 Words at war presents multi-spitfire by flying officer George F. Burling and Leslie Roberts. Brother in-law, tell him to let me touch him. This way, sir. Quick, does it? Here we are, sir. In we go. Now, driver, hop on it. You're all in one piece, aren't you, sir? I guess so, sir. They did rough you up a bit. Lucky they didn't tear your uniform to shreds. I was scared. I never did see such a public demonstration of affection. Well, you can't hardly blame them. They do love you, sir, for all you've done. Look, I'm shaking all over. That's the first time I've ever really been scared. Imagine you saying that after all you've been through, shooting down them twenty-eight planes over mortar, and being shot down yourself, and then being received here at Buckingham Palace. Listen, I'm not saying I wasn't scared over Malta, but this. I need something to steady my nerves. Officer, you wouldn't happen to know where I could get a good fist full of hot dogs. Birds at War. The national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books in War Time brings you another in its series of radio treatments of important books of this war. Tonight, we hear the story of one of the greatest living fighter pilots, a 21-year-old boy, one of a handful who saved Malta in her time of peril. This is the story of flying officer George F. Burling, as told by himself and Leslie Roberts in Malta Spitfire. This story belongs to George Burling. The same way the future belongs to kids like him. You hear that? Can you tell what make of plane that is? No? Neither could I. That's a Douglas transport. There, you see? Well, here comes another one. How about that one? That's a thunderbolt. You see? The kid knows. It sure as a farmer's wife knows the sound of her own ring on a rural phone line. George Burling, up in Vanitine in Canada, knew every plane that flew over his head, just for the sound of its motor. This door, do you hear? Just a minute, Mother. No, just a minute. You open this door. Yes, Mother. How did you have the door locked? Don't you lie to me, George Burling. I was working on my model plane. I thought so. And you weren't in school today, either, were you? Answer me. No, ma'am. But where were you? No, I know, out at the airport. Weren't you? Oh, gee, yes, Mother. I was. And Mother, a pilot, spoke to me. He did, Honest Mother. He said, just as plane, hello. A pilot, Mother. Your father will pilot you when he gets back, and right where it'll do the most good, too. Now, you can stay here in your room until he gets back, George Burling. A good licking will teach you you're supposed to stay in school. No, it won't. Yeah, I'll get another licking tomorrow in school. All right, I'll take the licking. But I'm going to be a flyer. I'm going to be a pilot. Nothing's going to stop me. Hear that? Do you hear it, everybody? You'll get over it. I was going to be a fireman once. You'll get over it. Hey, kid. Hey, kid. Yes, sir. What is it, sir? Come on in, other rain. You're getting soaked. You mean in there? Inside in the hangar? Sure, why not? Planes won't bite you. Gee. You'd think this was the holy of holies. Yeah, I guess it's sort of this to you, isn't it, kid? You think a lot of flying, don't you? Yes, sir. I've been watching you hang around here for months. I've been watching you, too, sir. I think you're a wonderful flyer, sir. I'll pass, I guess. Say, kid, how'd you like to take a flip someday? In a plane? All right. Sure. If your mother says okay, want to? Mom, hey, Mom! Mom! The pilot. He says he'll take me up. Can I go, Mom? Can I fly? Sure, you can fly. You can fly to the moon. I can go! Hooray! I can go! I can fly! Hooray! I can go! It was wonderful, Mom. I'm going to be a flyer. But, Georgie, I want you to be a doctor. And Dad wants me to be a commercial artist. My kid is the only lie. Well, now, where would you ever get money to take flying lessons? I'll earn it. First, I'll sell papers and run errands. And when I'm older, I'll get a regular job. And, believe me, I'll get one, too. George Burling is older now. And he's got himself a job working in a radio plant. Salary? Twenty-eight cents an hour. Room rent? One fifty a week. Food? One seventy-five a week. I'll make out. One cup of coffee coming up. Hi, kid. Well, I'll be, kid. Oh, don't tell me. A hot dog and a cup of coffee. Gee, kid, you'll begin to bark soon. I like hot dogs. All right, here you are, then. Thank you. Hey, mister. Yeah? You see that kid up at the end of the corner? Yeah, skinny one, sure. He's been eating in this diner every night for weeks. And it's never nothing but hot dog and coffee, coffee and hot dog. Bro, on his stomach. Is he broke? No. He's got a job. Over to the radio plant. No, why don't he eat right? Probably spends his money on the girls and having a good time. See you later. Hey, you certainly wolf that down in a hurry. All right, guess so. I've got a date. See, what did I tell you? A date. That's where his money goes. No ambition to kids these days. Well, I don't suppose he even knows there's a war on over in China. Kids like him wouldn't be much help if that war was over here. I don't know. But I do. I know for sure. I know. Well, say something, George, will you? I got to get to China. I can fly and fight there. You said that a half