Malta Story Page #2

Our manna from heaven.

- This is Admiral Banks.

- How do you do, sir?

I sent a signal to the Commander In Chief

Middle East about you,

saying that we'd...Iost a PR pilot and

would he mind if we hung onto you instead.

I've just got his reply.

He doesn't.

Well?

Thank you, sir.

Unorthodox, eh?

Well, this is a rather unorthodox place.

We have to make up our words and music

as we go along, eh, Bartlett?

Yes, sir.

Come and look at this and you'll understand.

The Germans and Italians, all along here.

In Sicily, he's only 58 miles

from our coast.

To the south, here,

Rommel.

Here he is now, doing everything he can

to get through to Egypt

and, after that, the Suez Canal.

You know what that means, don't you?

All the oil in the Middle East

and the route to India.

Right. But, if he's going to succeed,

he's got to be supplied with guns,

men, ammunition and fuel.

Along here...

..or here...

..or down this way.

You see why Malta's got to be held?

So that men like you

can go and find Rommel's supply ships

and men like Hobley can go and sink them.

Or, if we haven't the means,

pass the job on to Middle East Command.

You're what we call

''the eyes of the fleet''.

In this case, the eyes of Malta, and we're

as short of them as everything else.

- Do you see why I grabbed you?

- Yes, I do, sir.

Right. Bartlett's your CO.

He'll fill in the lurid details.

Off you go and get on with it.

- Oh, and Ross.

- Sir?

- Thanks for coming to help us.

- It was the least I could do, sir.

Straight from Gibraltar.

What, in your submarines?

It's a mighty good job

they got here all right...

or we should have been

in a jam for petrol. - Yes.

I've got a bit of tough

news for you, Frank.

I'm afraid this is their

last trip for a time.

The bases were bombed again last

night and one of the subs was hit.

The others are leaving this afternoon.

For good?

Well, until the raids slacken off a bit.

Pity.

They were the last naval ships in Malta.

Except for a few MTBs.

Yes, it's getting a bit lonely.

I'm damned sorry. You know, if I could,

I'd swim and get the bloody stuff for you.

I know you would, Willy.

But you haven't got any water wings.

8,000 tons.

Fully loaded.

All you have to do

is to get me some more like it.

Of course, you realise Frank's Fleet Air Arm

boys can only deal with very easy targets,

ships that are sinking

practically of their own accord and so on.

If anything has to be really seriously

attacked, then it's a job for me.

I'm afraid I don't know much

about recce over the sea.

My speciality is marshalling yards.

- Hm?

I beg your pardon?

''Marshalling yards.'' You know, trains.

I see.

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