Doctor Margo Seiffert was glad she’d ordered Joe Calleja to stay with the other volunteer porters and orderlies. Out of sight and mind, that was the best thing if one was in doubt. Her companion had thought she was being overly cautious which wasn’t at all like Margo; but then Marija was one of those beautiful people who had a happy knack of always looking on the bright side of things. Margo Seiffert was not.
The Royal Marines parted to form a protective phalanx around their charge as two men emerged from the door next to which a blast-pocked sign read ‘Transport Officer’.
The first man to emerge was a slightly built boy in a sub-lieutenant’s uniform with a mop of mildly rebellious black hair that constantly threatened to flop over his brow. His uniform was a little dusty but otherwise crisp, fresh from the cupboard. The second man to step, blinking into the brightening sunlight of the Mediterranean day was several inches taller than his Flag Lieutenant.
Margo Seiffert noted the bruises on the tall man’s positively god-given weathered good looks, and the upright, commanding bearing that no amount of pain from unhealed injuries — she could tell he was hurting from the way he held himself, moving minimally when possible — could touch. He was older than she remembered and unlike any normal man in his position, it was evident that he was not remotely weighed down by the crushing burden of his responsibilities in this time of clear and present crisis.
The man who’d been Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations for less than twenty-four hours put a hand on his Flag Lieutenant’s arm when the younger man attempted to bar the women’s way.
“It is all right, Lieutenant Hannay,” he murmured drily. He’d already decided to promote the boy to full Lieutenant. Not just because he could — now that he’d assumed a major independent command he could have promoted the boy two or three ranks if he wanted — but because he’d seen enough of Alan Hannay in the last twenty-four hours to know the youngster was destined for great things in the Service. The sooner he started climbing the promotion ladder the better. “Surgeon Commander Seiffert, Unites States Navy, Retired, poses no threat to my personal safety.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, Julian,” Margo Seiffert snorted, halting before the famous ‘Fighting Admiral’ with her hands on her hips. “When a man ups and goes without saying goodbye some girls tend to take offence!”
It was said with a wry smile.
“I seem to recall,” Julian Christopher chuckled, stepping forward and extending his right hand, “that by that time we’d mutually agreed to differ over practically everything that actually mattered.”
The man and the woman locked eyes.
Margo Seiffert was a full head shorter and still wearing the stained and blood-spotted white coat Marija had discovered in the bomb damaged stores. Her young companion blinked incomprehension at the nuances underlying the short exchange.
“You’re quite the hero now,” Margo said simply.
“We do what we must do,” the man retorted softly. “Is there anything I can do to assist your work here?”
Margo shook her head, and then reconsidered.
“We’re short of blood products.”
The man nodded. “Would it help if every member of my party,” he counted numbers before going on, “young Hannay here, myself and sixteen or seventeen great big hulking Royal Marines like these excellent fellows,” he indicated his bodyguards, “donated a point or two of blood before we move on?”
“Yes,” the woman agreed, trying not to sound too surprised. “It would make a big difference.”
“Most of my headquarters facilities are out of commission,” Julian Christopher explained, matter of factly. “There seem to be good telephone links from the barracks hereabouts. If we are delayed I shall be able to keep in touch with things in the meantime.” Even as he spoke his gaze kept falling back onto the dark-haired slim young woman attired in the pale blue uniform of an auxiliary nurse who, thus far, had said nothing.
Margo Seiffert accepted his remark with a pecking nod of her head. In a moment she stepped aside and gently pressed her protégé forward.
“The last time I saw you, young lady,” Julian Christopher said, quietly paternal, “you were in a hospital bed in the Children’s Ward at Kalkara.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting you, sir,” Marija Elizabeth Calleja apologised. Her English was touched by a faint trace of a Home Counties accent, her pronunciation clipped and precise, not quite natural but somehow…enchanting. Julian Christopher hadn’t expected her to be so enchanting. None of the reports he’d received had prepared him for that. “I don’t remember much about a lot of the things that happened when I was a girl.”
Marija shrugged and shook the great man’s hand. His grip was dry, and very careful.
Julian Christopher studied the young woman.
At a first glance she was no eye-catching natural beauty, but a second look gave the lie to first impressions. The apparent plainness of her features framed by the jet darkness of her hair drew one’s attention to the quizzical, bright intelligence and compassion in her almond eyes. There was serenity and knowingness in those eyes that seized and transported the emotions of those around her. Instantly, he understood how she’d become the de facto leader of the ‘Women of Malta’ protest movement, and why so many people on these islands already looked to her for leadership.
“My wife would be,” the man found himself struggling for the right words, “quite beyond herself with delight to see you as you are now, Miss Calleja,” he said eventually. “And to discover everything that you have achieved in your life.”
Marija cast down her eyes for a moment in embarrassment.
“Peter’s mother was a very nice lady,” the young woman murmured. “I was so sorry to hear of her death.” She raised her eyes. “As my mother constantly reminds me, there is no justice in the world.” To the man’s astonishment she quirked a shy, distinctly mischievous smile and added: ‘but then when was it ever otherwise in any age, Admiral Christopher?”
“When indeed?” He echoed.
“Forgive me, I must return to my work,” Marija decided.
“Of course.”
The new Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operations watched the young woman walk away. She limped a little, favouring her left side, and there was a pained weariness in her gait that spoke both of her horrific childhood injuries and also of an innate defiance, an implacable determination not to be defeated by those old traumas.
“Well?” Margo Seiffert asked. Beating about the bush had never been her style. “Now that you’ve met our little Princess, what do you think of your prospective daughter-in-law, Admiral Christopher?”
The man didn’t speak for several seconds.
“I think she is enchanting,” he said frankly in a voice that was close to a whisper.
“But?” The woman asked, detecting an unlikely dissonance in him.
“Peter’s ship was one of two Royal Navy destroyers attacked by at least four Douglas A-4 Skyhawks fifty miles off the north-west coast of Spain. The attack was timed to coincide with the raid on Malta.”
“Oh, God!”
“There was a full winter gale blowing in that part of the Atlantic last night and Peter’s ship reported heavy damage before contact was lost with her shortly before midnight.”
There was a sickening deadness in the way he said it that told Margo Seiffert that the father thought his only son was dead.