a mile back. I want to fly, and I can't save more than $10 a week out of what I make to save my soul. $10 is only enough to pay for one hour solo time. At that rate, I'll be a gray beard by the time I get a license. It's quite a mouthful out of you. I tell you, I've got to... I know you told me. Get to China. Now, listen. I had a small brainwave a couple of minutes ago. You ever heard of a place called Gravenhurst up in Ontario? I don't want to talk geography. I gave all that up in school. Well, you keep still. Now, there's a guy up there who has a kind of freighting contract with the Goldfields up north. By plane? Sure by plane. He needs men. I was thinking. Maybe you could trundle freight up there in exchange for solo time. Well, that is to get your license. Then you could... Hey, where are you going? I'm on my way. But you haven't any dough, George. No dough needed. I'll ride the rides. Yes, it belongs to kids like George. First, Gravenhurst, Ontario. In six weeks, a pilot's license. Then on to China, riding the rides again, westward for the Pacific coast of the USA. For a ship pointed for China and the war against the Japs. Well, I... What are you doing around these yards anyway? I've been afraid. Oh, no, sir. I was only... With the pretty choo-choo's? Sure. Okay, but where are you from? The last town I was in was Sumos. Well, that's Canada. Sure it is. This is the United States. Plan to stay long? Oh, no, sir. Just as soon as I can find a ship, I'm heading for China. I'm a flyer. China? Well, well, well. Hey, uh... How old are you, son? Seventeen. Well, suppose you put off this China trip for a few minutes and take a walk with me. How about it, son? We'll drop in and have a chat with the precinct captain. Your mind? Too bad. Deported back to Canada. All that way out and back for nothing. Too bad, George. Sound pretty smart, don't I? I was one of the people who met George after he got back. But the world I was a sure of and the one they were a sure of was cracking up and a new world was shaping up. One for that young man. Did I mention the date? September 1939. Britain at war with Germany. And Canada was headed in. Why did that lead to smug people? You and me. Is this where I joined the Royal Canadian Air Force? And this is the recruiting office, yes. That's what I want. What do I sign? Name is George Burling, age 18, born in Canada. Here's my logbook to show how many hours I've had in the air. Is there anything else? Just tell me where to report. Now, about just a moment, young man. We can leave the logbook till later. Oh, sure. I don't want you to think I'm boasting. It's just that I'm anxious. Screwing, please. Oh, I chucked that a long time ago when I was 15. No college then. Oh, sir, I didn't have time. Is something wrong? I'm afraid, Burling, a cadet in the RCAF requires a college education. But I'm a flyer. That's what you're recruiting, isn't it, flyers? Now look here, young man. You mean if I was a glassblower and had passed college algebra, I'd stand a chance. Hardly the way to put it, but the regulations state... Why don't you take your regular... Now, now, young man. You did. It does seem a shame. Poor old Duffer. That officer didn't make the regulations. And the men who did didn't know what makes a plane stay up any more than I do now. They learned, eventually, from kids like Burling. Take that hangdog look off your face. Yeah, maybe someday somebody will let me push a broom around the barracks by trigonometry. I know how you feel, but remember, George, this is going to be everybody's war sooner or later. This is the big show. Now, why don't you bone up on the book knowledge? You'll get your chance. Meantime, how about a hot dog? I don't feel like a hot dog right now. Hey, wait a minute. You must be sick. What you need for that is a good hot dog. You're sick of book learning. You're sick of this. You're sick of that. Except one thing. I want to fly. I want to get over there where they're flying. All right. Why don't you go? That's a fine thing to say to me. I thought you were a friend of mine. I know you get tired of hearing. Okay, kid, okay. Maybe that wasn't the way to break it to you. But you can get over there. You can get into the RAF. Are you crazy? By working your way over on one of the neutral freighters, they're begging for a man. Can't get them. Maybe it was a bad way to break the good news to you. A boy who didn't know one end of a ship from another signed on as a deckhand to get over to England. Worked four on and four hours off through the marauding sub-packs. And when he'd see a plane overhead, he'd think of the sea. Ah, this is not my element. It's not my element. Boy, I wish I wasn't that plane up there. No, it's not your element. But it'll get you there, to Liverpool anyway. And you'll bum a pound of your wages off the captain before you jump ship. And on the dock, you'll meet a policeman. How you fix for flyers over here? By the look of things, we ruddy well need as ruddy many as we can ruddy well get. Seems to me I've landed in Great Ruddy, Britain. Where do I find the air recruiting station? Well, you go out there and take the ruddy. Story, sir. How will you tell me the shortest way to get into the RAF? Splendid, splendid. Simple as pie now. Let's have a look at your papers. Oh, I haven't got any papers. It's not my logbook. No, it's not the logbook that worries me, old chap. It's your birth certificate. Now, what about your birth certificate? I never saw one in my life. True bad, old boy, true bad. