Voices on the Wind - Assault

The distant crack of ack-ack batteries north of Valletta soon became audible. Some schoolboys in well-worn uniforms and rope-and-tyre sandals called out to one another and ran past her in a noisy, giggling gaggle. An exasperated priest called something after them but didn’t try to stop them. He smiled a little apologetically to Candice and made a gesture for her to hurry. She thanked him with a nod and accelerated her pace as the guns on Manoel island opened up. Between the barking of the big guns, her ears caught the unmistakable throaty hum of heavy bombers.

Ahead, people converged from all directions on a doorway marked as a shelter. A cluster of youths and younger men loitered at the entrance smoking cigarettes and looking knowingly at the sky. Candice excused herself as she squeezed past them to enter the building and started down a narrow stairway cut in limestone. With each step, the air became thicker and the temperature sank. The voices of the people on the stairway echoed, but Candice heard not a word of English.

Candice started when deep, powerful booms erupted nearby, then realised they must be the heavy anti-aircraft guns of Fort St Elmo. Being under their protection made her feel safer. Shortly afterwards, however, the whine of a bomb was followed by a crash that made the stone jump and shudder under her feet. Instinctively, she grabbed the side of the stairwell and looked up. From behind her, someone took her under the elbow and guided her down the last few steps. Embarrassed, she realised she’d been blocking the stairs.

As she stepped into the shelter, however, her courage failed. This was nothing like the orderly hotel cellar where the benches around the outer wall were painted with room numbers to show guests their assigned places. Here, people had simply crowded into a long passage lit by occasional lights. Many had brought folding chairs, small stools or suitcases to sit on. Some women had babies on their laps or toddlers clinging to their skirts. From the smell, there were no flush toilets down here either.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Candice noticed rectangular gaps at irregular intervals along the side of the corridor and discovered entire rooms had been carved out of the rock. Most were no more than three by five yards, yet entire families occupied them: old men and women, mothers, infants and school children. Beds and wall niches had been chipped out of the walls. Dirty blankets covered the bed slabs. Niches held oil lamps or paintings of saints. Ceramic pails served as toilets.

The realisation that people were living down here made her ashamed of herself. For a week she had been worrying about nothing but herself, her petty desire to prove herself and be ‘part of the fight,’ while around her people had lost their homes!

Her uniform or the way she looked around attracted attention. An old man offered her his seat. She tried to say ‘no,’ but when he insisted, she felt it would be rude to refuse. She sank cautiously on his rough-hewn stool and looked up alarmed as the lights dimmed, flickered, and then came on again. A few moments later, the entire shelter was shaken violently, and many Maltese burst spontaneously into prayers. In quick succession, crashes punched the roof over their heads. A rapid-fire discussion erupted, presumably about where the bombs were falling. Candice could understand none of it and that made her feel isolated and alone.

Another loud crack caused an eruption of frightened cries to “Maria,” while several babies started wailing with high-pitched urgency. Fear was mounting in Candice’s chest as well. She’d withstood a great deal of bombing during the Battle of Britain and the Blitz. At that time, however, she had been doing a job, focused on her earphones, and conscious of contributing to the defence of the Realm. She’d also been among colleagues — not to mention that, as a member of His Majesty’s Forces, it was her duty to show fortitude, calm and discipline. Here, despite her uniform, she was just one of hundreds of helpless victims awaiting their fate. It occurred to her, if the shelter collapsed, no one would even know she was here. She would simply have ‘disappeared.’ Not that anyone would particularly care….

The walls shook and the lights went out entirely. Candice closed her eyes and joined the others in reciting the Rosary. How long could a raid last?