Joe C. Warrington (2001) Joe Cali' Warrington moved to Britain as a young teenager, to complete his studies, and was to return to his homeland as an RAF defender during WW2. His story and that of Convoy MW.10 is told in Part Two of this article. "Floriana -- houses overlooking Malta's Grand Harbour "the villages with their winding roads and their churches so uniquely decorated"

Joseph Cali Warrington Where we are born is purely an accident of history; we are not involved in the decision-making process. I began my existence on a small island in the centre of Plato's wine-dark sea. The place where I was born - on September 11th, 1919 - was called Floriana, which was a suburb of Valletta, on the island of Malta. The Maltese Islands lie in the centre of the Mediterranean or, as some historians elect to call it, the Middle Sea, whose shores cradled Western civilization. The house I was born in overlooked Malta's Grand Harbour, then home to the British Mediterranean Fleet. Here, it was not uncommon to spot some five battleships; a couple of aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, etc. on anchor. These were the early thirties (of the twentieth century) and the signs were ominous that a World War could once more occur. It was from our balcony-window - overlooking this ancient harbour - that my interest and love for history (and the part in it played by my island-home) was born. Royal Naval ships lining the Grand Harbour My childhood days were normal, similar to those of other Maltese schoolboys. The centre of my universe - my dream - was that one day I would be able to wear the green and white jersey of Floriana F.C., but all that was available to us in those days was a scuffed tennis ball and a pile of stones for goal posts. We'd keep a sharp lookout for the policeman, mounted on his bicycle, to avoid being caught and hauled to the local police station for a lecture in the presence of our parents. The Malta of my boyhood days was a charming and colourful place to grow up in; the villages with their winding roads and their churches so uniquely decorated … an island bereft of trees or bushes where it was not difficult to appreciate the historic sights which caught the eyes. One could easily visualize and realize how history in its many guises and robes had visited these Islands. Phoenician, Greek and Roman, Arab and others, had all left their imprint in some shape or form. At the age of fourteen I received a letter from my uncle and aunt living in Portsmouth - the former a retired Commander in the Royal Navy - inviting me to their home so I could finish my education in southern England. I was fifteen years old when I saw the lights of Malta disappear in the distance from the deck of the "Knight of Malta." In those days it took three days to journey to Britain overland through Italy and France, or seven to eight days by sea via the Bay of Biscay and south England. With another "World War"     looming on the horizon... In August 1938, with war clouds gathering, I decided to join the Royal Air Force as an aircraft apprentice and was accepted upon passing a test. I believe that I was one of the first Maltese to become an apprentice at Halton. I was in my second year, in July 1939, when the Air Ministry decided to cut short the three-year course and immediately stop training, to become a regular airman. Three days before war was declared by Britain, I was among some 70 other individuals, dressed in civilian clothes, with our uniforms packed in a motley collection of luggage, on our way to an airbase near Reims - the future home of 114 RAF Squadron (Blenheims) of the Advanced Air Striking Force in France. Within a few days of the beginning of the German offensive on France, on 10 May 1940, 114 Squadron ceased to exist. What was left of the aircrew was evacuated by air to Britain; the rest left in a convoy of trucks on our way westwards to St. Nazaire. For a young man, barely 21 years old, it was all a high adventure to raid orchards for fruit, or chase a roving, lost chicken, and to find other edible loot. I escaped being embarked on the liner "Lancastria" by mere hours. She was subsequently dive-bombed and sunk, with many casualties; she was packed with thousands of evacuated British and French soldiers I was transferred to Shrewsbury for re-kitting and to await new posting instructions. Two months later I was on my way to the Middle East via Cape Town. I spent 10 weeks - on my way to Egypt - at a South African Air Force Base, near Johannesburg. On completion of the course and my uneventful arrival in Egypt, together with other 'lost' souls I was posted to RAF Station Khartoum in the Sudan as an air gunner with 14 Squadron, equipped with a mix of Blenheims Mark I and IV. I flew on a dozen missions over targets in Eritrea and Ethiopia (then Abyssinia). When the Italians were defeated in Eritrea, Somaliland (British and Italian) and Ethiopia, the air units in the Sudan were transferred to Egypt and the Western Desert. I then applied for a training course as an Air Navigator, for which I successfully passed my written tests, but failed my medical examination (eyesight). Knowing some Italian, I was assigned for duty with a mobile wireless interception unit for "Operation Crusader". We got as far as Benghazi [in Libya] when General Rommel's German Afrika Corps started to regain all the lost territory and, with German eight-wheeler armoured cars on the opposite ridge, we drove eastwards, speeding towards the Egyptian frontier. Destination Westwards; following the action. On arriving at Heliopolis, I learnt that I was posted to 69 Squadron, though the posting instructions did not designate the location. What was interesting was that I had to report to a Staging Post near Alexandria, Egypt. After three weeks of boredom, sand flies and scorpions, the officers and airmen were deposited near a shed on a quay in Alexandria harbour. I saw a ship berthed close by. This looked like a converted, large cargo ship with elaborate camouflage, Carley floats instead of lifeboats and mounted with a lot of anti-aircraft guns, from 1.1 pom-poms to 20mm cannons. The optimists amongst us supposed we were bound to an exotic assignment in Cape Town, South Africa, or even a journey across the Mediterranean to Britain. A duffle-coated young naval officer informed us that we were to embark on the ship whose name seemed to be the H.M.S. "Breconshire" and he further disclosed that within three days - if we got there - we would be on a "hot and sunny" beach on an island called Malta. After nearly seven years absence, I was going home. Joe Cali Warrington

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