A Yankee Flier in Italy (a yankee flier) Read online

  A Yankee Flier in Italy

  ( A Yankee Flier )

  Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

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  A YANKEE FLIER IN ITALY

  by Al Avery

  Illustrated by Paul Laune

  For

  AVON KIRKS

  CHAPTER I

  FAREWELL PARTY

  The party was about to break up. It had not been very successful. Lieutenant O’Malley had devoured only one blueberry pie. This meant he was feeling far from par. He sat sprawled in a big chair that once had belonged to a Moslem prince, his skinny legs elevated to the top of the mess table.

  “Sure, an’ you fellows are skunks, beatin’ it off to do a soft stretch in Alexandria,” he growled.

  Lieutenant Stan Wilson, United States Army Air Corps, grinned at his Irish pal.

  “They need brains in Alexandria to tell them what to do.” Stan sipped his coffee and continued to grin.

  March Allison leaned across the table. Allison was British, slight and neatly dressed. There was always a mocking smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

  “I say, old fellow, you should be crowing. You are now a flight commander and I understand you are to rate nothing less than a major.”

  “’Tis not the stripes I want,” O’Malley muttered. “Sure, an’ I’m told this Colonel Benson who is to be in command is a spalpeen of the worst sort. Niver did I care fer brass hats an’ now I am to be near one all the time.”

  “I understand Colonel Benson holds to a strict diet, no coffee, tobacco, or pie,” Stan said gravely. “He expects his men to follow his example.”

  O’Malley snorted. “Sure, an’ I’ll be after eatin’ pie right off the top o’ his desk.”

  “He is said to be the best-dressed officer in the Army.” Allison had his gaze fixed upon O’Malley’s sloppy uniform. The shirt was open at the neck to allow O’Malley’s huge Adam’s apple to roll up and down, free and unencumbered. O’Malley’s cap was wrinkled and sagging as it attempted to cover his shock of wild hair.

  “I’m a fightin’ man,” O’Malley said gravely. “As such I waste no time on trifles.” His big mouth was tightly clamped shut and a frown wrinkled his homely face.

  Stan and Allison broke out laughing. Colonel Benson would have to take O’Malley as he was, that they well knew. They had fought side by side with him in the Battle of Britain, in the Far East, and now in Africa. O’Malley was known as the wildest pilot in the service and one of the best.

  “We better get going,” Stan said as he rose to his feet. He held out a hand to O’Malley. “Hold off the invasion of Sicily and Italy until we get back, pal.”

  “I’ll be startin’ it tomorrow,” O’Malley said sourly.

  “Cheerio,” Allison added as he shook hands with his pal.

  O’Malley watched them walk out of the mess. He had to admit, as the door closed after them, that his gloom was due entirely to parting with the two men he had fought beside for so long. Such things as colonels who were tough did not bother O’Malley. Having Stan and Allison walk out on him was the thing that hurt. It was his own fault that he was not going with them. He had refused to quit the front for a month or so of ease and rest.

  Gazing out through an open window, he watched a group of natives herd a flock of donkeys down toward the main part of the city of Bizerte. He certainly would kick himself if no invasion came off for a month. Lowering his feet from the top of the table, he strolled out into the sunshine. Colonel Benson was due to arrive that morning and he had orders to be on hand, along with other flight commanders, to meet his superior. O’Malley yawned. Meeting brass hats always bored him. He was not sure that he was going to like being one of them. O’Malley considered even a flight commander a brass hat.

  Colonel Benson was late in arriving. He was exactly three hours late and that made O’Malley exactly two hours late for his dinner. Dinner was a very important item in O’Malley’s day, and he was in a very dour mood when an orderly called the boys in to meet the new commander.

  The commander’s room once had been a lounge and music room. It was part of a huge old mansion located on an estate. An Italian political boss had taken it over from a native prince. O’Malley crowded in behind the first man entering the room. At once the man ahead of O’Malley clicked his heels and snapped a smart salute. O’Malley looked the colonel over, then dabbed at the front of his cap with a big hand.

  Colonel Benson was a big, rawboned man, standing six feet two inches and weighing two hundred and ten pounds. His red face looked as though it had just been scrubbed with soap and water. It had a pink and white smoothness under the sunburn which reddened it. The eyes of the colonel took away the softness of his smooth face. They were green and hard as agate. At the moment they were looking Lieutenant O’Malley over with a decidedly unfavorable glint.

  The other boys shoved in and lined up. There was no mistaking the atmosphere in the room. It fairly vibrated with military correctness. The colonel’s uniform, his carefully parted hair, his smooth, freshly scraped chin, all added to the feeling of tightness.

  Most of the boys in the room were used to dirt and dust and bearded faces. They recently had come through a dusty, dirty, and bloody battle. During those months on the desert they had forgotten all about military correctness. The colonel’s expression plainly indicated that he thought them a sloppy outfit. He remained standing as he talked, and the men remained at attention.

