Daddy, We Hardly Knew You by Germaine Greer

Author:Germaine Greer [Greer, Germaine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7953-3814-4
Publisher: RosettaBooks
Published: 2014-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

Reg Greer in Malta

So stand by your glasses steady,

This world is a world of lies,

Here’s a toast to the boys dead already,

And here’s to the next one that dies.

ANON, ‘THE AIR-GUNNERS’ LAMENT’

Reg Greer probably came to Malta on the ‘Magic Carpet Service’, provided by five of the mine-laying submarines of the First Flotilla based in Alexandria, Porpoise, Parthian, Regent, Cachalot and Rorqual. The submarines brought in petrol in their freshwater and main ballast tanks, and necessarily small supplies of kerosene, medicines, ammunition, mail and powdered milk, and passengers.

It was Mr Admans who told me that my father was taken into Malta by submarine. He found the idea of my father cooped in a submarine for an undersea journey of 820 miles hilarious. ‘Reg Greer in a submarine! He must have had a stroke!’ he chortled. I don’t know why he thought being in a submarine would cause Reg Greer such stress; perhaps Mr Admans knew that Daddy suffered from claustrophobia. There is of course no official record of the use of submarines for the movement of Y personnel into Malta which was now effectively mined in. Daddy arrived on 13 September, the very day that the George Cross was formally presented to the people of Malta, now to be known as Malta G.C.

Reg Greer probably travelled on Porpoise, which was the principal carrier of the flotilla, and had lettered on her flag PCS for ‘Porpoise carrying services’. The Germans were well aware of the importance of the submarines in running the blockade; in four days Porpoise attracted a record of 87 depth charges. Reg Greer was probably less affected by the consciousness of the risk that he was running than he was by the no-smoking rule that prevails on submarines even when the cargo is not so inflammable.

If he walked up from the docks in the luminous morning of a Mediterranean autumn he would have seen a small crowd gathered round the ruined Palace Square to witness the George Cross presentation ceremony—a bullshit parade if ever there was one. The backdrop was the ruin of the Grand Palace, open to the sky, flanked by the Casino Maltese with its cornice blown off and the roof collapsed at one corner. On the other side stood the Palace of Verdelin, abandoned now by the Civil Service Sports Club. The corps of photographers climbed on to a pile of rubble and stood together on a massive door panel blown out of one of the portals of the Magistral Palace. All the forces were represented, the Royal Navy, the RAF, the Army, the Police, the Special Constabulary, the ARP, the nurses; practically everyone was in uniform of one kind or another. Only a few of the older women wore faldettas, shiny, black veils held over their faces by a stiffened brim. Colour was supplied by the clergy who swept by glorious in magenta taffeta, against which the tassels of their hats burned like green flames. Viscount Gort, representing the King, solemnly presented the George

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