No Chance to Meet Again: Chapter 2

I wish I could draw.

Tori can draw, and paint. She always has, with a skill that amazes me as much as it drove my mother up the bend from the first time she starting drawing shapes and animals on the kitchen wall with a pencil. For a time, I was jealous, even as her older, ‘wiser’ brother, and tried to match her and copy her, but by the time she was 14 it was enough to merely look at her art and be amazed, and proud. She just had the eye for it that I didn’t — the ability to see how light moved across surfaces, to convey and show movement and action. I don’t how she did it, but she did. She didn’t think much of herself — we would go to galleries, and she would pout as she looked at portraits and impressionists and long, broad landscapes. “They’re better, PJ,” she’d sigh. They weren’t to me. My sister hadn’t painted them.

Sometimes, when the summer days were long and endless, when I wasn’t working, I’d take her up to Crystal Palace on the bus. She’d carry her bag full of paints and brushes and I’d hobble into our seat with her easel and canvas under my arms. We’d find a tree to sit under (always a different tree — Tori never painted the same thing twice unless she needed to for a reason, you see) Sometimes, she’d let me pick what to paint, but usually, she’d stop me at a tree, with a short, precocious “here, PJ.” I’d set up her easel and canvas as instructed and then lie down with a book, only looking up when instructed to pick a colour from some options or offer an opinion on a shading choice. Sometimes, she’d just tap me on the show with the wooden end of her brush so I could look and nod approvingly.

The one thing Tori loved painting that I never understood for a long time was the sky. Even when (as usual in England) it was a sky of flat, dreary grey from one horizon to the other, she managed to find shades that made it leap out and flow and feel real. She could fill a skyscape that took up almost a whole canvas, drawing your eyes to formations of clouds that swirled and danced in front of you. For a long time, I admired those skyscapes without really understanding why she painted them. “It’s just sky,” I said. She just smiled at me and replied, “It’s more than that.” It wasn’t that I wasn’t enraptured in the sky — I always had my head craned upwards, looking for planes, following the drone and buzz of engines, but the beauty of it that Tori saw always escaped me. I didn’t really understand.

The first time I flew, I understood. Being up in the sky, with the clouds and the blues and the thousands of shades of sunlight around me, I understood it all. Buzzing up from Biggin Hill in that Gipsy Moth on a warm March morning, I saw what Tori saw for the first time, as the sun peaked through the thin mist and the cool blue of the spring sky surrounded me. She, quite rightly, looked quite smug when I told her. “Wait until you see the sea and sky together, PJ,” she said conspiratorially. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

I wish Tori was here to see this sea and sky, as the sun begins to dip lower and lower on this Mediterranean afternoon, its cool, stiff, deep blues and green blending into glimmering white before then slipping into the ethereal blue of the almost cloudless sky. Even the endless, numbing drone of the engine seems to slip away as I take in the wisping lines of white and grey high above me or shimmering patterns of waves that pick out and dance in the corner of my eyes as we close with our new island home. Malta was close now, the arid, sandy rocks in the sea poking out from beneath the shimmering blue-orange of the late afternoon light. Even at this distance, I could see a strange, almost mystical yellow haze in the air above it, floating skywards like embers above a campfire.

Tori would know how to capture this — how to immortalise it in oils and place it on a wall, to make this moment live and prosper and be remembered in a way no photograph or memory could. I wished that I’d brought her up in a plane to see like I’d promised her a hundred times over. I’d nearly done it a few times, but now? Would I?

Of course I would, I told myself. I’d get to take her up over the Kent and Sussex to see the patchwork of the fields and the sky that rolled all the way back to the white cliffs of Dover, but before I could show her that sky, I had to survive this one. Malta was rolling closer and closer and closer and now beneath me, I could see the shape of the island emerging, sharp cliffs and arid fields broken up by bright white walls emerging into my eyeline. We’ve dropped low over the island now, Grayson leading us down and away from the rest of the squadron, who have already cut away and entered their landing pattern for Takali.

We’re over a large, ancient, beautiful city now — Valetta, I think — her harbour gleaming in the late afternoon night. At least it tried too, for as we passed over the water, thick, black smoke billowed from a ship that was listing sharply, the fires within so large we could see them as we flew past. Parts of the town burn as well, near the port, but as we head away from the city and out across the plain the smoke recedes away.

“All incoming aircraft, pancake as soon as you can.”