  “I have been sent here to teach you men some of the combat tricks developed recently.” His eyes roved over the men and stopped upon O’Malley.

  “I am not going to insist upon strict military observance, but there are a few details I will insist upon.” The colonel’s voice was rising and his face was getting a bit redder.

  “You.” He stabbed a finger toward O’Malley.

  “Lieutenant O’Malley,” O’Malley informed him.

  “Lieutenant O’Malley, nothing can excuse the sloppiness of your attire. In the future you will give more attention to your uniform.”

  “Yes, sor,” O’Malley said and grinned.

  The grin made Colonel Benson rise up on his heels. He came down with a thud, but he said no more. His eyes moved from O’Malley.

  “We will soon be invading Italy.” The Colonel paused to let this sink in. It was exactly what the boys had been expecting, and therefore they showed no sudden interest.

  “How about Sicily, sor?” O’Malley asked. He had been flying missions all over the proposed routes and knew something would have to be done about Sicily.

  “That will be merely a step in taking Italy, Lieutenant,” the colonel explained. He looked about the room. There were plenty of chairs. “You may be at ease, gentlemen. Seat yourselves and we will proceed with our conference.”

  O’Malley grunted. Dinner hour was long past and here they were settling down for a conference. He picked the chair nearest the door and slumped down into it. The colonel seated himself and launc
hed into a lengthy and detailed talk upon tactics and plans. O’Malley listened for a time, then stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable. His mind wandered far from the droning voice of the colonel.

  An hour passed and Colonel Benson was still outlining plans and driving home things he felt were very important. O’Malley had not exactly been asleep, but he had failed to hear more than just a small part of what was said. Suddenly he roused himself. Colonel Benson had just made a remark that brought him up sharply.

  “Gentlemen, I will now outline the procedure we will follow in handling the various flights assigned to my sector. This will not take longer than one hour. Give me your close attention.”

  O’Malley looked about as though seeking a way to escape. He saw an orderly standing at the door. Nodding to the corporal, he leaned forward and whispered a command. The orderly disappeared.

  Ten minutes later the corporal returned. He was carrying a tin plate with half of a blueberry pie on it.

  “Thank you, son,” O’Malley said as he slid the pie into his lap. He scooped out a quarter of the pie and opened his mouth. As he bit down upon the pie he began to grin. He gave his attention to the colonel with the first real show of interest he had given during the afternoon. The quarter of pie disappeared quickly. O’Malley slid the remaining quarter into his hand and opened his mouth.

  “The close co-ordination between our fighter units and the low-level bombers will be secured by a system of code signals.” Colonel Benson’s voice snapped off suddenly. His green eyes were on O’Malley and sparks flashed in their depths. The other boys turned and looked at O’Malley.

  “You are hungry, Lieutenant O’Malley?” Colonel Benson asked coldly.

  “Yes, sor. ’Tis three hours an’ more past dinnertime,” O’Malley answered calmly as he shoved half of the pie into his mouth.

  “Stop! Stop—swilling that pie!” the colonel roared.

  O’Malley got rid of the pie in a simple manner. He shoved what was left into his mouth and munched upon it.

  For a full minute the colonel could not think of anything to say. But his face got deeper red and his eyes blazed. Finally he rapped on his desk and said:

  “Gentlemen, I will not tolerate eating during a conference. Any sort of eating. I will not tolerate eating pie while I am giving instructions. Lieutenant O’Malley, you will retire. I will consider your case later.”

  O’Malley got to his feet. He handed the pie plate to the embarrassed corporal. “Thank you, sor,” he drawled as he made off.

  The colonel snorted and went back to his lecture. O’Malley headed for the mess hall. The half pie had whetted his appetite. Locating a comfortable place near a window he ordered a big dinner, with a whole blueberry pie for dessert. In a leisurely manner he began devouring his meal.

  He had spent most of an hour enjoying his dinner and was ready to eat his pie, when the fliers began drifting in from the conference. Several of them headed toward O’Malley’s table. O’Malley was the most famous pilot in their outfit. The stories about him amounted almost to legend. The boys admired his disregard for military usage. All of them had been working according to the colonel’s carefully explained plans for months and knew them better than the colonel did. They had been bored by the long session but had not had the nerve to show their feelings.

  But none of them reached O’Malley. Colonel Benson came in and strode over to O’Malley’s table.

  Nodding to O’Malley, he said, “Mind if I join you?” His voice did not sound so stiff outside his office.

  “Sure, an’ I’m glad to have you,” O’Malley said, but there was a gleam of suspicion in his eye.

  Colonel Benson seated himself. He watched O’Malley attack the pie. His interest amounted to fascination and he did not speak until O’Malley had finished three fourths of the pie. He ordered coffee and leaned back.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, Lieutenant,” he began.

  O’Malley did not think this remark called for an answer, so he went on eating his pie.

  “I know you are an excellent pilot, though I understand you are a bit reckless.” There was a gleam that might have been humor in the colonel’s eye.