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to go back and get it. Oh, now, now, don't look so black, old chap. Where do you think the Burlings live, across the street? I came here from Canada. Sorry to cause you all the trouble, old boy. Regulations, you know. Got to have a birth certificate. Don't blame me. Just the ruddy old regs. And if he didn't do it, worked his way back to Canada, across the Atlantic and back again to Liverpool with his birth certificate and his logbook. He plunked them down on the officer's desk in the middle of an air raid. There. Is that satisfying you? There's my ruddy birth certificate and there's my ruddy logbook. Hey, sorry, old chap. All this noise popping can't hear you. It took you quite a while to get those papers, old boy. Oh, now, now, now, now, don't look so black. Ruddy regulations, you know. And now you'll have the privilege of wearing the motto of the RAF. Veradjua at Astra. I can't hear you. Veradjua at Astra. Latin, old boy. Latin. I don't know any Latin. Hey, do I have to know Latin? Hey, what does it mean? Well, I guess you could say it meant to the stars the hard way. He made it. And that's just the beginning. Because when you're a kid like Berling with a fixed ID on your head, all you want to do is fly and fight while you're flying. Well, it maybe it takes a while to put you in the shape you belong in. Because there are others like you, too, with the same determinations and desires who've all got to be trained to fight, not each for himself, but together as a perfect team. That's rank insubordination, Berling. I didn't come all the way over here to learn how to parade. I came to fly. I don't claim telling you it was a pretty poor business up there today. I got Jerry, though, didn't I? Naturally. Pulling off from formation, any of us can be a hero, part one for ourselves. Your job's to keep the tail of the plane ahead of you clear. And just be a sitting duck for any Nazi, sure. If you don't mind my saying so, pretty poor sportsmanship, Berling. Good day. Berling, you've been fighting with a sergeant. Why doesn't he cut out all these regulations and let us stick to our work? The fact remains, Berling, the sergeant has a black eye. Oh, I'm sorry, sir. He must have run into a door. You know, there's a lot of doors around here who don't take to him, sir. Come in, Berling. Sit down. Yes, sir. I'm going to recommend you for a commissioned rank. In spite of some difficulties, I think you'll offer some material. No, thank you, sir. I'd better stay the way I am. I feel like a pilot, but not like an officer. Like a pilot, eh, do you? I hope I am, sir, a pilot. You'll be a pilot, Berling. If you remember, this war is won by teamwork. And I think, too, you would do better to save your natural belligerency for the Nazis. They'll be where you're going. I agree, sir. I hope you do. Good luck. Where was he going? It's no secret now. He was going to Malta, where there were 250,000 prisoners. That's what the Axis called the people on Malta. But that bit of rock stuck like a pit in the craw of the Axis, preventing it from swallowing the whole of Africa. It's easy at this date now to forget that tiny, bomb-blasted piece of rock in the Mediterranean between Italy and Africa. And the handful of planes that defended it. But George Berling won't forget it. The scrambles when ops announced. Enemy planes approaching. Scramble. And the mugs of Koker that went flying out of the man's hands as they plunged out of the canteen. Chairs overturned, poker games interrupted, heading for their planes to rise over Malta to meet the superior numbers of the enemy and their bombers, relentlessly trying to blast Malta into submission. And in there is part of the RAF team, George Berling, getting his share of the enemy plane. Sometimes it's just one burst of fire from his gun, so accurate was his aim. Willie, a clean hammer up your tail for air. You all right? Would you watch it? Thanks, young man. Do the same for you someday. For crying out loud, keep your eyes pale. I can't see everything. Be back later. You see, he's learned he's part of a team, not just George Berling against a stubborn world that won't let him fly, but a part of the RAF against the fascists. But life in Malta was no setup. Malta was a besieged block in an axis-controlled sea. And planes have got to have oil and gas to fight with. And wings on their shoulder blades to fly against well-supplied stucas and measurements. Where's the oil coming from? Where is it coming from? Like bumps on a log, we sit here. Uh-uh. Read your magazine, Georgie. Look at the pretty pictures. I read it from cover to cover. Three times. No, now take it easy. This is a big lull. Yeah, before the kill. And Malta's a bishop called me for the juries to slice up any time they want to. I tell you, I don't want that car. What do you mean? I said I don't want that car just from the bottom of the deck. Are you trying to tell me that I would? Yes. That's the second time I've read it. You're not the only one that