Eventually she looked up and saw a variety of personnel darting around the place—presumably seeking shelter.
‘Shouldn’t we be taking cover, sir?’ Aileen shouted over the din.
Shorter produced a nasty fake laugh. ‘And come back up when, exactly? 1952, when this is all hopefully over? Women.’ Slowly and deliberately—as if he had all the time in the world—Shorter waltzed over to a drab run of single-storey ochre buildings. He jabbed a pointed finger towards Aileen. ‘You go in there and ask for Sergeant Stanwick. You,’ he said, shifting his finger to Elsie, ‘follow me.’
Elsie mouthed a hurried goodbye to Aileen and walked beside Shorter. ‘Where are we going?’ she called.
‘Siggiewi,’ he yapped in reply.
Elsie matched his lethargic pace around to the back of the buildings. He stopped beside an Austin Tilly, kicked the front wheel with a grunt and proceeded to clamber inside. She had seen this type of utility vehicle used back in England but was surprised by the Maltese camouflage: sand-coloured rectangular blocks, making it look like a brick wall on wheels.
‘What’s at Siggiewi?’ she asked, sitting beside him.
‘You’ll see; if we get there,’ he answered, leaning forwards and peering up through the windscreen. He turned the key and the engine fired into a throaty rumble.
As he began to pull away, Elsie saw what he had seen in the skies above: at least a dozen Junkers 88s, circling in the distance.
The second that they were out of the compound, Shorter hit the accelerator, flinging the car forwards in a dusty surge. Elsie squealed as she reached out and grabbed the dashboard to stop herself from flying out of her seat.
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped on for dear life.
Her fear increased as they sped along the deserted streets, heading in the general direction of the enemy aircraft.
They were quickly surrounded on all sides by dry barren meadows, but Elsie’s attention was not on the ground. Through the veils of thick dust, she stared upwards. Her eyes were sore and watering, but she dared not blink. They were now directly underneath the circling aircraft and she could feel the car quivering with the vibrations from the machines above. She glanced at Shorter, sweating and smiling, wondering if this was some kind of misguided attempt to scare her into leaving the island. Or was it a suicide mission? She couldn’t decide.
She bit her lip and stifled a gasp as she watched two objects tumbling from one of the Junker’s open bomb doors. They fell, seeming to take an age to reach the ground. Then they did—less than a mile away—and a giant geyser of dirt, rubble and smoke gushed up into the air. The deafening sound shook the car. Yet, Shorter drove on, obliviously.
Then Elsie spotted what the aircraft were targeting: Luqa Airfield. ‘Is that where we’re going?’ she asked.
Shorter shook his head and drove on a further couple of miles. More bombs dropped around the airfield, shaking the car and shaking Elsie’s nerves.
She lowered her gaze and saw that they were heading straight for a roadblock. She glanced at Shorter, wondering whether or not he had seen it. She was certain that there was no way now that they could stop in time. She closed her eyes and braced herself for impact, when Shorter suddenly stood on the brakes, bringing the car to a complete stop just inches from the red and white barrier that blocked their path. The force sent Elsie shooting down into the foot well onto her behind.
Shorter wound down his window and passed out his papers. ‘Sorry about her, she’s a timid little thing just arrived from England,’ he quipped.
The guard chuckled and waited as Elsie hauled herself up, took out her papers, thrusting them past Shorter’s fat sweaty face, and placed them into the guard’s outstretched hand.
With the papers checked and returned, Shorter drove the car into the complex at a more reasonable speed. The tall aerials and official-looking buildings with arched windows told Elsie that he had brought her to some kind of field unit.
He brought the Austin to a standstill beside a small squat building with no windows and killed the engine. Definitely the type of hovel that the RAF would consider a suitable location for an intercept station. Shorter grinned and slapped a hand hard on Elsie’s thigh. ‘How was that?’
Elsie smiled. ‘How was what?’ she said casually, hurrying from the car. She looked the building up and down, then, once he was standing beside her, added, ‘I assume this is some kind of intercept field unit?’
Shorter nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Go on inside.’
Elsie pushed open the heavy door. Inside was dark but for a small, flickering lamp that stood on a rickety table in the centre of the room. An RAF operator lifted his headset from his ears, smiled uncertainly and saluted.
‘This is Skinner,’ Shorter introduced. ‘Skinner, this is a WAAF operator from England. She’s come here to tell us how to do things.’
Elsie extended her hand. ‘Assistant Section Officer Finch,’ she said. ‘Elsie. May I sit down?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Of course.’ He was a young corporal, thin with a pasty face and brown eyes.
‘I’m going over to the mess,’ Shorter huffed. ‘You’ve got an hour to see how we do things here. If you need longer than that, you’ll have to hitch a ride back at another time.’
The door closed and Elsie sighed. ‘What an objectionable man.’
Skinner grinned. ‘You’ve noticed, then?’
‘Right. One hour,’ Elsie breathed. ‘Give me a quick rundown of how the Y-Service operates on the island.’
Skinner sat back and addressed her. ‘All I can handle here is German Very High Frequency traffic. There’s a lot of it. The High
