Voices on the Wind - Assault

Although his new job was in intelligence, Robin was a trained fighter pilot. It was only natural that his first question was, “What fighter defences do we have in Malta?”

“Four squadrons of Hurricanes.”

Robin frowned. Aside from four squadrons being a ridiculously paltry defence for such a strategically important installation, he was shocked to think they were depending on Hurricanes. He’d commanded a Hurricane squadron in the Battle of Britain where they’d done sterling service, accounting for roughly two-thirds of the victories overall—but that was more than eighteen months ago. Since then, the Germans had developed and deployed two markedly superior fighters, the Me109F and the FW190.

He supposed that the Luftwaffe might have sent all their newer aircraft to Russia and retained only their older fighters in the Mediterranean, so he asked hopefully, “Is the Luftwaffe also using their older aircraft in the Med?”

“We wish! No, they’ve got two Gruppen of Me109Fs on Sicily.”

Robin’s frown deepened, but before he could comment, Livingston continued, “The War Cabinet has concluded that the only way to stop the carnage is to send Spitfires to Malta.”

“Good,” Robin replied spontaneously, only to recognise in the next instant that there was no easy way to get a short-range fighter to an island more than a thousand miles away. “How are you planning on getting them there?”

“I’m glad you asked that question because that’s the main purpose of this entire convoy—to deliver sixteen Spitfires to Malta.”

“I didn’t see any Spitfires on the hangar deck,” Robin replied, puzzled.

“No, they’re in crates in Gibraltar right now, but they will be assembled by the time we arrive. We’ll take them aboard along with the pilots waiting there and will proceed as far as the Balearic Islands. From there, they’ll be flown off the deck.”

“Wait a minute. Spitfires weren’t designed to fly off a carrier deck.”

“Nor were Hurricanes, but we’ve flown off more than one hundred of them over the last year.” Livingston’s tone contained that RN smugness that got on Robin’s nerves.

“The Hurricane and Spitfire are very different aircraft,” the RAF Wing Commander pointedly reminded the naval officer. “For a start, the Spitfire has a much narrower undercarriage, and the engine overheats dangerously if run-up at a standstill—as one must for a carrier take-off. Has anyone ever actually flown a Spitfire off a carrier deck?”

“Not yet, but we were told that if anyone could, you were the man.”

“Very funny,” Robin replied sarcastically, and then registered that Livingston wasn’t joking. A part of his brain appreciated the irony that only a few hours earlier he’d been furious about not being given a flying job; now he had one and he didn’t want it. He was also beginning to understand the urgency of his orders. Someone at the Air Ministry was probably feeling very clever and proud of himself just now.

Robin could mentally picture a tubby, balding civilian bureaucrat running into the office of some senior staff officer in an excited flap. ‘I’ve found just the man for you, sir! Flew Wildebeests before the war, then he flew Spits with our aerobatic team and was an instructor on them at an OTU. He’s just the man to see if a Spitfire can get off a carrier deck without falling into the drink! If he succeeds and makes it all the way to Malta, I’m sure we can find him some useful work to do there. Wasn’t there a vacancy in intelligence or something?’ At which point, the ageing AVM with thick glasses undoubtedly slapped his hand on the desk and exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘Good show! We can kill two birds with one stone. What did you say his name was?’

Returning his attention to the present, he heard Livingston say, “Look, Wing Commander, you’ve been assigned this job, and it is absolutely vital.” No wonder they had insisted on giving him his orders after the Eagle had sailed, he reflected. They weren’t giving him a chance to walk away from this assignment regardless of what he thought of it. Livingston continued, “If you insist, we could test the concept while still within range of Gibraltar to make sure it works, but Malta needed those Spitfires yesterday and there is no other way to get them there.”

Not true, Robin thought to himself. Although merchantmen weren’t getting through, the Navy still had the option to take the crates of disassembled Spitfires aboard one of their capital ships and fight their way through to Malta for assembly. But apparently, the Royal Navy didn’t like the odds or thought it was much cheaper to see if some fool fighter pilot could get a Spitfire off a carrier deck.

Drawing a deep breath, Robin focused on what he was being asked to do. “What about the other pilots? Who are they?”

“I don’t have any names, but we were assured they were all highly experienced Spitfire pilots; no one straight out of training or the like.”

“Good. And where did you say you intended us to launch?”

“From a position south of Majorca.”

Frowning, Robin looked at the chart and measured distances with his eye. “That’s still much too far away! Even if we successfully get off the deck, we won’t have enough fuel to reach Malta!” he protested.

“That’s why the Spitfires will be fitted with extra fuel tanks—and, of course, will fly without ammunition to lighten their weight. If this works,” Livingston stressed, “we can do it repeatedly until enough Spitfires reach Malta to tear the Luftwaffe out of the skies.”

Wishful thinking, Robin concluded, but he was not going to disgrace himself or his service with further protest. Men were being asked to sacrifice their lives every day in this war. He was no different, and certainly no better, than the others. He would do what they asked of him and see what happened.