大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Ruth Hollins. She fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

MALTA
THEY HAVE MADE HISTORY
F/Lt. J. L. Holmes
R. A. F. Station
St. Davids
Haverfordwest
S.Wales

Malta is out of the news . The sweeping Mediterranean victory, which was largely made possible by the heroic stand of the gallant little island, has in the natural course of things, relegated the Siege of Malta to the pages of history.Except in the memories of those who were privileged to take part in that stirring chapter in her chequered career.
From the day when St. Paul was driven on to her rocky shores until the proud day when the C. inC. Mediterranean announced, 鈥淭oday the Italian Fleet lies under the guns of Valetta,鈥� Malta has had her moments. But none to equal those bitter months that culminated in the defeat of Italian aggression.
My first glimpse of the George Cross island still lives vividly in my memory. Flying low over the sun-speckled waters of the Mediterranean, we slipped unobtrusively through the Straits of Pantelleria, and half an hour later we were on our final course for Malta. On our starboard beam lay the tiny island of Linosa. Soon our objective should be visible. As we gradually gained height a long grey blur came into view on the horizon. Rapidly the rugged outline took shape, the grey gave place to warm brown, which seemed to reflect the late afternoon sun. Malta lay beneath us, her terraces of arid rock forming a harsh contrast to the gleaming white buildings and domed churches that stood out with an almost stereoscopic clarity. The whole scene reminded one of the brightly coloured illustrations in a Children,s Testament.
There the resemblance ended . Malta was at war and if any doubt on this remained the billowing clouds of smoke that rose without warning from the edge of the aerodrome soon dispelled it. The blitz was on. Day after day night after night, bombs rained down on the fortress, while countless batteries of guns roared back their defiance. Usually the first indication of approaching trouble, even before the wail of the siren, was the rising cloud of dust from the nearby fighter aerodrome at Takali. A fighter scramble was in progress.
The spitfire pilots always believed in meeting trouble halfway. Almost as soon as the enemy bombers left their bases in Sicily, they were climbing into the blue to do battle with them. And what battles they were! No sooner were the bombers sighted over the island than the fighters tore into them. In the brief lulls between the bursting of bombs and the thunder of the guns, the tortured whine of racing engines could be heard, punctuated by short stuttering bursts of machine gunfire, and the deeper, more sinister rumble of cannon. Then it was all over, almost as suddenly as it had begun. Here and there a slowly drifting column of black smoke, and sometimes, silhouetted against the brilliant Mediterranean sky, a tiny white parachute, with a doll-like figure swaying lazily to and fro were the only indications that another battle had been fought and won.
A new language seemed to have been born out of this hectic period. I remember sitting in the Mess on my first evening on the island. Dinner was just over and the usual little groups had formed,some round the piano, others round the bagatelle board, one or two writing letters. All at once the siren sounded, and before I had time to realise what was happening, three figures darted past me, out through the open French windows, and disappeared in the direction of the nearest shelter. The tubby little Flight Sergeant sitting in the next chair watched them go and then turned to me with a knowing look.鈥滲omb happy,鈥� he grunted. I must have looked puzzled. He smiled and then explained, 鈥淭hey get that way sometimes when they have been here too long.At the first hint of a raid they dive for cover. We call them 鈥渂omb happy鈥�. On the other hand some fellows just refuse to take cover at all. They,re just as mad. They are 鈥渂omb proof鈥�. I soon learnt that a middle course was the safest policy.
It wasn鈥檛 all like that even in the blitz period. There were those unforgettable mornings when one would wake up to find the sun pouring through the open door of the billet. The valley below lying shrouded in mist, and beyond, floating like a dream city, the golden walls and magnificent dome of Rabat. War seemed very far away in those moments.

Unfortunately it is not possible to live on golden sunrises. Food was short on the island, desperately short. The Maltese civilians, for the most part, existed on two meals a day. Bread was rationed down to the last ounce, even the contents of the swill tub were precious.They shrugged their shoulders and said, 鈥淚t will be better when the convoy comes.鈥漈hey had been saying that for a long time, but their hopes were still high. One convoy had already fought its way through, only to be sent to the bottom of Valetta harbour before it could even be unloaded.

Through all these trials Malta carried on undaunted. The streets of Valetta and Sliema were still thronged with busy crowds, pursuing their normal daily routine, paying little heed to the fact that they were in the front line of one of history,s grimmest battles. Climbing over piled up heaps of debris in the main streets of the city, one would suddenly come upon a group of barefooted, brown-skinned children, squatting round in a circle, cigarettes dangling from their lips, happily engrossed in a game of pontoon. Often one would find an eager crowd gathering in the doorway of a half demolished shop. Queueing for bread perhaps? No just a Tombola session in progress.

Like the citizens of London through the blitz of 1941, the people Malta had adjusted themselves to the conditions of war, and had accepted them as part of their every day life.The natural structure of the island had played a great part in making such resistance possible. The soft easily worked terraces of rock lent themselves to the rapid construction nof deep shelters. If their homes were bombed they tunnelled out a cave in the rock, salvaged what was left of their belongings and started life anew with scarcely a complaint.

Perhaps the most memorable moment of all was the August afternoon when the first ship of the relieving convoy slowly steamed into the Grand Harbour. For hours rumours had been spreading throughout the island. The convoy was coming at last. Every wall, every rooftop was packed with an expectant crowd, waiting in tense silence. Hopes had been raised many times before only to be followed by bitter disappointment. Only those who had endured the long months of siege and privation could realise the desperate anxiety of those last few hours. Suddenly a roar went up from the harbour wall. The vigil was over, the siege had been raised The crowds cheered, old men sobbed from sheer relief while women dropped onto their knees to give thanks. Malta will never forget that day.

All that has changed now. The blockade is lifted, the beleaguered have become the attackers. Those who thronged the bastions to cheer the war-scarred survivors of 鈥淏omb Alley鈥� have gathered again to witness the surrender of the Italian Fleet. The white dust clouds still rise from the airfields of Takali and Luqa , but the citizens of Valetta gaze upwards with a smile of pride. That they are no longer front page news troubles them little. They have made history.

My father returned safely from Malta but spent time in Cosford RAF hospital recovering .from sandfly fever and dysentery. He survived the remainder of the war and was demobbed in1946.

Ruth Hollins Countesthorpe Leicester.

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