The air controller is ordering us down as quickly as possible. I heard Barrett-Jones grumble about wanting to see more of the island from the air. I was inclined to agree with her. It was an astonishing, eerily beautiful place, an oasis of sandy fields and trees amongst the wide, deep sea. And it was our home, our bastion, to defend for as long as we were here. White blocks of houses, gleaming domes and sharp spires pockmark the landscape, zig-zags of stone walls cutting across fields and plain. It’s wonderful. I want to see more of it.

“Tighten up formation, chaps. Let’s give them a good show as we come in.” On Grayson’s signal, we form up as we approach Luqa. The Island disappears behind me, my brain shifting and removing distractions and afterthoughts as I followed Grayson and the others into the field. This was a moment to focus. Tori would understand that when she asked why I couldn’t tell her what the island looked like when I first arrived. “Yellow Flight — break — break.” We’re coming into the approach properly now. Speed down — cockpit hood back — undercarriage down. The flaps are put down — now the runway below is me, closer, closer, then I level out and the plane bounces and just as quickly settles on the ground. I am here.

***

The mechanic who opened my clambered onto my wing was still yelling at me, grinning like an idiot as she gesticulated wildly around my plane. I hadn’t heard her the first time — my ears still rang, my brain still dazed from hours and hours of merlin engine roaring in my ears. I nodded numbly as I clambered out, grabbing my bags from beneath my knees as I stretch on the wing walk panel. Beside me, two more mechanics are pulling a panel away to reveal bags of spare parts, tools and other equipment that had been stowed inside my aircraft, much to my surprise. My ears still buzzed a little, but now they were beginning to acclimatise to life outside of the cockpit.

The mechanic was still talking at me as I stretched myself on the ground, my eyes blinking as I felt a wave of exhaustion ride over me. Eventually, my mind and eyes refocused, and I began to take in the flat, dusty airfield around me. Luqa was a newer airfield than Takali, but it looked just as battered and war-weary. I hadn’t been surprised about having the dodge more than fair few bomb craters while taxiing, but now I was on the ground, it looked like not a single yard of the field hadn’t been smashed at some point.

“What’s the weather like at home?” the mechanic asked, as airmen and ground crew opened panels with bayonets and pulled out Camel Cigarettes and Mosquito nets and a thousand other things I never could have imagined being in my wings.

“It’s, erm, cold,” I replied, barely hearing myself over the din that still echoed in my ears.

“Well, we won’t have any of that here, sir,” she laughed back. “Come along sir, get your stuff into the car!” Sure enough, there was a battered staff car with an RAF sergeant at the wheel waiting for me, with the others already piled into it. I hurried over, my bags heaved onto my shoulders, jumping into my seat as Barrett-Jones continues a tirade against Butler, who was merely staring at her with a look of contempt. I looked back one more time to see our spits being manhandled into concrete and stone pits, already out of sight and hidden from us — and the Germans.

“What happened now?” I asked Grayson as the driver next to me crunched the gears and began trundling along the runway.

“Barrett-Jones found out that Butler’s got a bag full of books,” she muttered, exhausted more from the two of them arguing than from the flight. “Not entirely sure it matters.”

“Of course it matters!” Barrett-Jones’ whipped round to glare at Grayson, who merely rolled her eyes.

“I really don’t know how you have the energy to argue right now, Gwen.”

“This is important! You can’t just lug half a library across the world! What if-what if we’d been attacked and had to fight! All that weight could have been the cost between life and death!”

“Sure, and the spanners and cigarettes in my wings were just feathers, right?” Butler seemed unamused. “Everyone has a right to some pleasures, right Peter?”

“I-I’m not going to get involved in this.” Butler gave me a disparaging look, but I’d already turned away from them to look out across the airfield, taking it in behind slightly drooping eyelids. Red dust hung in the air between the bombed-out buildings. Huge concrete and stone blocks crushed metal bedframes and roof supports beneath them, while piles of shattered firewood stood in place of huts. The car jolted and swerved and stalled as the driver manoeuvred it around deep craters and hissing, smouldering wreckage.

Barrett-Jones swore as she was jolted forward by the sharp breaking. “Don’t they know their way around their own bloody airfield?”

“I’m sure the shell holes weren’t here this morning, Gwen,” Bingo muttered, clearly enjoying the redden look of embarrassment on her face.

“It’s like the Battle of Brit all over again,” Grayson mused, her eyes losing a little brightness. “Maybe worse.”

“Worse?” I frowned. I hadn’t been around for that.

