On Wings of Fire Read online

  She stirred slightly and gave a small moan. Heinrich, impatient at her laziness, grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him.

  “Enrico,” she complained.

  “Heinrich. My name is Heinrich,” he shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you, you stupid Sicilian?”

  Caution crept into her large brown eyes. “What is it, Heinrich?”

  “I want you to leave. Now. I have to get dressed.”

  “But it must be the middle of the night.” Despite her protest, she got out of bed, took her clothes, and fled.

  “You may come in, Metz,” Heinrich called out, and his aide walked back into the bedroom.

  “What time was the landing?” Heinrich inquired.

  “The paratroopers at midnight; the ground forces at three.”

  While Sturmbannfűhrer von Freiker dressed in the uniform with the eagle of the Third Reich on prominent display, Metz began to pack his superior’s clothes. When Heinrich had finished brushing his dark hair with the silver brush, Metz packed that, too.

  A brief scowl was recorded in the ornate mirror as the thirty-two-year-old Heinrich looked at his short hair—darker than he would like it to be, a legacy from his mother, whom he had never forgiven for passing her coloring on to him, while his sister had inherited the blond Aryan look of their father.

  Abruptly he turned from the mirror and walked out of the room, his mind dismissing his family, Paulina, and everything else but the impending fight with the Allies.

  The villa’s large front door creaked as it closed. The servant Vittoria hurriedly put the bar in place over the door and, taking the lamp with her, went back to her room off the kitchen.

  Hiding in the closet under the stairs, Paulina waited until she heard the motor of the staff car. Then, in the darkness, she groped her way back up the stairs, walked into the bedroom, and crawled into bed. She wasn’t about to leave the luxury of the villa in the middle of the night, especially since there was no telling how long Heinrich would be gone. A week. Maybe even longer. Pulling the soft comforter about her shoulders, Paulina di Resa went back to sleep.

  As the bright Sicilian sun made its way over the hillsides to color the tips of the olive trees, Vittoria’s scream from inside the villa awoke Paulina. She sat up, brushed her hair from her eyes, and ran to the window. Groups of men were walking onto the graveled entranceway, their uniforms neither Italian nor German.

  Calling to the woman, Paulina raced from the window to the chest on the opposite side of the room, where Heinrich had stored his spoils of war. She pulled out the Moroccan silk caftan just as Vittoria, dressed in peasant black, came to the door of the bedroom.

  “Convicts!” she screamed. “Convicts.” And in her Sicilian dialect, she continued, “They will kill us all.”

  “Hush, Vittoria,” Paulina demanded. “Help me put this on. And stop your hysterics.”

  “But the bar will not keep them out. They will break down the door and kill us. Herr Freiker told me so.”

  Warily, Paulina asked. “Did you count them? How many are there?”

  “Nine,” the woman replied, her hands trembling as she held up as many fingers in front of her face.

  A knock sounded and Vittoria whimpered in terror as Paulina straightened the caftan on her shoulders. The knock was a good omen. She had dealt with the enemy long enough to know that if the soldiers didn’t break the door down immediately, there might be some way to reason with them. But she would have to be extremely careful, since she was an interloper, too, merely the mistress of the German officer who had requisitioned the villa for his own.

  She turned to the woman and said in a severe voice, “Go downstairs, Vittoria, and open the door wide.”

  “But—”

  “If you want me to save your life,” Paulina cut her off, “do as I say.”

  The woman obeyed. She walked down the stairs, while her hand was busy making the sign of the cross. She unbarred the heavy door and then opened it.

  As if on cue, the aspiring actress Paulina di Resa summoned up an imperious voice worthy of a marchesa and inquired from above, “Who is it, Vittoria?”

  “Convicts,” Vittoria replied, for directly in front of Marsh and Gig stood Giraldo, shaven-headed like all the members of his team before initiation into battle.

  Wearing the green silk caftan with her long black hair flowing behind her, Paulina stood at the top of the staircase. She waited a moment for the soldier’s eyes to become adjusted to the darkened interior. Then she began to walk, floating slowly downward toward the cool black and white tiles of the square entrance hall.

