Three Kings

Squadron Leader A.C. ‘Jock’ Martin, the Commanding Officer of R.A.F. Luqa, had limped out to his plane for the twenty-fifth time that week, but there were all too few left. He had lost some very good men, including Flight Lieutenant PeterKeeble and his Flag Officer William Woods, old ‘Timber’ as he was called by the men. The German 109s had cut down his Gladiator, which was no match for the faster, more modern fighter. Now he wondered how long they would have to wait for help from Alexandria, and he feared it would be a very long time indeed.

Now he was patrolling in a Hurricane when tower control radioed the heading of yet another incoming formation of enemy planes. There was no one else up on CAP, and so he decided he would have to go in alone. What he found was a formation of twenty S-79s of the 34 ^o Stormointending to strike the airfield atLuqa. Martin knew he could not possibly stop a formation of that size, but he could raise hell and try to break them up as they approached the field. He got in one good pass, like a hawk falling on a formation of geese flying south, and managed to down one plane, wheel about and take a second from beneath, starting an engine fire. Then he had company with the arrival of ItalianSergenteAbramoLanzarini of the 72ndSquadriglia in an MC-200 fighter.

The two pilots maneuvered for advantage, each one skilled enough to send hot tracers zipping perilously close to the other. Then Martin hit his flaps, radically altering his speed to allow the Italian fighter to sweep by. He kicked the plane over to follow, poured on power with his guns blazing and ended the duel as the MC-200 went into an dive, smoke trailing from the tail.

Martin saw the Italian pilot had managed to leap from the plane, a loose strap from his seat harness sheared off as he did so, but to his horror, he saw no parachute open. The equipment had failed in the one task it was made for, andSergenteAbramoLanzarini plummeted to his death.

It was difficult to witness such an event, but Martin tried to remind himself that he was shooting at planes, not the men inside them. It was a thin emotional barrier he surrounded himself with, knowing inherently thatLanzarini’s death could have been his own fate, as every pilot had an inbred kinship with the men he faced in the sky.

Lanzarini’sdeath had not been in vain, for his brave intervention had at least drawn Martin from his attack on the bombers. Now they were over the airfield atLuqa, and trying to hit the hangers where the work crews were fitfully struggling to get another Hurricane engine operational to give the hard pressed Squadron Leader some help.

The other main airfield at Hal Far had been hit very hard the previous day, and several Hurricanes had been lost on the ground. Lieutenants John Waters and Peter Hartley had been out from that station in their Swordfish when they got word that a naval flotilla was heading for the island. What they saw was more than they could deal with given the few planes they had. The Italian Navy was coming out to fight. All the battleships that had been at Taranto had sortied days before the long planned carrier raid by Admiral Cunningham’s fleet. Now they were gathering ominously in the Central Mediterranean, and the increased air activity over Malta began to take on the darker prospect of imminent invasion.

Then word came that the French Navy was at sea, getting up steam from their major base at Toulon. There were no details as to what had sailed, but the movement of “several large capital ships” was deemed most disturbing.

Now the meeting was being held to determine what to do about the impending crisis on Malta. Yet the allies did not yet know the full scope of the plans their enemy had for the island, or that even as they spoke, the engines were turning over on the German Ju-52s at four airfields to the north.

Wavell and Cunningham entered, all the men standing to greet them, and then Wavell came right up to Admiral Volsky and extended a hand in a hearty greeting.

“That was quite a display just now, Admiral,” he said in perfect Russian, for Wavell had mastered the language when he served as a military observer with the Russian Army in 1911, and was eager to have a chance to use that tool. “We have seen the smoke, and I have no doubt that there is more fire behind it than meets the eye.”

Volsky smiled, glancing at Fedorov to make the introductions. “You speak Russian-a very pleasant surprise. Our Mister Nikolin here is adept in English, but now he will not have to carry so much water from the well.”