Montague Cutter at the Siege of Malta: A Montague Cutter Adventure, #2

By Bret Lambert, Bret H Lambert and E.F.L. Tuan

They managed to escape Timbuktu, French Sudan, in one piece.

Their second adventure has Montague Cutter and Jackson Dillard winging their way east across the Mediterranean Sea in a RAF Dakota ladened with desperately needed medical supplies for the island fortress of Malta. On board is a young RAF officer — a member of the SOE — carrying a locked attaché case.

Arriving during an aerial dogfight between the British and Italian air forces, they manage to evade disaster and land the battle-damaged Dakota — mostly in one piece.

On the ground, they find themselves unintentionally involved in the defense of the island. One hundred miles of open sea separates them from Sicily and Mussolini's proud fascist military.

They also find themselves — once again — involved with Professor Andrei Constantinescu and his daughter Alyxandria as the archaeologists endeavor to locate a relic once belonging to Joseph of Arimathea. Brought to the island stronghold of the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem by its future Grand Master — Jean Parisot de la Valette — in 1530, the relic disappeared during the Great Siege of Malta in 1565.

And they are not alone in the search for the venerated artifact.

They only need to locate the revered relic before an unknown — and thoroughly unpleasant — entity finds it.

Oh, and survive the current Siege of Malta!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret Lambert
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201775032

Bret Lambert

The author was born in the jungles of Sumatra. He has traveled extensively in Southeast Asia and the Mediterranean Sea. His military service included time in Germany (when there was an East and a West) and Turkey. After the military, he worked in the CSI unit of a midsized West Texas city. He now resides in Arizona with his family.

Book preview

1940

Late august

One

The siege of Malta had begun in June of this year.

We’d spent most of the flight in the dark, it was safer that way.

My best friend and star mechanic, Jackson ‘Jack’ Dillard — a burly black fellow from Salem, Missouri — and I were ferrying mail and medical supplies from RAF Harrington near Kettering in Northamptonshire, England to RAF Hal Far at Malta via Gibraltar — that second bit being an eleven-hundred-mile hop across open sea — in a twin-engine RAF Dakota. In addition to the mail and medical supplies, we carried a courier, a young army second leftenant, whose name had not been disclosed (we figured he was one of the Baker Street Irregulars — you know, the Special Operations Executive) so we unofficially nicknamed him ‘Spy Guy.’ I don’t think he was amused, but then, I didn’t much care.

You ever been to Malta, Cutter? Jack asked as he poured himself the last of our coffee from a dented thermos.

Once, years ago, I answered over the steady drone of the twin radial piston engines. I was on an archaeological dig with Professor Constantinescu.

Jack nodded. Wonder how they’re doing, he murmured between sips of the hot liquid.

Staying out of trouble, I hope, I laughed, unable to stop myself, but somehow I doubt it. They just about got us killed in Timbuktu!

He laughed out loud, his white teeth bright against his dark skin. Ain’t that the truth!

Last I heard, I went on, he was somewhere in Spain — the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid, I think. Anyway, something like that.

A museum. That’s a good place for him, nodded Jack, tweaking a knob here and analyzing a gauge there. Heck, it’s a good place for the both of them!

Fact is, I said, soon after we got to London there was some talk of them going into the Fezzan on some wild goose chase.

Fezzan? That’s deep desert. Some kind of lost artifact, I’m supposing? asked Jack, finishing his coffee.

What else? I laughed. Anyway, something about an old diary — or some such thing, I don’t know the details — and, of course, a lost city.

Better them than us, grunted Jack.

Amen to that, brother! This milk-run’s a nice change of pace, let me tell you, I went on. Pays pretty good and nobody’s trying to kill us.

I hate to intrude, came a refined — as in high and mighty — voice from the jump-seat behind us. "While your idle chitchat is quite entertaining, how much longer will it be until we reach Malta? I have important information for the Commander that must be delivered as soon as possible."

Well, I’ll tell you, Spy Guy — I started to say without turning my head.

"I am not a spy!" he so rudely interrupted; his face flushed.

Yeah, whatever, I grunted — not really caring one way or another — and then continued, Anyway, I figure we’ll be there pretty soon if we don’t run into any trouble. Germans and Italians keep the Allies hopping in the Med, as you spy guys well know.

Half hour? Jack suggested, glancing at his watch.

Thereabouts, I agreed.

"I am not a spy, he muttered, and then the young fellow slouched back in the uncomfortable seat. Five hours of this monotony is more than I can take, he moaned ungratefully. And you two droning on about nothing, well, it’s been just too much."