has a freight edge, George. I don't see how you can keep calm. Don't you want to get up there and paste them flat against the blue? Can't use that precious gas just spitting around. Then why don't they get it to us, oil and gas? What do they expect us to do? Better start reading your magazine again, George. I'm speaking. Convoy approaching. Under enemy attack. Scramble. Scramble, George. Scramble. I was on a ship once a prayer. I know what it means to feel trapped down there. You won't be now. I'm in my own element now. Suppose you had been one of the people in Malta. You can see off on the horizon the cargo ships bringing oil and food. Oil for the planes that mean your life. Food for all of you, pilot and civilian, for the life of Malta. You can see the bombs falling. You can see the Nazi planes diving. To bomb the ships that mean your life, the machine gun, the deck. You can see two of those kids of the RAF and their planes. Your plane, zooming up to fight for those ships. For your life. You wouldn't be able to hear those kids talking to each other on their phones as they fight. George! George! You see him? Dying like a stone. I saw him, Willie. Damage for sure. A damage? A destroyed? A wreck? Well, trick to potting these jerry's if you keep your wits about you. The plane is almost asking to shoot him down. Yeah, but did you ever hear what happens to little boys who don't keep the tales of their planes clean of jerry's? Ah, that's from Burling. The boy who gets his daily dust. Take on a flock of 20. Indy, leave some for the rest of us. Why you ready? Standing below on Malta, watching, hoping, praying. You wonder you want to cheer when another Nazi plane hits the sea? You know too how it feels when you see one of those ships get a bomb down at Smokestown. You see that ship, Willie? Flared up like a sheet of flimsy. And out. I saw it. I'm off for a little target package myself. Now, where on you tell? Still, the Nazis won't let up. Thinking ship after ship, the oil in them and the men. Well, any of that battered convoy ever get in, ever. It's going to. To you, you Nazi under your clod of silk. Hey! That's one of your own men, you message mitts. Yeah, George? You see what I did? Those guys machine gunning one of their own men in his parachute. I saw it, George. Maybe he thought it was one of us. As if he were a dummy. Look at him hanging there. Wimples are strung up duck. I suppose that had been you, Willie. You're tough to endure me. Just as they say, George, good being. I know what I'm fighting. Now I know why I'm fighting. I hate them. I hate their way of life. I hate their hatred of life. My life of willies are the guys down there in Malta. Even their hatred of their own lives. All right, I'll fight them. I'll fight them till I can't fight anymore. Now on out. It's me or them. Life depends on men like George Burling. You stand and watch that spitfire of his twist down through the sky. 3,000 feet. 2,500 feet. 2,000 feet. You want to yell with Willie. 1,500 feet. 1,000 only above the Mediterranean. And then he jumps. You see his parachute open like a burst of flak against the sky. He's floating down to safety. I've got you covered, boy. He's drifting down, held by a parachute. He hits the water. Manages to crawl into his rubber dinghy. The bottom of that dinghy fills red with the blood of George Burling. Who to cheer the most now as the remaining ships of the convoy pull safely into the dock at Malta? Those battered ships are the pilots like George Burling who help save the ship. Now you just cheer anyway. And you hear the pumps get going. Sucking the oil out of the holes of those ships so those RAF planes can keep Malta still safe for the United Nations. But George Burling has chunks of cannon shell in his ribs. The future belongs to men like George Burling. He was in the hospital for weeks, yes, and convalescing for months. But not now. He's back over there now, in the fight. When you think of him, when you think of how he and others like him were a team, a team that helped the convoys through the turning of the tide and held Malta. Then think also of that earlier kid. That's an era cobra. The future belongs to him. The future of a world that kids like George Burling are helping rid forever of fascists and fascism. Heard the 10th program of Words at War, a series based on the leading war books. This evening we presented Malta Spitfire by flying officer George F. Burling and Leslie Roberts. The adaptation was by Kenneth White. Next week, listen to Words at War at our new time, Thursday evening, 11.30 p.m. Eastern wartime over most of these stations. You'll hear Burma Surgeon by Dr. Gordon S. Seagrave. In our play tonight, Don McLaughlin was the narrator. Joe Julian was George Burling. Other members of the cast were Irene Hubbard, Lon Clark, John Griggs, Peter Hernandez, Ian McAllister, Maurice Tarplin, and Harold Young. The original music was written and conducted by Frank Black. The production was under the direction of Joseph Losi. It's been presented in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime by the national broadcasting company and the independent radio stations associated with the NBC network. The program came to you from New York. This is the national broadcasting company.