“In June 1942, we were told that the convoys sent to replenish the island were being prevented from reaching Malta as the German and Italian build-up of submarines and aircraft rendered the passage too risky.”
Sixty-five years later, Captain William H. Wirth reminisces over Malta’s darkest hour from the comfort of his home in Qui Si Sana, Sliema. But his actual involvement with the British Army dates back to 1939: a time when war was still an imminent possibility, and when, like many Maltese, he caught his first sight of territorial soldiers shuffling through Ghar id-Dud with their guns, helmets and gas-masks.
“I was still 18 then and my friends and I said, ‘Shall we join?’ I joined without my mother’s permission, because I did not want to upset her since my father had died a year before. I joined on 3 September, which was the day the war broke out.”
Wirth was proud to join, although his uncle tried to convince him to leave the army since he was the eldest of 13 children to a widowed mother. He was told by lawyers within the army that he could not be forced to leave. He could only leave if he wanted to, and he chose to stay.
“In August 1942, the allies took the risk to send a convoy to replenish the island, knowing that a great loss of warships and merchant ships would definitely result from the operation.”
Operation Pedestal has since passed into legend, but it remains intensely emotional for Captain Wirth, who was stationed at Fort Ricasoli when the surviving merchant navy ships finally limped into harbour between 12 and 15 August, 1942.
“Five days before the battered convoy reached Malta, we got the sad news that air craft carrier HMS Eagle was torpedoed and sunk with the loss of 230 of its crew. A couple of days later, further sad news was received: two American supply ships and two British war ships were sunk.”
On 13 August, three supply ships – Rochester Castle, Port Castle and Melbourne Star, appeared on the horizon, to the great relief of the besieged islanders. Before they entered harbour, the news spread like wildfire.
“I was at Fort Ricasoli, which is now going to become Smart City. Back then it was a training depot: one of the gunning areas I was in charge of during the war was also where I was trained.”
Wirth was in command of four gunning areas and his regiment was known as the Third Height Anti-Aircraft Regiment manning 40-millimetre guns. They were ordered to man the guns at state A, which means full manning and no rest.
“When the three ships entered the harbour, the bastions in Valletta, Vittoriosa and Senglea were full of cheering people, waving handkerchiefs and showing appreciation to the brave sailors who brought the much-needed supplies to lift the siege. My gunners and I had tears in our eyes with joy.”
On the morning of 15 August, the badly damaged US tanker Ohio, crippled and rudderless, was finally towed into the harbour by two British war ships, HMS Ledbury and Penn, after a long and tortuous naval operation.
“The joy and shouting from the bastions was heard from our gun positions,” he tells me as his eyes well up with tears, “The siege was lifted thanks to these convoys who brought supplies of food, petrol, and ammunition, which were so scarce at the time. We would have had to surrender to the Axis if this had not happened. I remember ammunition was rationed and we had to fire the guns in short bursts so as not to disclose our short supply of ammunition.”
In the end, only five out of 14 merchant ships actually made it to Malta. The rest still lie at the bottom of the Mediterranean, alongside several of their military escorts.
Wirth became a captain in 1941 and was given an accelerated promotion because he was in charge of the university student squad. “We had four squads from the university, one of physicians, one of lawyers, one of pharmacists, and another of notaries.”
The idea was to train them for three months and then send them to the gun positions during the weekends so they would not miss any part of their education from the university.
“My worst vivid memory,” he begins to tell me, “was when we had a searchlight at gun position at Fort Rikasoli, in between the guns, and a bomb fell on the searchlight. The searchlight position did not belong to the RMA (Royal Malta Artillery): it belonged to the Royal Artillery. When the bomb fell, I saw one of the gunners with half of his body moving just a couple of steps from the gun position, and then dropping dead.”
He stops to gather his thoughts, “I cannot forget that situation. His body was chopped in half by the shrapnel from the explosion. One could only see the torso. It was terrible.”
I ask if there were any happy times he can tell me about and he thinks for a moment and laughs as he remembers.
“A funny experience happened in Italy. I had volunteered with the British Army once the fighting stopped in Malta to join the 57th Army Field Regiment, supporting the Folgore division south of Bologna. I was using a mobile latrine or bucket, needing to relieve my bowels. I had just finished doing my business when two Messerschmitts passed over their headquarters. I was not hit. The bullets just straddled around me but I was so frightened, I had to clear my bowels again.”
Colonel Zammit Tabona, Major Scicluna, and Major Edgar Mercieca are just a few people that he remembers from his time in the 57th Army Field Regiment. He tells me about a time when he was sent up north to Bolzano where he met Major Edgar Mercieca who was driving a four wheel-drive jeep. They came across a monument with steps and Mercieca dared to take the jeep up the steps and managed with Wirth in the jeep with him. Wirth laughs and says, “He just wanted to try the 4x4.”
Whilst in Bolzano working as a real estate officer, Wirth had requisitioned a house for the 53 Blue Devils, an American division. It was in Bolzano that he met his wife, Jolly (Yolanda) Viannello to whom he has been married for 60 years now. They married after two years of correspondence on 13 February 1947, and celebrated their diamond anniversary this year. I am curious to know what the secret is and he confides: “I am just lucky that she is still stuck to me.”
Wirth had been in the army for 21 years when he retired in 1960. He then became a sales manager for Pepsi Cola for 10 years. After this, he began working as a sales manager for 17 years with Charles Grech & Co Ltd., a wines and spirits firm.
He is now retired and salutes the Queen every morning as he thanks her for his pension.
I ask him what he thinks about present day celebrations and he says, “Santa Marija festivities have not really changed. I find them to be more or less the same.”
He still meets up with another World War II veteran, Major Patrick Beacom and his wife Antoinette. They meet up to play an unconventional form of Jim Rummy. “We call it ‘Funny Rummy’ and play five games then finish.”
He enjoys gardening and cooking. “I love to make soups and throw in every vegetable I can find and liquidise them. Spaghetti, curried rice and bragioli are also favourites of mine.”
“I find my retreat in Gozo looking after my daughter’s house. It is a way for me to get away from my wife,” Capt. Wirth says with a smile. “You need to have those short periods physically apart to remain close emotionally.”
We talk about people who are constantly searching for immortality by being remembered for something grand they have done, and I ask him if he feels or has ever felt the same way. Amazingly, he says no.
“To be honest with you, I am not keen on being remembered because I was quite naughty when I was young. I do not feel as though I have done anything special, or not special enough to be remembered for.”

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