He had nothing but praise for the gunners and the “poor bloody infantry.” The navy was beyond reproach, and the merchant seamen, well, they were the real heroes of the piece as far as he was concerned, gambling their lives away to feed, fuel, and arm the island. No, his own service—the RAF—was the one at fault. Air superiority was the key to Malta’s survival, but how could they hope to achieve it if the imbeciles back home continued to view Malta as a lost cause, little more than a convenient dumping ground for their shabbiest aircraft and least promising pilots?
“No offense intended, I’m sure,” said Max to a couple of ruddy-cheeked flight lieutenants listening in—new boys from 603 Squadron.
“But best to face the hard truth,” added Ralph. “You’ll last longer if you do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I’m here. My squadron CO at North Weald couldn’t wait to see the back of me. ‘Tindle,’ he said, ‘I’ve got just the thing for you….’”
“Ralph, you’re scaring them,” said Freddie.
“They’re already scared. And they’re right to be. They’re up against Hitler’s best. Those boys earned their spurs on the Russian front. They say Werner Mölders has bagged more than a hundred. What do you two have in your lockers? A couple of massed sweeps over France?”
At most, judging from their expressions.
Freddie raised his glass to the dejected pair. “Well, here’s hoping the new Spitfires never arrive.”
“They’re coming,” said the youngest of them. “They’ve got us building new blast pens like there’s no tomorrow.”
Ralph drained his glass. “And Kesselring knows it. He has his eyes and ears on this island.”
“You and your bloody fifth columnists,” said Hugh. “You see enemy agents under every rock.”
“Oh, they’re here, all right. For all I know, one of you is one of them.” His eyes made the tour of the table. “Well, are you?”
“Nein,” said Freddie, which set everyone off.
After dinner, the four friends retired upstairs to the terrace with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Night was falling fast, and as they sat there in the gloaming, Ralph announced, “I didn’t want to say before, but they’ll be here on the ninth.”
“The Spitfires …?”
“Mark Vs is the word. Sixty or so this time. Enough to tip the scales in our favor.”
“Where did you hear this?” asked Hugh, who liked to think he had a jungle telephone attached to every brass hat.
“Elliott.”
“Elliott!”
“Don’t underestimate Elliott. He may be a bloody Yank, but he sees the big picture. And he’s got clout where it counts, which is more than can be said for the congenital idiots running our show.”
Ralph didn’t know for certain, but rumor had it that Elliott had played a significant role behind the scenes in the last reinforcement flight to reach the island. The Spitfires had been delivered deep into the Mediterranean by the U.S. aircraft carrier Wasp—a commitment that, in Ralph’s view, Britain’s new ally wouldn’t have made without the sanction of their man on the spot.
“I wish I could be somebody’s man on the spot,” said Hugh. “It sounds like fun.”
“Not when it all goes wrong. The last fly-in was a complete bloody disaster. And sixty more Spits count for nothing unless we can get them armed, fueled, and back in the air before Kesselring pounces.”
“Elliott should be here,” said Hugh. “When was the last time all five of us were together?”
They calculated that it had been back in late March at the Union Club.
“It would have been the other day if you’d bothered to show up at our drinks party,” Hugh remarked to Ralph.
“Sorry about that. Prior engagement in Naples.”
“How’s the old girl looking?”
“Not too bad from twenty-five thousand feet.”
It seemed unlikely. Ralph was known for flying in foolishly low in search of the perfect picture.
They sat out on the terrace for a good long while, trading stories and other inanities, the darkness coiling around them, the whisky working its silent way through their systems. At a certain point, Ralph declared that he would henceforth be referring to Freddie as “Mr. Ten Degrees,” this being the angle at which Ralph estimated his right foot now stuck out to the side since Freddie had bolted his lower leg back together.
“Believe me,” said Freddie, “others would have saved themselves the trouble and lopped it off at the knee.”
“Well, it’s shoddy work all the same.”
“Ten degrees doesn’t sound like much,” said Hugh.
“Yes,” said Max, turning the screw. “I hardly even notice anymore.”
“Although it looks more like twenty to me,” Hugh said.
“Anything under twenty is deemed acceptable,” said Freddie.
Ralph was looking aghast, raising his lower leg to examine it in the candlelight.
“Come on, old man. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yes, Freddie saved your life.”
Freddie spread his hands to Ralph. “That’s what I’m telling everyone, and they seem to be listening.”
“Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s because we know how you don’t like to feel beholden to others.”
“Yes,” said Max, concurring with Hugh. “We knew it would wrong-foot you.”
After the laughter had died away, it was Max’s turn to be victimized. That was the way things generally went when they were together: everyone would have the sights turned on them at one time or another. Hugh kicked it off.
“So, Odysseus, how is the fair Calypso?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know the story? It’s from Homer.”
“Pray tell,” said Ralph, eager for revenge.
Legend held that the island of Gozo, just off the north coast, was Ogygia, home to the sea nymph Calypso, who ensnared Odysseus in her web of feminine wiles, holding him hostage for seven years.
It was the first time Max had been ribbed about Lilian, and he wasn’t quite sure how to react. He decided to adopt an air of amused tolerance while they went at him.
“She’s certainly got her claws into him,” said Ralph. “I saw her aunt in the street the other day, and she wanted the lowdown on our friend here.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That he’s an upstanding young man with a fine future ahead of him.”
“It can’t be right to lie to the natives.”
“No, I hear the definite clangor of wedding bells.”
“It’ll mean converting to the Roman Church.”
“Absolutely. They have no truck with our watered-down faith.”
“Well, he could do far worse,” said Freddie. “She’s a beauty.”
“That’s the truth. I’d happily play hide the sausage with her.”
“Ah, but we all know what happens to these Maltese girls when middle age sets in. Suddenly they’re sidestepping through doorways.”
“Less sea nymph than sea cow.”
They talked around him, over him, anything but to him. And as he listened to the imaginary life they were mapping out for him—the meddlesome Maltese relatives, the early-morning masses, his olive-skinned progeny—it dawned on him that Freddie was right: he could do far worse for himself. After all, he almost had.
His thoughts strayed to Lilian, probably in bed by now, just a few streets away, a hop, skip, and jump across the rooftops. He saw her jet-black hair spread across the pillow, and the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the sheet.
Strangely, he had never stopped to think what she really thought of him. What did a kiss in a darkened garden mean to her? Was it loaded with significance? Maybe all she wanted was a pleasing flirtation, a little diversion from the grim realities of life. If so, it was no more than many girls of her social class were looking for. Mdina was home to a number of noble families whose daughters weren’t averse to the odd romantic dalliance. Maybe Lilian was no different. This, after all, was the world she inhabited.