“Well-“ she waved a hand across at the bombed-out hangar we were passing. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

“Right.” I looked up into the sky, half expecting to see a crowd of diving bombers careening towards me, but was greeted by nothing but the evening sky.

“You missed the 4 pm raid, sir,” the driver noted, without looking up. “They pasted Doc Staunton’s ward again, but otherwise we got off lightly.”

“Lightly,” I repeated as I looked at the twisted hulk of a Blenheim bomber as we rolled through the outbuildings. The air was thick, both with humidity and dust, and the empty sky only seemed to be pressing down even more onto us. I wanted to reach for my kit and grab my tin helmet, but the nonchalant look on Grayson’s face persuaded me that I’d just look a fool if I did. So I sat there and stared at the sky. I pulled a dusty sweet packet from my pocket, snorting at the American label on it before opening it and popping on in my mouth. It tasted bitter, but I didn’t have the energy to spit it out and take a new one.

***

Squadron Leader Charles Ambler, DSO DFC looked to be a very tall man behind a very small desk, and not entirely enjoying the experience — whether because he didn’t like having to do paperwork, or because he just wasn’t having a good day was beyond me. His complexion was tanned, in that dark, varnished way that all pilots seemed to be from hours and hours in a cockpit, and a pair of dark, beady but piercing eyes scanned the page in front of him.

Ambler’s Office was part of a complex of offices and other desks that sat in a low brick building. The windows had no glass, the panes shattered long ago by bombing, and flies darted in and out of them on the wind along with the smell of tobacco wafting in from the pilot with the Gold Coast patches on his shoulder who stood outside smoking his pipe with another of our new comrades.

We four stood in a line in front of the table, our bags at our feet, waiting for some sort of answer from our new commanding officer. Eventually, he looked up at us, his frown expressing a wish that we had started the conversation, even if he knew that wasn’t possible under any circumstances. “Grayson, Barrett-Jones, Toussaint and…Butler.” He trailed off at the last name, and I shared a baffled look with Barrett-Jones beside me. “Welcome to Malta,” he continued, after a second.

“Thank you, sir,” Grayson said, on our behalf. “It’s good to be here.”

“Well, no it isn’t but you’re here, so you’re part of the show now.” He leant forward on the table, his eyes seeming to meet all of ours at the same time. “This is one of the most heavily bombed pieces of real estate in the entire war. With the situation in North Africa…being what it is, the importance of this island as an advancing striking base is even more clear, both to us and Jerry. Which is why they’ve started turning the screw on us in the last few weeks. We need the planes, and we need the pilots.” His gaze became suddenly steely. “I can’t afford to lose the planes, and I cannot afford to lose you. Jerry’s a tough fighter. I learnt that in the last show, and you’ve all learned it back home in sweeps and other fights. But he’s not a clever one. He’s trying to bludgeon this island with 500,600 aircraft from Sicily.”

“We can handle that, sir.” Grayson’s confidence didn’t seem to impress our new CO.

“We have less than 50 operational fighters on Malta, Grayson. We’re one botched convoy away from starvation, and the offensive power of this place has been blunted almost entirely. You will handle it, or otherwise, this island will be lost.”

“Yessir,” she said, far more muted.

“At some point, another convoy will be sent, and we will have to get it through. If we don’t — or if we lose the ships in the harbour again, we’re done. I cannot afford mistakes. This island cannot afford mistakes. This country cannot afford any more mistakes — god knows, we’ve had enough in this war already.” He sighed, pushing his glasses back over his eyes properly. “If we pull this off, however — well, let’s just say that people aren’t likely to forget what we did here. I certainly won’t be forgetting this.”

“We understand, sir,” Bingo said, making the CO twitch irritably for some reason.

“Very well. Grayson, you’ve got the experience I need upfront, so I’m putting you in charge of A Flight, with Barrett Jones. Butler, Toussaint, you’re with B flight.”

“Yes sir,” we all said at the same time, sharing a forlorn smile with Grayson. Even a small parting like this was a little melancholy. I didn’t want to jinx it by saying anything.

“Bagbin?”

“Yessir?” We turned to see a pilot step into the shade of the brick office block, whistling ‘roll out the barrel’ as he came. The chap who’d been smoking outside grinned mischievously as he looked past us at Ambler, brilliant white teeth dazzling underneath a thick, manicured moustache. He was short and stockily built — someone with less tact (like Tori) might have said he was built like a beer barrel as he stopped in the doorway, with his cap balanced at a steep angle, he leaned on the shattered doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. His pipe, dangled lazily out his mouth, puffed angrily from its drooping position, sending wisping smoke up into the dusty rafters.

