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Faith, Hope and Charity. For the British, Malta was a naval base, a handy coaling station and therefore a bright military jewel which, with Gibraltar and Suez, gave the empire control of the Mediterranean. This was not to say that the Maltese themselves remained altogether satisfied with the latest rulers. The Maltese farmers, descendants of the Phoenicians, illiterate, pious, aloof, tilling the thin crust of soil which lies on the island's rock, did not much care. But the city Maltese, largely descendants of the retinues of the Knights, fervent Roman Catholics, clever and temperamental, felt uneasy under this new and beefy rule.
In their strange language, which is Semitic dashed with the flavors of Europe, they whispered in their cafés while the outrageous Englishmen bounded up & down the narrow, stepped streets of Valletta, sweated at rugger, cricket, swam in the surf. Though there was never any outburst (the warm, damp sirocco was too enervating and the Maltese were too polite), neither did there burn in Britain's amber jewel any flame of devotion to the King. Not even when, in 1921, his Majesty granted self rule (within limits). The Governors and the governed lived in separate worlds, while many a Maltese cast wistful, restless eyes at Rome.
Then, on June 11, 1940, came the first air raid. It was little more than a token to show Malta that Benito Mussolini was now in the war. Maltese looked up from their stony little cotton, wheat and potato fields. Ironworkers, coppersmiths and lacemakers stuck their heads out of their shops for a glimpse of Mussolini's planes. From emplacements in Malta's limestone rock around the Grand Harbour and His Majesty's Dockyards, anti-aircraft guns boomed. A house front was damaged, a few civilians hurt, but most of the bombs fell in the sea.
By the end of the week Malta had had its 30th raid. All the air force the British had was four Gladiator planes. One fell. The others, nicknamed "Faith," "Hope" and "Charity," carried on, fighting daily against 10-to-1 odds. Chief defense was the anti-aircraft guns. Even when the British acquired some Hurricane planes, air defense was not much. But the Italians were bad shots and frequently too sporting to be dangerous enemies.
Then the Germans came.
With Sword and Prayer. The British carrier Illustrious had limped into Malta after a hot time in the narrow passage off Sicily. Stukas pounced on her, turned their destruction loose on harbor shipping and dockyards. German planes filled the blue Mediterranean sky. The sporting days of war were over.
The British defenders fought back. Some reinforcements had arrived. Hurricanes took to the air from pocket-size airdromes, even carried the fight to the raiders' nests on Sicily.
The native Royal Malta Artillery and the Royal Artillery, raised a curtain of flame that was fearful to behold. Even Moscow never lifted such an ack-ack barrage. Captured German pilots admitted that they had been unnerved by it. It probably saved the island from devastation, saved many a British warship and transport as she lay in the harbors or squatted helplessly in drydock.