Voices on the Wind - Assault

“Looking for a seat?” a male voice asked from behind him.

Startled, Ned turned toward the sound and saw a tall officer with bright blond, overlong hair sitting at a table for two by himself. He was wearing an army battledress blouse with RAF wings pinned on it. To add to the confusion, he was sporting the DFC and Bar. Although his rank was not on display, Ned took no chances and straightened as he answered, “Sir?”

“Have a seat!” the other officer countered, kicking the legs of the vacant chair to make it shift slightly. “I’m waiting for Christina to finish getting changed out of her stage outfit,” he nodded in the direction of the little stage.

“Won’t I be in the way?” Ned asked uncomfortably.

“Not for a while. Christina takes hours to change. Let me buy you a drink. You’ve been working hard enough for it. I’ve seen you helping with the pens at Luqa. What do you want?”

“Is there alcohol here?” Ned asked as he cautiously took the offered seat.

“Strictly rationed. You’re allowed one shot of either rum or gin and after that’s its local beer or wine only.”

“I’ll take rum.”

The other officer signalled a harassed waiter, who instantly changed course. After placing the order, he told Ned to provide his service number. “Ration cards have a way of landing on the black market,” he explained, “Service numbers buy nothing there.”

Only after the waiter had withdrawn, did they get around to the introductions. Ned offered his hand, “Nettleton, 39 Squadron. I go by Ned.”

The stranger looked surprised and strangely more interested in him. “Isn’t that a Beaufort squadron? I thought they’d pulled out?”

“My Beaufort couldn’t make it any farther.”

“Not any chance you were with Coastal Command in Blighty, is there?”

“That’s right,” Ned replied, expecting the bored dismissal this information usually elicited.

To his surprise, the other pilot sat up straighter and asked eagerly, “Did you do any recce flying?”

“For almost two ruddy years. Why?”

“We’re desperately short of recce pilots! We have fighter boys lounging around everywhere with nothing to do, but none of them are qualified on twins! On top of that, our last Maryland was shot down the day before yesterday, after the others were caught on the ground last week. And now two pilots are down with Malta Dog.” That was the particularly virulent dysentery that circulated in Malta. “We recently received a couple of Beaufighters to replace the Marylands, however, and I’ve got navigator/photographers, who can handle the cameras. What I need is another pilot.”

“I’ve only been out here a little over two weeks. I’m not familiar enough with the geography to be a competent recce pilot.”

“Don’t worry. You’re just a spare bod, really, in case my cameras go U/S or I don’t make it back,” the other pilot assured him

Although tempted, Ned was wary of a proposal made in bar by a man not wearing a recognizable uniform and without any visible mark of rank. Cautiously he asked, “Can you arrange that? I mean, me not being out here as a recce pilot and not on your squadron and all?”

“Oh, no one’s going to object. The AOC wants the gen yesterday. I can fix it up, if you’re willing to give it a go. What do you say?”

The temptation to accept was growing. Aside from being much more interesting and rewarding work than filling petrol tins with sand, he was keen to try flying the Beaufighter. A recce flight would also give him a better understanding of the geography, which was never a bad thing. Last but not least, it was a chance to redeem himself — at least in his own eyes — after the cockup of his last sortie. Since the Beaufighter had a crew of only two and the second man had to be a trained photographer, his crew was not being dragged into this, if something went wrong. Ned cautiously agreed, “I’m interested, but would you mind telling me who you are?”

“Oh, sorry!” The man grinned at him. “I thought you knew! Adrian Warburton, or Warby, as most people call me.”

Ned should have guessed! ‘Warby’ was already legendary — at least in Malta. If Ned remembered correctly, his photos had been instrumental in enabling the successful attack on Taranto in November 1940 that had crippled the Italian fleet. Equally astonishing, while flying recce aircraft, Warburton had been credited with shooting down more enemy fighters than most fighter pilots! Definitely a personality, even a celebrity, which would have been intimidating — if Warby hadn’t seemed so unassuming and casual. In fact, he sounded sincere as he urged, “I’d really appreciate your help. The Germans seem to be up to something on Sicily, and we’ve got to get more gen on it.”

“All right then. I’d be happy to help, if the brass approves.”

“Good!” Warby gave him a grin. “Now—” before he could expand, an attractive blonde appeared behind Warby. Her bright hair was long and curly, her nails and lips bright red, and she exuded the breezy friendliness typical of show people. She put a hand on each of Warby’s shoulders from behind and then bent to give him a kiss on the cheek with the words, “I’m back, Darling. I told you I wouldn’t be long.” Tossing a smile in Ned’s direction, she added, “And who have we here?” Before he could answer, she held out her hand and introduced herself, “I’m Christina Ratcliffe.”

As he politely got to his feet and offered his own hand and name, he was conscious of how much more appealing he found Candice’s reticence.

“Ned’s agreed to fly with me,” Warby announced enthusiastically. Ned was disconcerted to discover how flattered he felt.