I feel like he’d have been more of an impressive, suave figure in my mind if I couldn’t straight look over his head and see a plane behind him. I don’t think he was actually that short. Was the floor angled or something?

“Can you take Mr Butler and Toussaint here to their billets? They’re joining you in B Flight.”

“You sure you couldn’t do it yourself, sir? You need the exercise.” The amusement in his voice flowed freely through the twang of his light West African accent. “Nothing like a quick jog up to Hellfire corner to clear the mind, eh?”

“Get out, Bagbin.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.” The newcomer shot us a sardonic look the turned to leave, beckoning us with an extravagant hand wave. Bingo and I shared a look, then turned back to the CO. He was looking at a piece of paper, and after a second, he looked up with a note of irritation.

“Dismissed, dismissed,” he muttered, brushing us away with an idle hand after we saluted him.

We stepped back out in the oppressive Mediterranean late afternoon sunshine, blinking as our eyes readjusted. “You two coming or what?” Our guide was standing half a dozen yards away, flashing another grin at us. “It’s not far, boys, but I’d rather show you than risk pissing ackie Ambler off any more than I already have.”

“…right,” I said, starting to follow him as began to stride off. “Thanks…”

“Bagbin. Kwame Bagbin.” He thrust a hand in my direction as I could up to him, pumping it vigorously as I suppressed a wince. “They call me Stringer, though.”

“Why?” Bingo asked.

“God knows,” he looked up at me, fiddling with his pipe a little as we skirted around a bomb crater. “Who were you again?

“Toussaint. Peter Toussaint.”

“Toussaint.” He chewed on my name for a second. “That’s a French name, isn’t it?”

“Well-“I sighed. “Yes, I suppose, but I’m from Trinidad. It was my dad’s name anyway, and he’s from-“

“I didn’t know there were any Frogs in Trinidad,” he pondered over me, puffing away on his pipe. “Then again, I’m from Accra, so what would I know?”

“I’m not French,” I began, already knowing it was a futile gesture. “It’s just a surname. Y’know, like Toussaint Louv-“

“Hey! Johnny!” A pilot stooped over a car engine looked up from where she stood between three ground crew. “We’ve got a Frog here! With the new lot!”

I bristled as Bingo glared at our new friend. I ran a frustrated hand across my face. “I’m not-“

“French, eh?” The unmistakable inflexion of a thick Jamaican accent cut across me as Bagbin’s friend strode over towards us, an animated but unplaceable expression on her face. “What Island? St. Lucia? Martinique?” She was closer now, her face still an unreadable mask of judgement, her short, curled hair tied in a loose black bob. She was taller than Bagbin and seemed to know it as she leant on him, sizing me up. “No, wait!” The accent came on thick with excitement. “Guyanese!”

“Brixton.”

“Brixton?”

“I’m from London,” I elaborated.

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed.

“Mum’s from Trinidad, though.” She frowned even more. “Is that going to be a problem?”

‘Johnny’ looked me up and down. “Where in Trinidad?”

“…Port of Spain?”

She harrumphed for a second, then put out a calloused, firm hand. “Sam Smythe. Stringer calls me Johnny. I don’t know why.”

“Peter Toussaint,” I offered back.

“Welcome to Malta, Froggy,” she said, turning to shake Bingo’s hand in turn. “Sorry we left it in a mess.”

“It’s alright, I ventured.”

“Alright?” Smythe snorted. “It’s a dump.”

“I’m glad someone agrees with me on that,” Bingo growled, earning a raised eyebrow from me and a chuckle from Bagbin. “What?”

“We’ve been here for less than a day, Bingo. At least try and be hopeful.”

“No, no, you’re friends’ right,” Smythe said as she walked with us towards our billet. “It’s a mess here. I was first poster over here in ’41 and I thought it was bombed to hell then. But now?” She sighed. “Well, Jerry’s been busy.”

“Speaking of which…” Bagbin’s eyes were on the sky, where the hum of the evening was being subsumed by the growing drone of engines. “Here comes the last of the evening.”

“Bombers?”

“What do you think, Johnny?” Bagbin and Smythe seemed unaffected by the oncoming attack, still strolling across the field idly. “50 or 100?”

Smythe frowned, fiddling with a loose curl. “100, but they’re hitting Takali.”