  The wide-open door provided a clear view, assuring the soldiers that no one was hiding inside to shoot at them and, just as important, it established a frame for Paulina’s dramatic descent.

  The eyes of all five paratroopers at the door were on the woman as she swept down the stairs and stopped a few feet from the opened door.

  “Scusi, signora,” Geraldo began. “Mia… mia…” He stopped and turned apologetically toward Marsh. “Jeez, Lieutenant, I can’t remember the words.”

  Paulina smiled. “It’s not necessary for you to speak in Italian,” she assured him. “I speak English.”

  At her admission, Marsh stepped forward. “I’m Lieutenant Marsh Wexford, 82nd Airborne Division, American Army. On behalf of the Allied liberating force, I request food and water for my men, immediately.”

  Paulina’s solemn brown eyes reflected her earnestness as she looked at the tall blond man before her. “My servant and I will gladly share what food we have in the house, but it won’t feed an entire army. How many are with you?”

  Marsh hesitated at the question. “Just give us as much as you can spare. My men will divide it.”

  So the lieutenant was smart enough not to divulge the strength of his force. Paulina looked out over the vista. If there were others, beyond the nine Vittoria had counted, they were still hidden.

  “Very well. The water is in the courtyard,” she said, “if you wish to fill your canteens. When the food is ready, I will have Vittoria bring it out to you.”

  “Thank you, signora.”

  She inclined her head and closed the door, hurriedly putting the wooden slat in place. “Quick, Vittoria, go to the kitchen and fix every scrap of food you can find. But hide the wine.”

  Paulina stood and watched while the five left and joined the others to begin walking toward the well in the courtyard. She knew they must have observed the villa before she awoke. Otherwise they would not have been so bold. But she had done it—kept them out of the villa itself. With a slight regret, Paulina looked at the tall blond lieutenant as he disappeared. That one, she would not have minded inviting inside. But the others—no.

  Around the curve of the road, Laroche came on the donkey. The soldier clicked his teeth, urging the donkey forward.

  “Come on P-35,” he said to the animal that Gig had named after the obsolete single-seater fighter plane. “It’s time for your oats.”

  The donkey, sensing that food and water were ahead, broke into a trot for the first time since Gig had turned him over to the Cajun. At the ludicrous sight, Marsh and Gig forgot their precarious situation for a moment.

  Vittoria, already preparing the food in the kitchen, prayed that it would not be long before Tonio, her son, returned with the Italian soldiers.

  She filled large, wooden trestle bowls with bread, sardines, cheese, and olives, and hurried to the courtyard to set them down on the concrete bench near the well.

  Like a swarm of starving ants, the soldiers stampeded toward the food, while Vittoria fled back to the kitchen. She was deathly afraid of what the soldiers might do, for they were all murderers, hardened convicts who had been pardoned by their government and released from prison to become paratroopers. At least that’s what Herr Freiker had told her. If she had not believed him at first, she did now; for the shaved head of one of the soldiers proved it.

  Unaware of the German propaganda designed to scare the
civilians, the paratroopers ate, then drew lots for sentry duty. They had survived the night in enemy territory, but it was too dangerous for traveling in broad daylight. So while half the men slept, the other half stood guard. Throughout the southwestern part of Sicily, other small groups of paratroopers did the same, little realizing the havoc they were playing with their hit-and-run warfare.

  By midmorning, Vittoria could stand it no longer. The Italian soldiers had not come to rescue them. And Tonio had not returned. If something had happened to her son, it was all her fault. Stealthily, Vittoria took her black shawl from the nail driven into the kitchen door, wrapped the material around her head and shoulders, and tiptoed upstairs where Paulina sat staring out of the bedroom window.

  Hearing the woman, Paulina turned. “Have they gone, Vittoria?”

  “No. They’re still in the barn. I came to tell you that I’m leaving—to find Tonio.”

  Paulina frowned. “The soldiers will not let you leave, Vittoria. You should know that.”

