Voices on the Wind - Assault

“Nettleton?” the harassed-looking Flight Lieutenant asked.

“Yes, bound for 39 Squadron, Malta.”

“Not anymore. No 39 Squadron is now based at Bu Amud, Libya. You’re to proceed to Malta to refuel only and then continue on to Bu Amud. Oh, and you’re to take an urgent passenger for Malta with you.”

“Passenger? In a Beaufort?”

“Your navigator can stay at his station in the nose for take-off and landing. That will leave room for the passenger to sit beside you throughout the flight. It’s only six hours to Malta, anyway.”

Ned knew that Campbell wasn’t going to like being in the fragile Perspex nose during take-off, much less landing, and he didn’t like the idea of an “urgent” passenger either. Usually, they were senior officers or government officials on some terribly “hush-hush” mission which made them uncommunicative, self-important and nervous. However, Ned was not the type of officer to question orders, so he asked, “Where do I find the passenger, and what time do you want us to start engines?”

The Flight Lieutenant checked his clipboard. “You must land in Bu Amud no later than 18.30. We don’t want you arriving after dark and getting lost over the desert or you might end up spending the rest of the war with the Eye-tees.” He laughed at his own joke before concluding, “That means you’ll need to depart from Malta no later than 16.30, and you’d better plan on at least an hour to get refuelled there. If you’re to make Luqa Airfield by 15.30, you’ll have to take off from here no later than 9.30 am.”

Ned looked at the wall clock; it was already twenty to nine. “Can we make it to the airfield in time to make that deadline?”

“If you shake a leg. There’s transport to the field at the end of No 5 tunnel. Ask anyone.”

“What about my passenger, sir?”

“Oh, she’s waiting right over there.” The Flight Lieutenant pointed casually to the back of the room, and Ned spun about, not sure he’d heard correctly until he saw the WAAF officer. Mentally, his jaw dropped. She was a stunningly beautiful young woman whose features would not have disgraced a film star. Yet rather than flaunting her beauty, she seemed to want to hide it. Her hair was confined by a hairnet so tight that he could hardly see it was blonde. Her lipstick was subtle rather than bright, her brows had not been plucked or pencilled, and her nails bore no polish. It was as if, within the confines of military smartness, she was trying to disguise her good looks. She also outranked him by one grade.

He advanced towards her warily. As he approached, she looked up expectantly, so he stopped to salute and then asked politely, “Are you in need of a lift to Malta, Ma’am?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered, breaking into a lovely smile and adding, “I’m sorry to be an inconvenience, Flying Officer, but I really don’t have any say in the matter. My orders came through two days ago ‘very urgent’, and I was packed aboard a Sunderland coming this way yesterday. I was told to wait here for the first Malta-bound aircraft.”

“I guess that’s us,” Ned conceded, and held out his hand in introduction. “Ned Nettleton.”

“Candice Weld,” she introduced herself.

“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry, Ma’am. Do you have your kit with you?”

“Yes.” She at once bent her knees to grasp the handle of the canvas bag on the floor beside her. Ned reached out to take it from her and indicated the exit with his head. As they went out the door together, he explained that he had to collect his crew from the NAAFI. He also asked if she’d had breakfast, adding, “You’ll need it. The flight to Malta will take six hours.”

“Yes, thank you. I ate first thing.”

“Did you see the oranges?”

She broke into a broad smile. “I took two!”

“We bought a whole sack,” he admitted with a slightly sheepish grin and a glint in his eye that was almost flirtatious. Yet he wasn’t trying to chat her up. He was too conscious that someone with her looks was way out of his league. If she wasn’t already married to an Air Marshal or a peer of the realm, then she was probably engaged to a man who would inherit a diamond mine or had earned a VC. He knew better than to think a girl as classy as this would waste her time with an ordinary officer such as himself; he was just naturally friendly.

As Ned emerged from the tunnel onto the terrace with Flight Officer Weld beside him, his crew did a double take before they grasped that this attractive young woman was with their skipper. They scrambled to their feet in open amazement as Ned brought her over to their table for introductions. Their reactions to the stunning WAAF encapsulated their characters: Stan flushed from embarrassment and became tongue-tied; Tim grinned with open admiration and greeted her with cheeky eagerness; Matt managed to look debonair and sophisticated—as if he met girls as smashing as this every day. After everyone had shaken hands, Ned explained, “Flight Officer Weld will be flying with us as far as Malta, and, no, that’s no longer our final destination. We’re continuing on to Bu Amud.”

“Bu Amud? Where’s that?” Stan asked, frowning.

“Wherever it is, it doesn’t sound as nice as Malta,” Tim commented. “It sounds Arab to me.” Respect for other cultures was not one of Tim’s strong points.

“It’s not nice,” Matt agreed. He was a navigator and the only one among them who knew where Bu Amud was. “It’s in Libya. What’s going on, Ned? Why are we going to North Africa?”

“Because the AOC sent 39 Squadron there.”

“Why? I thought the whole point of holding on to Malta was to attack Rommel’s supply lines?” Matt complained.

“Although this may surprise you, Matt,” Ned replied in a pleasant tone, “the AOC didn’t feel he owed me an explanation.”

In a soft voice, Flight Officer Weld volunteered, “It’s because the Luftwaffe has launched a new offensive against Malta and too many bombers were being destroyed on the ground.” The four men turned to gaze at her.

After digesting that information and its source, Ned asked, “May I ask what you will be doing in Malta, Ma’am?”

“I’m a Signals Officer.”

Ned nodded mutely. The term ‘Signals Officer’ was intentionally broad and imprecise, covering a variety of different functions. Some Signals Officers did quite ordinary, straightforward things like overseeing the laying of telephone lines or handling ship communications. Others, on the other hand, conducted highly classified work. Ned reasoned that if they were sending an officer to a besieged island on short notice with high-priority orders, her job probably wasn’t innocuous. So, in addition to being out of his class in terms of looks, accent and rank, she was probably doing more important work than he was. Ned had learned early not to yearn for things beyond his grasp and told himself to put Flight Officer Weld out of his mind. He turned his attention to the task at hand instead. “Come on, chaps. We’ve got to take off as soon as possible. Are you ready, Ma’am?”

“Yes! Of course. Whatever you say, Flying Officer.”