had diplomatically tried to explain that he was HMS Talavera’s Captain, not a ‘marriage broker’, this had not gone down well and his wife had brushed his objections aside as if he was putty in her hands. Which, actually he was, of course…
Tied up alongside the gun wharf beneath Corradino heights Peter Christopher spied a familiar face among the dockyard workers on the shore. He went straight down and greeted Joe Calleja.
“What are you doing over here?” He asked his brother-in-law. Joe was a qualified electrician and there was little skilled work for a man like him in the arsenal bunkers beneath the heights.
“I got sacked,” the other man shrugged. “But they’re so short of workers that they gave me a three-month contract down here. Somebody has to maintain the hoists and service the motors of the trucks.”
Railway tracks were sunk into the concrete of the wharf and low cars and dollies rolled out of the open blast doors of the shell rooms heavily laden with munitions.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Peter had found himself instinctively liking Marija’s younger brother and it rankled that Joe had obviously been made an example of by the new regime in charge of the Admiralty Dockyards of Malta.
Joe Calleja was studying HMS Talavera’s radically altered lines.
“No missiles? No whip aerials? No fancy electronics?”
“No,” Peter chuckled. “Maybe on my next command. Who knows?”
A foreman bellowed across the dock at the younger man before he realised that Joe was in convivial conversation with HMS Talavera’s commanding officer. The man looked shamefaced, Peter cheerfully waved for him to carry on and when he looked around his brother-in-law had gone.
The work went on at a steady pace all morning. By noon the destroyer had half-filled her magazines and trucks had started unloading fresh vegetables, sacks of potatoes, boxes containing tins of foods of all descriptions across the quay onto the warship’s deck via snaking lines of Maltese workers and crew members.
“There’s an urgent call for you, sir!” A fresh-faced, heavily perspiring seaman, saluting raggedly. The boy was just seventeen, fresh off the Sylvania.