  “I’m going through the dungeon. You can come too, if you’d like.”

  “No. It’s too frightening. There’re spiders, and probably snakes, too. Besides, the opening in the hillside might be blocked.”

  “I have to find Tonio,” the woman said, her maternal instinct overshadowing her fear.

  “Then go, Vittoria. But I shall stay here.”

  Paulina turned her back to stare again through the window. Vittoria would never understand. The American soldiers were sure to move on, and if Heinrich did not return to throw her out, then the villa was hers. She had never lived in a real house before—only a poor tenant’s hut on land owned by an absentee landlord. And a shabby one-room penzione in Rome, when she had struggled to become an actress. No, Vittoria would never understand her feelings, all those years that she had spent as a thin, knobby-kneed, sallow child, gazing at this very house and longing for just one glimpse inside. Paulina’s hands tightened against the smooth silk caftan. It would take more that fear of a few American paratroopers to make her give up the villa.

  The sixty-ton German tanks rumbled down the road, their three-foot-wide treads crushing everything in their path. Soldiers, hidden in the irrigation ditches, listened to the sound and began to dig deeper with their entrenching tools. Finding them ineffective, they removed their steel battle helmets and began to use them instead, measuring their spaces every few minutes to make sure they were deep enough so that the tanks might pass over them without crushing them.

  Heinrich von Freiker rode ahead of the tank convoy in the staff car, with Metz at his side. The main army of the Americans had landed; the 45th Division was already hurtling toward Livorno. Now there was no telling how long the fight for Sicily would last. Heinrich had little faith in the Italians and even less in the Sicilians. It would be up to the Germans to keep the Allies from driving them all into the sea.

  From the moment he had left the villa early that morning, Heinrich had regretted leaving his war chest. He looked toward the hills where the rocks reflected the afternoon sun. Suddenly he slammed on his brakes, throwing Metz abruptly against the windshield. Heinrich realized he was only three miles from the villa. If he hurried, he could retrieve the icon, at least, and catch up with the convoy before they engaged the enemy.

  He shifted gears, backed the car off the main road, and took the small, uneven hillside road leading to the villa.

  “Keep your eyes out for snipers,” Heinrich ordered Metz, who was nursing the bump on his head. “I’m going back to the villa for a few minutes.”

  Metz obeyed, taking his pistol from its holster. He had learned long ago not to protest his superior’s actions.

  Marsh Wexford, coming off sentry duty, was disillusioned. The initial excitement of the jump and the tension of the past eight hours in enemy territory had worn off, leaving in its place a letdown feeling. He had been prepared for all-out war, not this hit-and-run business or holing up in a Sicilian barn until it grew dark again.

  Methodically, he spread the khaki army blanket over the lumps of straw. It was finally his turn to go to sleep. He was dog tired, but he knew he should clean his rifle first. He eased his large frame to the blanket and reached for the carbine that had seen no duty since it had jammed at his first encounter with the enemy. Dismantling it, he laid the parts on the blanket, then took the oily rag from his kit and began the painstaking cleaning and polishing. To Marsh, it made no sense to spend so much money in training a paratrooper and then to arm him with a battle weapon that wouldn’t work when he needed it most.

  The soft, muted whistle of a familiar song broke through the quiet. Marsh grinned. He didn’t have to turn around to see who it was. But he glanced up anyway, to see Gig sitting in the light from the barn opening. The paratrooper was busy, going through the same motions as Marsh—cleaning the dust and grains of sand from his rifle.

  Marsh would never forget the first time he’d heard that song, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” His stepsister, Belline, and his cousin’s fiancée, Alpharetta Beaumont, had sung it for the bond drive at Fort Benning last Easter Sunday morning. They had been good sports to come down from Atlanta at the last minute when the other program had fallen through.

  Poor Barney Oldfield, the public relations officer who’d once worked for Variety, had gone to all the trouble to get his friend, Gypsy Rose Lee, to agree to fly down from New York—and then his invitation was canceled by the general.