“Well-“ Bagbin paused. “No, no, I think it might be-“ the drone got louder but still distant. “Oh, it’s definitely Takali.” He frowned. “Well, it’s a bit early to tell.”

“Is it?” I rested a hand apprehensively on my tin helmet, ready to pull it on, but removed it when Smythe raised an eyebrow at my action.

“Oh, yes. No point ducking for cover until we get the signal from the tower.”

“Oh.” That didn’t seem like a lot of warning.

“See!” Bagbin pointed up into the sky. “There they go for Takali!” Sure enough, a stream of bombers — JU88s, big, thin beasts, were peeling off and diving at target in the distance. “Poor fellers. But it was their turn.”

“Turn?”

“It’s how it is, Toussaint,” Bingo said, clapping me on the back with a tone of resignation. “Grayson was right, it is like the Battle of Britain again.” Butler’s despondency seemed deeper now than his usual curmudgeonly death wish.

“Come on!” Bagbin was waving us forward again, his grin still wild and out of place. “Let’s get to the billet.”

I gave Bingo another astonished look for aid. Here merely shrugs. “We got used to it at Biggin in 1940,” he said, half-explaining it to himself as well. “We’ll get used to it as well.”

***

The billet was less of a barracks complex than an old, battered, bleached white country house on a hill overlooking the airfield. “ It was some rich Italian’s summer residence,” Bagbin explained as we climbed the slope through knarled trees and dusty grass to the top and came in through a back garden full of unkempt flowers and dead bushes. “Big place, nicely decked out, but the main trick is that it’s far enough from the field the Hun doesn’t use us for target practice.” In the garden, a few airmen lay in deck chairs, staring idly at books and newspapers as the sun dropped lower in the sky.

“Very swish,” Bingo commented as we stood outside, looking at the place.

“In we go!” Bagbin held the door open for us as he whistled idly and we sidled in, following him through a room full of bunks and waiting aircrew. I caught sight of a group gathered around a table playing cards, but before I could investigate, we went up an ornate stairway that was chipped with bomb fragments and into a room on the upper floor, where more rows of metal bunks lay in a large front room. A Gramophone sat in the corner on top of a few empty crates, next to a pile of records. The upper room seemed to be in a bit better shape than the rest of the house I’d seen, but it was still an odd abode, a strange mix of extravagance and dinginess, with peeling wallpaper and chipped stone fireplaces sharing the space with cheap cigarette smoke, bully beef tins and the smell of unwashed pilots. A grubby looking wash basin sat in the corner, next to a blackout warning and crude drawing of Malta scrawled with chalk onto a wall, with the words “ Tommies:2, Jerry:0” underneath.

“Welcome to Kensington Palace,” Bagbin drawled, leaning against a windowsill at the far end of the room.

“Kensington?”

“Because it looks pretty from the outside but it’s a shithole once you get there.”

“Oh.” I sat down on the empty bunk that was to be my resting place for the next few weeks or months, or God knows how long. Butler had already fished a few books out of his bag and was thumbing through one, head already lying on his hard pillow. I considered lying back but was painfully aware that if I put my head down, I would be out cold in an instant. I wasn’t ready for that yet — I wanted to see more, explore more.

“Don’t get too comfy,” Johnny Smythe had followed us up, a lit cigarette balanced on her lower lip. “We’re going out tonight.”

I blinked at her. “Out? Like, into town? Valetta?”

Bagbin shot me a scathing look. “Where else? We’re not exactly gonna go swanning down to Alexandria, are we?”

“But…what about the bombing?”

“Relax, Froggy,” Bagbin said, easily ignoring the wince on my part as he used my new moniker. “We won’t get him. And if we do…” he trailed off with an absent-minded hand wave. “We’ll be having a good time when we do.”

“There’s also a bomb shelter at the ERA so we’ll be alright,” Smythe added.

I gave Butler a searching look, but he seemed a little too tired to off any dissent on his part. I sighed, then shrugged. “Alright.”

“Excellent!” Bagbin gleamed, clapping his hands together and rubbing them excitedly. “Just excellent. We’ll have a swell time for your first night out, I promise. No Nazi’s, no bombers, just wine, dancing and-“ he chuckled again. “Plenty of fun.”

“Fun, huh?” I grinned at Bingo, slapping him on the back before leading him out. “Why not?” He gave me a sardonic look, before sighing and pulling his cap on. “It’ll be relaxing, Bingo. Give it a chance!”

“Sure,” he said finally. “It’s not like we’ll have many others.” I didn’t like that thinking.