I just don’t think he appreciates us, Jack, I sighed, shaking my head.

It’s the raisin’, he added in his soft southern drawl. He just ain’t got no manners.

Are you two quite finished? Spy Guy growled.

It’s going to be a long war, buddy; you really need to lighten up, I told him. And you have to admit, I went on jovially, it’s been a smooth ride! Clear skies, few clouds, lots of stars, not too much turbulence. I pointed out the front window toward the dawn. And right over there — try not to strain yourself — you can just see Malta and her smaller sister island Gozo. It’s kind of hazy, I’ll admit.

It wasn’t two minutes later that Jack sat upright in his seat, smacked my arm to get my attention, and pointed out the front windows. That ain’t all haze, Cutter! he declared. "There’s a whole lot of traffic happening there! We’re pretty far off, I know, but it looks to me like those are Il Duce’s fighters and bombers duking it out with the RAF!"

I followed his finger to see what he meant. Sure enough, our mostly smooth ride had come to a screeching halt. What was happening in the sky over Malta was an aerial dogfight between the Italian and British air forces. Oh, well, this is just great! I exclaimed. There goes our milk run, blast it!

What do we do? asked our anxious second leftenant.

Try to survive, I told him flatly.

Our altitude was twenty thousand feet — well above the fray — but to reach the RAF air station we wanted, we had to descend through the dogfight, and an unarmed cargo plane with a full load wasn’t the easiest way to do it. I watched as the outmatched, outnumbered, and outdated Bristol Sea Gladiator biplanes of the Royal Air Force harried the Italian trimotor Savoia-Marchetti S.M.79 Sparviero medium bombers and Macchi C.200 Saetta fighters. The RAF pilots were good — I had to give them that — as one of the Italian Sparviero bombers started going down, trailing black smoke.

Ok, everyone, hang on tight ’cause here we go! I declared. As I pushed forward on the yoke I added, I hope the cargo’s strapped in good, Jack!

Me, too, muttered Jack, his own grip on the yoke tightening.

I put the Dakota into a steep dive, going right through the dogfight. It was every pilot for himself as both British and Italian flyers — startled by our surprising intrusion — veered out of our way. We were the last thing either side expected to see, no doubt about that! We were in the middle of the mess when one of the Italian Saetta fighter pilots decided we were fair game — unarmed, mind you, but fair game anyway — and fell in behind us. Through my hands on the controls, I could feel his canon-fire hitting the Dakota. Moments later I saw flame and black, oily smoke coming out of the portside engine.

Well, I said under my breath and through gritted teeth, that’s not good!

Behind us came the terrified shriek of our passenger. Poor guy. I figure that was his first taste of combat.

Jack and I fought with the controls as we struggled to keep the plane’s nose pointed in the general direction of our destination airfield at Hal Far. The young leftenant behind us continued let go his ear-splitting shriek — which was pretty darn impressive, not to mention annoying — as the plane’s nose dropped almost seventy-five degrees. The front window was filled with the Mediterranean Sea and the ninety-seven square miles of rock that made up Malta, and both were getting bigger by the second. When we broke through the five-thousand-foot mark, Jack and I began pulling back on the yoke together, gradually bringing the straining old girl out of the steep dive. The Italian fighter that had shot up our portside engine had turned away, a Bristol Sea Gladiator giving it a run for its money.

What’s happening! screamed our sheet-white passenger. We’re all going to die!

Speak for yourself, I growled as I shifted more power to the starboard engine.

There’s the airfield, Jack informed me calmly. This guy was amazing in a pinch, no one better. We’re lined up on the runway.

Lower the main gear, I commanded as I struggled to keep the nose lined up on the runway, and it wasn’t easy. I had a feeling that we’d got shot up worse than I first figured.

We got a problem, Cutter, my mechanic and copilot said matter-of-factly.

Oh? I bristled, not surprised. Do tell.

Portside wheel won’t drop, Jack went on to tell me. Hydraulics probably got hit when that Italian flyboy shot up the engine cowl.

This just gets better and better, I grumbled under my breath, shutting down the damaged engine. Pull up the starboard landing gear, Jack, we’ll have to land her on her belly.

We’re all going to die! screamed the young army leftenant.

Not today we’re not, I stated determinedly; my jaws ached.