  It would have been a landmark sale, no doubt about it, if it had gone through as planned—having the stripper peel off the bonds attached to her body as each was sold, with the higher priced bonds in the more strategic spots. What a spoilsport the general had been.

  Marsh grimaced. Those days seemed so long ago. He finished cleaning his rifle and covered it. Then he lay down on the lumpy straw to go to sleep, to the muted tune on the other side of the barn.

  Laroche stooped down from his perch on a rock overlooking the wide expanse beyond the villa, and picked up an olive twig. He took out his knife and began to whittle the green stick into the shape of an alligator, as he had done on so many lazy days by the bayou. But he glanced up regularly to make certain no one slipped by him on the road below. A cloud of dust in the distance caused him to stop whittling. He put his knife back in his boot and watched until he saw the vehicle, a German car with a swastika on its side. When he realized it was turning into the small, winding road toward the villa, Laroche threw down the carving and hurriedly limped to the barn to alert Marsh and the others. It was a pity to wake the big, blond paratrooper, for he had just settled down to sleep.

  “Lieutenant,” he said standing over Marsh and shaking him awake. “There’s a German patrol car coming up the road to the villa.”

  The news hit Marsh like a dash of cold water in the face. He grabbed his rifle, and within seconds the paratroopers were in position, concealed behind the shuttered windows of the stone barn. Marsh took the barrel of his weapon and slowly pushed the shutter just wide enough to see out.

  There had been no visible activity from the house ever since the peasant woman had brought the food to the courtyard and vanished back inside. She and her mistress appeared to be the only residents of the villa. Marsh had no delusions as to where their sympathies lay. But regardless, he had been determined that no harm would come to them from his own men. And so he had given orders for the paratroopers to stay clear of the house.

  Now he waited for the military car to come into view. He heard the crunch of the tires and the squeal of brakes, as the car stopped in the curved gravel entranceway of the villa. The German officer who was driving got out, leaving the other soldier in the car. On the main road in the distance below, there arose a steady chug of armored units moving in convoy.

  Heinrich, unaware of the paratroopers, walked to the front door. Impatiently, he grabbed the twisted metal ring of a knocker—the Sicilian wolfhead. The clang of metal was loud. “Vittoria,” Heinrich called. “Open the door.”

  M
arsh was clearly uneasy. He had two alternatives, neither one attractive—certain betrayal to the convoy below if he fired his rifle, and certain betrayal if he allowed the German to talk with the women inside the villa.

  With Heinrich’s aide in his sight, Giraldo inclined his head toward Marsh questioningly. Marsh quickly made up his mind. He shook his head and a disappointed Giraldo lowered his rifle.

  Chapter 4

  Paulina heard the sound of the German car as it came up the roadway to the villa. And when she recognized Heinrich von Freiker and his aide, Metz, she was no happier to see him than Marsh. Curiously she stood near the window overlooking the graveled entrance and waited to see what the American paratroopers would do.

  Heinrich’s angry voice cut through the stillness. “Vittoria!” He rapped on the door, and still Paulina waited. There were no paratroopers in sight; she heard no shots ringing out. Had they already left the barn? Or were they merely watching to see if someone let Heinrich inside?

  Better to do nothing, she finally decided, and crept cautiously back into the bedroom, closed the door, and climbed into bed. If Heinrich forced his way into the house, she could pretend to be asleep. Then he couldn’t fault her for not opening the heavy door for him.

  In a few minutes she heard the sound of boots, the harsh click of metal against the marble tiles. So he had found a way inside. She closed her eyelids, letting just enough light through the shuttered lashes to see when the door opened. Deliberately she slowed her breathing.

  The bedroom door burst open and Heinrich rushed to the chest in the corner. Then, as if he sensed someone else in the room with him, he froze. With a rapid turnabout, he faced the bed with his pistol drawn. Incredulously, he watched the green silk caftan come to life, as Paulina stretched, opened her eyes, and sat up.

  Her brown eyes mirrored surprise. “Heinrich,” she said. “What are you doing here?”