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Someone shouted at her to get a move on, but they hurried by and she was forgotten. She heard her mother’s voice in her mind above the siren, imploring her to run, but instead Valentina’s attention was captivated by the oncoming rush of German fighter planes in full fighting formation as they sliced into the air. They were like dark, menacing birds of prey, closing their wings to gain more speed, shaping themselves into the intimidating finger-four formation she’d learned about. Apparently in German it was known as ‘schwarm’, which she thought sounded scary.

Like a hand reaching down from the skies to crush the city, the lead pilot flew at the tip of the formation – the middle finger – with his wingman to one side as index finger and the section lead on the other side as the ring finger, his wingman just slightly behind him to form the pinky. She’d taken such an interest in the aerial acrobatics that she’d interrogated one of the airmen in her father’s bar about this formation, learning how it gave the pilots far greater situational awareness to fly in that staggered shape rather than in a level line.

The siren was now at full blast, screaming around her. By now everyone would be underground, waiting for the danger to pass, wondering which part of the city might have been hit and who might die beneath choking, crushing, falling stone. Despite what she’d said to Robertu, the German target was usually around the harbour, where military ships were anchored. The gorgeous Opera House, though damaged, still stood with its Corinthian columns, and Valletta’s most important building of all, St John’s Co-Cathedral, remained squat and strong.

The Germans typically used the horrible, screaming Stukas for aerial bombings and saved the Messerschmitts for strafing runs and aerial dogfights, but they were also often used together. The Stukas would bomb the ground, escorted by their aerial specialists, who would look out for the enemy and deal with them in the skies.

Valentina knew staying up here was madness. But she was feeling especially defiant, shaking her fist at those who had killed her best friend’s family, who had killed all those people in the city across the harbour, who were trying to kill her and her family, and why? What had any of them done?

She waited, knowing they would arrive.

Be patient. They won’t fail you.

They will come.

And they did.

She sighed with quiet adoration as the Spits, as they were known, suddenly roared up behind her – her heroes. The British and Allied fighter pilots would have received the warning of incoming enemy fighters and leaped into the cockpits to get off the ground as soon as they could. And now here they were, her dashing knights of modern day, their winged steeds catching the sun and glinting in their light armour to do battle.

Oh, how she wished they might see her waving from below as she bore witness to their courage and drama.

The issue for Valentina was that her whole life had become a long drama. She had already given up two full years of her young life to the war, and no one knew how long it would last or if they’d even live through it. Her parents had stopped reassuring her and her two brothers of survival, she’d noticed, as the bombs dropped on their nation from on high. Now they simply cautioned them, and there was almost an acceptance that people died daily and they could be next.

Valentina watched the Spitfires peel away from each other as they evidently saw they were dealing with both sorts of German fighters. She could believe she was the only person above ground to observe the air battle. The Messerschmitts flew as everything from reconnaissance to escorts to all-weather fighters, she’d learned. She didn’t know how the Luftwaffe chose which of their planes would fly, but now she watched a Messerschmitt move out of formation for one of the inevitable dogfights in the air. The noise was scary, but Valentina held her nerve as her gaze was drawn to the lead pilot of today’s Luftwaffe team and a Spitfire that had dropped below and around the German advance.

The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire began.

Bullets traced tiny flashes through the sky as the enemies engaged: the Germans determined to drop their bombs on Valletta, the Allies resolute that they’d give their lives to shoot them down before they could.

Some of the enemy usually got through to drop their load and scream away, but one German plane paid the price today for its invasion, falling out of the sky. Valentina allowed her gaze to rest on the doomed Stuka, the Jericho Trumpet installed on the aircraft making a terrifying sound. It was meant to scare the Allies when the plane went into an attacking dive, but right now it was like a death wail as bits of the plane tore away from itself due to the force of its screaming plummet, the carriage on fire. What remained hit the water hard, all but vertical, and Valentina inwardly cheered.

It was a terrible thing to celebrate death, she knew, and she didn’t feel proud of the sentiment, but this was a kill or be killed situation. So all of herself, especially her heart, was now flying with the Spitfire she’d picked out, its airman fighting for his life against another German.

‘He’s not fighting for his life,’ she corrected herself aloud, straining to hear her voice above the terrible noise. ‘He’s fighting for your life… to save you.’

She lost them momentarily against the glare of sun but soon found them again in the sky. All of her attention was focused on this pair, the aerial acrobatics making her hold her breath. Neither seemed to be getting the better of the other, although to Valentina, the Spit seemed the more daring of the two, dodging and darting and nipping away just in time, only to drop low and circle back. Its pilot kept trying to tempt the Luftwaffe pilot to a certain position, but even she could tell he might have met his match. The more conservative Luftwaffe pilot was equally brave, if not as busy with the aerial tactics; holding his line, daring the Spit to come in a fraction too close. She could see the German was luring the Spit to take greater risks and to make itself a clear target. While Valentina’s experience told her a Stuka was no match for the nimble Spitfire, she genuinely feared for her pilot against the Messerschmitt.

Her pilot. Her very own hero.

Get a bead on him! she pleaded inwardly to him.

She’d learned this terminology by listening in on conversations at her father’s bar, where the pilots regularly came in for what they called ‘terrible beer’ – they were used to a flatter, more bitter style – before moving on to the spirits her father acquired on the black market or through the Falzons, who always seemed to have their finger on hard-to-come-by goods. Ugh. She shook her head free of the Falzons.

Unfortunately, it seemed it was the German pilot who heard her plea. He was the one who got the bead. He found his target, locked on, and suddenly the brave little Spit was hit, flames erupting alongside black smoke, its engine coughing and spluttering. She watched the Messerschmitt fly on, its pilot probably already laughing and chalking up another kill.

Valentina, sickened with despair, leaned over the balcony, tracing the Spitfire’s stuttering journey down, and watched as the little aircraft flipped on its side, its belly facing her. She squinted across the sea. She couldn’t tell what was happening, given the distance, but she hoped with all her heart that this manoeuvre was so that the cockpit roof could be safely drawn back. A couple of beats later she witnessed her pilot baling out on the far edge of the harbour, tumbling and disappearing momentarily into the smoke that was staining the spring skies.

She narrowed her gaze again, holding her breath and scanning desperately for any sign of her hero. She had to find him.

There! Her heart now hammering, Valentina watched the dark speck topple and knew he must be counting. Helplessly, she counted with him, her held breath screaming to be out of her lungs, but she wouldn’t breathe until she saw his parachute open.

Finally she let the breath out with a yell of ‘Now!’

It was as though her pilot heard her. As the silk billowed heavenward, dragging him sharply up, she stepped backwards into the shadow of a stone arch so she could get a fix on the tiny figure suspended in the air.

If her sight was serving her true, then his head was slumped to one side. He was likely dead. She allowed herself the tiny hope that he was unconscious, but if that was the case, he would surely drown.

She could not allow that, no matter how tiny the chance was that he was still breathing.