We brought the struggling Dakota down under two hundred feet even though we were still a mile out from the runway. I eased back on the throttle, dropping our air speed to seventy-miles-per-hour — stall speed for this bird was sixty-seven. As we cleared the runway’s outer marker, I reduced our speed just a little more. The ground was less than a hundred feet from our belly now.

Brace yourselves! I bellowed as I shut off the fuel and shut down the starboard engine.

The blades of the windmilling portside propeller bit into the turf first, gouging a great bloody trench. The plane began to swing to the left until the windmilling propeller of the starboard engine caught the turf. We were jarred back on a more-or-less straight line. The tail went up and the nose went down. Fifty feet later, the tail dropped hard, resulting in a huge crack in the airframe just in front of the vertical and horizontal stabilizers.

As I undid my harness, I calmly announced to our babbling passenger, Thank you for flying —

You’re bloody insane! he screamed vehemently. You could’ve bloody-well killed me!

Ah, I countered as I helped him with his harness, but I didn’t, now, did I.

General Dobbie will hear of this ... this ... this attempt on my life! And with that the young officer — with attaché in hand — fled the Dakota.

And I expect he will, too, I sighed as I disembarked the battered aircraft. I could hear the sirens of the responding crash vehicles as I walked around the beautiful wreck. A shame, really, Jack. She was a good old bird.

That she was, he agreed as he tossed our kit bags out the door. But hey, Cutter, don’t be surprised if they get her airworthy by month’s end.

A Willy’s Jeep came to a skidding stop a few feet from us and a sharply dressed military police guy in a RAF uniform hopped out. He walked up to us, snapped to attention, and gave us one of those snappy British military salutes. Leftenant Middleton, at your service, sir!

Well, hey yourself, Middleton, I responded with an easy smile as I offered my hand. How’s tricks? There was something about him that was familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

He was a couple of inches taller than me — I’d guess six foot even — with brown hair, brown eyes, and a perfectly trimmed brown mustache. He glanced up at the dogfight — which seemed to have run its course — and then back at us. Jolly good flying through that mess, he said, genuinely impressed. I watched the whole thing. Bloody miracle you chaps made it down in one piece.

Well, threw in Jack with a wry grin, mostly one piece.

Well, thank you kindly, I acknowledged as graciously as I could. Be sure to put in a good word with General Dobbie, will you? I’ve a feeling we’re going to need it.

By all means, sir!

Let’s knock off the ‘sir’ stuff, Middleton, I told him. We’re just a couple of bored civilians looking for a little fun. There was just something about him ...

Quite, sir.

I laughed. You got a first name?

I, er, Archibald, sir.

Well, Archie, I said as I tossed my kit bag into the back of Jeep. Call me Cutter. This here’s Jackson Dillard; just call him Jack. I peered at his face more closely, and I knew he was getting nervous. Tell me something, Archie, have we met?

No, I don’t believe so, our new friend replied carefully.

There’s just something about you ...

Y’know, Cutter, he looks a little like old Reggie, commented Jack.

I snapped my fingers as that sank in. Exactly! Jack, you’re a genius!

So, pay me more, he suggested dryly.

Not happening, I laughed with a wink. Archie, you any relation to a chap named Reginald Brandreth?

Well, he started to say, "I do have an uncle by that name, my mum’s younger brother."

Where’s he at? Do you know? I pressed.

"Well, the last I heard — and it has been some time — he was somewhere in French Sudan, I believe."

Timbuktu? asked Jack with an amused smile.

I do believe so, actually.

I laughed happily. He’s a friend of ours! We saw him just a month or so ago!

Well, I say! gasped Archie Middleton. Small world, isn’t it?

And getting smaller, remarked Jack.

Hey, Archie, how about giving us a ride over to the operations building so we can file our flight report? I asked.

By all means, sir — sorry — Cutter, Middleton replied. You chaps climb aboard; I’ll just have a quick word with the crash units, and then we’ll be on our way.

I took the front passenger seat while Jack climbed in back with our kit bags. Nice guy, I commented as I settled into the uncomfortable canvas seat.

Yeah, Jack agreed. A shame, that.

It didn’t take us long to hand over our flight log and fill out the necessary paperwork. Fortunately for us, everyone had seen what we’d gone through, and no questions were asked. Our passenger showed up after us — his being on foot because he just couldn’t wait for a ride — and immediately filed a complaint with the Officer of the Day. He babbled on about ‘reckless’ this, and ‘terrifying’ that, and why — in his humble opinion — we should have our pilot’s licenses revoked for life and concluded his argument with how we tried to kill him. I had to explain to him that (a) we didn’t have pilot’s licenses — that made him a bit paler — and that (b) had we wanted him dead there wouldn’t have been any ‘try.’

