THE SERGEANT GEORGE YEOMAN WW2 SERIES BOOKS 1–6 World War Two military thrillers by Robert Jackson

Author:Robert Jackson [Jackson, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books WWII Historical Fiction, A Joffe Books Company
Published: 2024-09-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

Although it was early evening the day had lost little of its heat, and the pilots, crammed together on the seats of the ramshackle bus, were thankful for the steady flow of air that streamed through the vehicle’s shattered windscreen. Yeoman, lost in thought, stared through a side window at the vast contrast of colours that whirled past: the yellowish-white of stone walls, the pink of churches on the skyline, the grey-green of the land itself, dappled now with shadow.

The sky, a vault of rich blue stretching endlessly above them, was empty for once. It had been a confused, bewildering day, with several air raids, and Yeoman had spent most of it in G Shelter, together with the other reinforcement pilots. Any hope they had entertained of getting into action quickly had been rudely dashed; the veteran pilots of the squadron on Luqa had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the new Spitfires for a long time, and they had no intention of letting the newcomers fly them. Yeoman knew that this was a matter of wisdom, rather than of selfishness; he had already learned that Malta was a far different battleground from any he and his fellow pilots had experienced so far, with different — almost alien — rules and tactics, and unless the newcomers were initiated gradually they wouldn’t last five minutes.

The proof of that was starkly evident in the day’s losses. Yeoman reckoned that one-third, perhaps more, of the Spitfires which had flown in from the two carriers had already been put out of action, either in the air or on the ground.

Another couple of days at this pace, and Malta’s air defences would be back to square one.

The bus churned its way up a steep hill. Craning his neck to see over the heads of the pilots seated on his right, Yeoman picked out a flat expanse of ground, a hillside broken by the dark, yawning mouths of caves, and some sandbagged emplacements. He glimpsed the tail of a Spitfire and knew that they were passing Takali. Although the airfield had been bombed three times that day there was no sign of damage, nor indeed of any movement whatsoever.

The bus churned its way up the hill, twisting round bends, and suddenly the shadows of high walls fell across it. The driver threaded his way deftly through narrow streets, some of them showing signs of severe bomb damage, and through occasional openings Yeoman caught tantalising glimpses of ancient, curved archways and baroque churches. He leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of Roger Graham, who was sitting in front of him, and asked where they were.

‘Rabat,’ the squadron leader replied. ‘It’s the old capital of Malta. It used to be called Melita — that’s where the island gets its name from — and, according to legend, Saint Paul stayed here after he was shipwrecked.’

The road narrowed even further and the bus passed slowly through an archway, a gate into some inner sanctum enclosed by vast stone walls.

‘We’re in M’dina now,’ Graham continued.

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