Malta Spitfire Pilot by Denis Barnham

Author:Denis Barnham [Barnham, Denis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Military, Aviation, World War II, Biography & Autobiography, Aviation & Nautical
ISBN: 9781909808683
Google: v8d1DwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Grub Street Publishers
Published: 2013-07-19T03:35:40+00:00

CHAPTER 10

TIP AND RUN

Diary: Wednesday, April 29.

YESTERDAY’s flying hell but flying has to be faced. Trying to forget about it quickly, trying to lead a normal life despite the battle— I’ve come over to St. Paul’s Bay again this morning: sketched wayside shrines—strangely silent walk—no early-morning raid.

On swimming platform—hardly expectcd “life” drawing on Malta— most swimmers have discarded costumes now. Twelve o’clock—still no raid—everyone apprehensive.

3 p.m.—been drawing “Uncle” Bosworth, officer-in-charge here. With his plump figure in khaki shorts and shirt overflowing lounge armchair, he stared at me, pebble eyes through horn-rim specs.: asked me what Huns were up to—I don’t know. 3.30 now, still no raid—don’t like it. Uncle sat very still: flies crawled all over him, played hop-skotch on his tattooed arms, polished their feet on his bald head—he didn’t move— just an involuntary twitch of his curled moustache. 4 p.m.—eerie silence continues.

5 p.m.—sun hot—been swimming—still no raid—now looking at Diana’s photo—always carry it—it might get buried at Naxxar—difficult to believe really her—remote in some other world.

A faint hum and Sirens!—five tiny planes in stratosphere crawling overhead—thirty thousand feet? Reconnaisance? No 109s, no 88s, no 87s— all clear sounding already. All bewildered. Some pilots say Eyeties— others say England raided last night. Have Huns withdrawn from Sicily? “Genned-up” pilot, just come down steps, says “No”. Recce Spit reports two hundred Ju 88s., one hundred and fifty 87s, more than a hundred 109s and gliders. Invasion? Lull before storm? Two thousand tons of bombs dropped here last month, seven thousand this month, may be pre-invasion softening up? End of April, beginning of May, always time for Spring Offensives. Genned-up pilot says “No”—says “Huns daren’t invade us”—tells us “official figures”—one hundred and ninety-two enemy planes destroyed and damaged last month, almost three hundred this month—says “enemy can’t stand such losses.” But could six fighters we have left stop invasion? Gen man replies that Hun won’t invade so long as we have any planes left. Why not?—horribly uneasy about silence—am going down to St. Paul’s village, to paint.

11 p.m. Naxxar, in bed. Dusk at village more beautiful than ever— painting a failure—tones and colours changed too quickly. Moonlight followed dusk—soft blue light over cubic houses cast long grey shadows— saw lovers under palm trees—thought of Diana—no news of her. Walked back along cliff tops—sea pure viridian green, sky a dark cold blue with stars, uncanny silence and nostalgic smell of hay from fields. Beyond window above church can see lines of moonlit clouds—do write to me my darling. Sirens. Sirens breathing, moaning, screaming, rising and falling, enemy planes coming, sky full of engines, bombs coming Oh, my God.

Diary: Thursday, April 30.

Bombs and bombers screeched all night long—seemed as if all pillars of air were being flattened violently, one against another, until they crushed our ear drums and left our heads ringing—couldn’t sleep.

Diary: Friday, May 1.

Same again—no sleep at all. If enemy flies three sorties with his bombers we’ve had a thousand bombers on each of the last two nights—feels like it. Readiness at Luqa but not sent up—ack ack followed five Eyeties at thirty thou.

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