‘That’s the new Jerry airline, isn’t it? They call it Lufthansa, just like the old one we broke for them.’
‘I thought they hadn’t started up yet? They haven’t any aircraft.’
‘They’re poncing about inside Germany in an old Junkers 52 with a new paint job, until they get a proper fleet up and running – just to make a point.’
Our radio was on open broadcast so the crew could speak over it, and we could now hear the flap that Control was getting into. Apart from that, it was peaceful sitting there on the taxiway with the engines off.
It was just about then we heard a very American voice from somewhere in the line behind us say over the air, ‘Ahm fucking bored.’ He must have pressed his transmit button.
Before the Tower had time to respond, the German aircraft up ahead joined in. I heard, ‘Wie lange muss ich warten, bis dieser niederlandischen Narr?’ after the new Lufthansa call sign and flight number.
Our pilot called back into the cabin, ‘Anyone speak any German?’
I did, a bit, so I shouted back, ‘I think he asked, “How long must I wait for this Dutch fool?” or something like that.’
‘Thanks.’
That gave the Tower a dilemma, because the Lufthansa pilot was obviously looking for some Teutonic solidarity here, but English is the international language of flight, and the poor sods in Flying Control had a host of international witnesses earwigging the exchange.
Control played it straight: after calling back Lufthansa’s identifier, he said, ‘Lufthansa flight; you know the international language for flying is English. You must speak English.’
The German pilot came back in heavily accented English with, ‘Control, control; I am a German pilot, in a German aircraft, in Germany. Why can’t we speak German?’
Then the American who started it all chimed in before Control could respond,
‘Because you lost the fucking war!’ and all hell broke loose.
Control made a final attempt to restore order, ‘Unknown aircraft, unknown aircraft – identify yourself!’
‘Ah may be fucking bored,’ the American drawl came back, ‘but ahm not fucking stupid.’
Twenty minutes later a tractor towed the Dutchman away, and we all began to move.
Malta was only another five hours away.
I slept, missed the vomiting competition and the turbulence that spilled the Elsan, and only woke up when we were in the circuit at Luqa. I hadn’t felt sick, so I began to like the old Wimpy after all. It was dark. Early evening. Valletta was a ring of lights and the harbour was full of illuminated grey ships, and of purposeful little launches that trailed white tails in the mirror of the sea. As the pilot slid Jack down towards Luqa, I could hear the murmuring voice of the radio operator talking to the ground: he sounded like a Westcountryman. It was like going back ten years.
Chapter Seven
The Beguine
We had a day in Malta.
You’ve heard all about the George Cross island, haven’t you? Plucky little Maltesers holding out against the full might of the Luftwaffe for a year or more? The Pedestal convoy and all that guff, and that oil tanker which saved the day – the Ohio, I think she was called. An island, we’re told, more British than Britain: more English than the English.
Well, fucking forget all that.
M’smith and I got off the Navy bus from Luqa to Valletta in front of the cinema. On our one night in town we’d come to see a double bill from last year: Ivanhoe because M’smith was in love with Elizabeth Taylor, and Man Bait, because I wanted a gander at that new girl, Diana Dors, all the squaddies were talking about.
The first things we saw as we stepped down from the bus were four paper posters plastered on the cinema wall. Two, on either side of the door, read BRITISH GET OUT. A small one high above the door read HUMANITY IN CHAINS, and the whopper below it read MALTA WANTS INDEPENDENCE. This last one also had the picture of a fiery torch, which was the symbol of an independence party. We’d already read in the papers about British soldiers being beaten up in bars, and spat on in the street. Our friendly Mr Bates hadn’t cautioned against leaving the billet; he just told us to keep our wits about us.
‘Look on it as a bit of practice for Egypt,’ he’d told me. It was more than eighty degrees F in the early evening, so maybe he had a point.
Most of the Brits were in mufti, but they stood out because of their short hair, and pale faces. A few were in crumpled KDs, like M’smith and me – and probably for the same reason, our civvies were still stowed away. The Shore Patrol was outside in a jeep as we left the cinema. Someone jostled a Malteser who drew a knife, and a riot sprang out of absolutely nowhere. For ten minutes it was like World War Three. M’smith kicked open a locked office door behind the ticket kiosk, and we hid there in the dark until the fight moved down the road. It wasn’t until we decided to go that the person under the desk gave themselves away by moving.
A girl crawled out: quite a looker in a dark way, although nothing on Elizabeth Taylor. And I was still quite gone on Diana Dors, who had hair like a platinum-gold waterfall, and tits like Mum’s steamed puddings. This girl wore a simple dark blue shirt, and voluminous black trousers.
She pushed her black hair back as she crawled out and said, ‘Please don’t rape me.’
I’ve heard better chat-up lines than that.
M’smith laughed. I think he laughed at everything. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re the ticket girl aren’t you? You sold us our tickets.’ She nodded. He stuck on, ‘We’re not rapists,
