“Keep your present angels and save your gravy.”
Woody exchanged a few words with the gunnery liaison officer seated beside him on the shelf. Down in the pit, Iris caught sight of Max and sketched a small wave in the air. The tense seconds ticked by. Then voices started to come over the public-address system.
“There they are!”
“Can’t see them.”
“Two o’clock below. Big jobs and a swarm of little boys.”
“Jeez.” Probably an American pilot.
“Still can’t see them. You lead, you lead.”
“Happy hunting, fellers.” Definitely an American.
“Do us a favor, Woody, and tell them to put the kettle on.”
“Milk and two sugars, right, Harry?”
“Just the one sugar. I’m watching my waistline.”
Woody laughed. “Well, don’t forget to watch your back too.”
An unsettling silence followed. Anxious glances were exchanged. There was nothing to do now other than sit back and wait. It wouldn’t take long. The nature of aerial combat in Malta didn’t allow for drawn-out dogfights, not when you were so heavily outnumbered. The handful of Hurricanes and Spitfires would swoop from high above, out of the sun, ignoring the covering force of 109s, each singling out a bomber. It was the bombs that did the damage, and the aim was to prevent the Junker 88s from reaching their targets. Ripping through the German formation with the throttle through the gate, the pilots would be happy if they got off a couple of squirts before racing for home. To linger any longer would be suicide.
The silence stretched out ominously; the atmosphere in the Ops Room grew more expectant. Then the PA crackled into life.
“I got one! I got one!”
“Good show,” said Woody.
“He’s going down over Saint Paul’s.”
“Don’t hang around and gloat.”
“Yes, I can see him. He’s for it.”
“And stop burning up the R/T.”
“Sorry, Woody.”
“Okay, Woody, out of ammo. Think I damaged one.” It was the American.
“Good show, Mac. All Pinto aircraft, pancake as quickly as you can.”
“Emergency, emergency. I’m losing glycol, and my oil’s gone from ninety to twenty. Little yellow bugger jumped me!”
“Harry—”
“I may have to step outside. Transmitting for a fix, transmitting for a fix.” And after a worrying interval: “Yes, I’m going down in the drink off Saint George’s. Here goes. Hope my brolly works.”
“Good luck, Harry. Transport’s on the way.”
It was extraordinary to hear it played out live, this drama of planes and men going down. With luck, Harry’s parachute would open and the high-speed launch would find him bobbing in the ocean in his Mae West, but it was no longer a concern for those in the Ops Room. They were dealing with an ever-evolving situation. Already, Woody was warning the other pilots of a couple of 109s in the circuit at Ta’ Qali, waiting to jump them when they came back in to land. Only when the raid had played itself out would they all stop and reflect on the skirmish.
This occurred some twenty minutes later, by which time the airfield at Luqa had taken another pitiless pounding and news had come in of the downed pilot’s successful rescue from the water. The new girls went on their shift, and Iris joined Max up on the gallery.
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re a dab hand with that pole of yours.”
Iris checked herself in her vanity mirror. “I’ve had a year of practice.”
On went the lipstick. Some girls ground rice into dust for face powder, but Iris was never short of the real thing, receiving a steady supply of cosmetics from her steady supply of admirers.
“Is it really that long?” Max asked. But looking at her he could believe it. The skin around her eyes appeared looser, her lips less full, and there were dark roots showing in her wavy blond mane.
“I know, I look dreadful.”
“I was about to say quite the opposite.”
Iris capped her lipstick. “You’re a sweetheart. You always were.”
“What do you say to a late lunch at Monico’s? Hot pork sandwiches and John Collinses.”
“I say lead the way.”
Monico’s had been an old haunt of theirs during Iris’s brief stint at the Information Office, and a brace of John Collinses brought out a nostalgic streak in her. She insisted on retracing their history, starting with their first meeting at a dance at the Engine Room Artificer’s Club in Floriana. It