His face flushed at that and, sputtering all sorts of things that shouldn’t be said in mixed company, he stormed off. Before he disappeared out the main doors to the operations building, he sent a pretty decent attempt at an angry glare my way. Being the gentleman that I am, I laughed. Jack just sighed and shook his head.

He’s not very happy with you, Archie informed us.

Yeah, well, he should be, I commented. He walked away from that landing, didn’t he?

Quite so, agreed our new leftenant friend.

Meant to ask, said Jack, watching as the door closed, who is he, anyway?

Ah, I believe that fellow is Second Leftenant Phillip Duckworth, Archie answered.

‘Duckworth?’ I chortled. No wonder he never told us his name!

An attaché from 10 Downing Street, I understand, Archie went on.

Messenger boy, snorted Jack.

Yes, admitted our new friend, adding, with connections.

So, I said, hoisting my kit bag onto my shoulder, where do we bunk down until the next flight out?

Well, as the next flight out has been delayed due to, er, mechanical difficulties, Archie replied as he glanced toward the wreckage of the Dakota, you chaps are welcome to, ah, ‘bunk down’ — as it were — with me. I’ve a small flat in Valletta. It’s nothing fancy, mind you, but it’s better than what’s left of the BOQ.

Bachelor Officer Quarters take a hit? I asked with a grin.

You might say that, yes, admitted Archie. Took a couple of direct hits last week; fortunately, no one was killed.

That’s a bit of luck, commented Jack as he lifted his kit bag, and we followed the leftenant to his Jeep.

Luck is something we can do more with, confessed Archie, climbing into the Jeep, and starting the engine. It’s been a rough go, I can tell you. The Italians have been on us every day since early June. He maneuvered away from the airfield and toward Malta’s capitol. "Funny thing is, though, we’ve been expecting Il Duce to invade but he hasn’t."

Maybe he’s hoping y’all will just surrender, suggested Jack.

Yes, well, I suppose that’s a possibility, admitted Archie, "but the thing is, if he did invade — Sicily is only one hundred miles away — it wouldn’t take him long — a week or two, conceivably — to take the island. Their navy and air force are making getting in supplies difficult. We have the HMS Terror doing the best it can, but it’s an old ship. I mean, you chaps barely made it in today."

I expect they’ve sent in scouting parties, I posited. You know, to reconnoiter.

We haven’t had any indication of that, he told us as he effortlessly finessed the narrow streets. It is possible, I suppose, that we may have missed a small incursion, but there’s just been no indication.

Jack looked over at me. What’re you thinking, Cutter?

Oh, just thinking that tomorrow we might do some sightseeing, I answered with a grin.

You know, said Archie, as it so happens, I am off tomorrow — General Dobbie insists that we take one day a week to rest and recuperate while we’re able — I would be more than happy to show you chaps the sights.

That would be great, Archie! I declared. We’d appreciate the company.

Especially since we’ve no idea where we’d be going, added Jack with a laugh.

You can’t get lost on Malta, he told us. Even if you tried. It’s just not that big.

He don’t know us very well, eh, Cutter? chuckled Jack.

Be that as it may, admitted Archie, it would take some doing. He let out a small laugh, and then he added, We may even meet up with some folks recently arrived, as well; they’re on a dig inland.

A chill suddenly went up my spine. Oh?

A prominent archaeologist fellow and his daughter, went on Archie. Very nice. Arrived a few weeks ago courtesy of a Royal Navy submarine.

Jack and I exchanged anxious looks. They wouldn’t happen to be, I hesitated, Romanian, would they?

Funny you should say that! declared Archie.

TWO

It was pushing midday by the time Archibald Middleton showed us into his flat. He’d been right, it was small and not much to look at. It was a one-bedroom flat with a diminutive sitting area — sofa with two armchairs that had seen better days — that also functioned as the dining area. The kitchen was against one wall and consisted of a small refrigerator that fit under the counter, separated from the stove by a single sink. The cupboards above had no doors so that what was there was there for the world to view; it was all tidy, I must admit. The bathroom was tucked away in a corner, consisting of a shower stall, antiquated — but functional — toilet, and a sink; it was barely big enough to turn around in. I’ll have cots sent up for you chaps, he said as he lifted the receiver to the telephone in his room.

That’ll be fun, drawled Jack.

Beats the floor anytime, I said