Page 31

‘Pretty straightforward then,’ Brown remarked. Peter kept his features neutral, though he disagreed entirely with the sentiment. ‘Although seeing those gals under the table is crazy. No one will believe me.’

‘There’s a lot that is crazy about this war, sir,’ Peter said dryly.

‘And you, Fox? What’s your role here?’

‘Me, sir? Right now I’m here simply to advise. I guess the current knowledge of aerial battle over Malta is helpful.’

‘In what way?’

Peter wanted to say, in every bloody way! Instead he smiled benignly and explained as best he could. ‘For example, the Germans love to fly decoy.’

The man looked intrigued. ‘Meaning?’

‘As it sounds, sir. They send craft from the western side of Sicily and continue heading westwards. We will be busy identifying them, plotting their direction, trying to sift through every ounce of information we can, and then without warning they might turn and suddenly come from the south.’

‘Like a game.’

‘A life and death one, certainly. Another of their tricks is to fly much higher and out of the sun, as we say. Makes them difficult to spot coming hard north, directly at Malta.’

‘So your days in the sky give you insight into all this?’

Peter nodded. ‘Every little edge helps. Nothing is certain, but it means the commander can order whatever fits the scenario we’re facing. We have to claim Malta’s air space and hang on to it. We need veterans too, because a pilot’s life can often go cheaply, sir. We’re sometimes facing fifty enemy aircraft. You can’t have only young, inexperienced pilots who haven’t seen that sort of action before.’

‘I hear you call them yellow-nose bastards? The Krauts, I mean.’

Ah, definitely American, Peter decided, although the man’s accent did not betray that he came from the other side of the Atlantic. Maybe he’d gone to school in Britain or lived and worked in London, he thought. And, given his observations and curiosity, almost certainly in a more shaded role, Peter figured. He had said ‘guy’ and then ‘gals’ too; he had obviously tried hard to disguise himself or at least fly under the radar. If he was English through and through, he’d have been more likely to say ‘Jerry’ or even ‘Fritz’ as a nickname for the German enemy. Peter had learned that the Americans preferred Kraut.

‘Yes, sir, the Messerschmitt tip is painted yellow. It’s to avoid friendly fire, I gather. But it helps us too – means we can spot them.’

‘Bit daft, isn’t it?’

Peter shrugged. ‘I can’t say, sir. Maybe they’ll change to camouflage.’

‘Right, well, thanks, Lieutenant,’ which he slipped over and pronounced loo-tenant. Another giveaway. ‘All very interesting,’ he said.

Peter wondered if it was. To him it seemed more daunting. ‘I’ll see you out, sir.’ He gestured for the man to go first. ‘Watch your step.’

After delivering the visitor back to his senior’s cramped little office in the tunnels, Peter realised he’d never discovered why the American was even there.

‘Finished your shift?’ a woman asked, presumably arriving for hers. He’d seen her around; she was one of the plotters, but he didn’t know her name. They were all so young and cheerful.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Time for some fresh air.’

‘Heavens. That means I’m late.’ She rushed past him.

He smiled. It was helpful to focus on the minutiae of life sometimes. Being late, getting glowered at or even scolded was a joy in comparison to pondering the enormity of the war itself, and especially the most recent loss of a good pilot, with another two freshly injured. The Messerschmitts were carving them up, and yet somehow he felt the tide was about to change in their favour.

Peter exhaled his bitterness as he emerged into the bright Maltese afternoon, squinting at the crystalline spring sun. No raids today so far. Rare, but maybe the enemy was gathering itself for an even bigger push. Who knew? Who cared? They’d have to deal with whatever rained down upon them and keep holding their nerve, keep the faith for the big offensive brewing.

He’d heard about it in the war rooms. The Allies were planning to shift the dial, as they liked to say. Until now it had been all about defence, but the naval decision-makers were looking to go on the attack, and the word was that it would happen at the end of the year. They had to hold out and own the skies until then.

He took in two, slow lungfuls of air where he stood before looking around to decide where to head. He could go down to the harbour and lose his thoughts for an hour there, or he could walk up towards the Barrakka Gardens. He wondered if his little shadow might be around. There was something to be shared with Valentina, and he did not relish it. With his mind made up but his heart a little heavy, he began the slow ascent of those stairs he’d stopped counting.

Someone paused with a donkey and cart to offer a lift. As much as he knew he needed to exercise, his ankle ached. He could test his foot gently on the way down. He grinned at the young man. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he hauled himself up beside the driver.

Within moments he was being unloaded at the top of the city. Now he made the decision to ignore the gardens and instead make his way to the cathedral to see the artwork that felt inordinately precious and important, not just in his life but in the life of the people of Valletta. Since arriving in Malta, this had been his place of solace, but he hadn’t visited since the bale-out.

As he approached, he saw a familiar figure seated on the stone steps, reading. She looked up as though sensing his arrival, and her expression lit into a wide smile. A moment later she was on her feet in a single energetic and fluid move that he could only dream of. Ah, to be young and carefree, he thought.