  O’Malley leaned back. He pushed the pie plate away from him and uttered a contented sigh.

  “However, I’m afraid you are not the type of man I want working beside me. With your permission, I will find you another assignment.” The colonel watched O’Malley as he spoke.

  “What sort o’ work?” O’Malley asked.

  “Flying a fighter plane, of course.” Colonel Benson smiled.

  “’Twill suit me foine,” O’Malley said. “I’m not likin’ the idea o’ bein’ a brass hat.”

  “I don’t think you would make a very good one,” the colonel said. “There will be no further mention of your pie-eating exhibition of this afternoon. You will report to operations for your new assignment.”

  “Thank you, sor.”

  The colonel drank his coffee and arose. O’Malley got to his feet and managed a snappy salute. The colonel moved off and the boys closed in to find out what had happened.

  CHAPTER II

  SPECIAL TASK

  The sympathy of the boys in the officers’ mess was wasted upon O’Malley. He was not impressed by the advanced rating he had missed, nor was he jealous of the new and shining bars and oak leaves his pals were wearing. He had checked in and been assigned flight leader of a flight of three planes whose task was special work. All that interested O’Malley was that he was due to head out over the Mediterranean Sea with the nose of his Lightning pointed toward Italy.

  “Sure, an’ I’ll have Benito captured by the time you birds go into action,” he told the gang.

  O’Malley’s exact duties were not very clear, nor was his crew a reality. No men had been assigned to him and he had no flight orders, but he had the assurance of the captain at operations that he would be on his way in a short time. If O’Malley had any suspicions as to the sort of work Colonel Benson had laid out for him, he did not show them. He was in exceptional good humor.

  When he was called in by Captain Marks at headquarters, he dashed to the operations room as fast as he could. The captain smiled as O’Malley sprawled into a chair.

  “I understand we are about to start an invasion of Italy,” the captain began. “The details are a military secret, but it’s coming and right away. There’s some spade work to be done and you are to handle a hot assignment.”

  O’Malley’s big mouth spread in an eager grin.

  “The commander has assigned you to this job because he feels you are specially fitted for the work.” The captain beamed, but there was a look in his eye that made O’Malley sit up and wipe the grin off his face.

  “And what may it be?” he demanded.

  “You are to ferry Lightnings to Malta.” The captain lifted a hand as O’Malley came out of his chair like a cork out of a bottle of Algerian wine. “This is dangerous business. You may have to fight your way through. This will be day flying.”

  O’Malley snorted. “Fight! Sure, an’ ferryin’ to Malta is no work for a fighter pilot. ’Tis a job for these new colleens you got in the ferry service.”

  “Colonel’s orders,” the captain said curtly. “And the planes are to be landed in Malta in fighting trim. As soon as I round up a couple of men to work with you, I’ll give you a call. Get set, because I’ll need you any hour now.”

  O’Malley leaned forward and there was a dark gleam in his eyes. “Did you say fight our way through?” he asked.

  “If necessary, but I understand you are a stunting fool. You shouldn’t have to fire a shot on any trip. The planes are not to be shot up. They are for combat use in the invasion.”

  O’Malley was on his feet. “Foine,” he said sweetly. “’Tis a nice job, sor, an’ I’m appreciatin’ it.”

  The captain fixed him with a suspicious eye. This ferry job had been tough to fill. It was vitally important and demanded experienced fighter pilots
, but none of the men wanted it. Captain Marks had not been able to get a single man to accept the job. He was relieved when the colonel had sent over word that O’Malley would serve as flight leader. But he still had to locate two men to work with the Irishman. O’Malley was taking the whole thing too nicely. Captain Marks was worried. He knew O’Malley’s reputation and he had picked up a few hints of how O’Malley had been assigned to the job.

  “I’ll give you the names of your crew as soon as I get them lined up,” the captain said gruffly.

  “Shanghaied you mean,” O’Malley said in a honeyed tone.

  “The colonel will locate a couple for me,” the captain answered with a grin.

  O’Malley grinned back at him. “I know a couple I wish you could get hold of,” he said. He turned around and walked out of the office.

  For a full five minutes O’Malley stood outside the office looking out toward the blue Mediterranean. There was a deep scowl on his face. Finally he sauntered into the mess and seated himself near a window. Elevating his feet, he closed his eyes and took a nap.

  He was awakened by an orderly. The soldier saluted smartly and said:

  “You are wanted at operations, sir.”

  O’Malley got to his feet and walked into the briefing shack, which was a shed hastily erected outside the mess. Captain Marks was waiting for him. He shoved a sheaf of flight orders at O’Malley.

  “You are to deliver three Lightning fighters to Malta. In case you meet enemy planes, you are to take proper evasive measures. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sor,” O’Malley said and added, “If we be attacked we fight?”

  “Certainly, we don’t want these new planes shot down.”

  Glancing at his flight orders, O’Malley moved leisurely out to the flight strip designated. Three Lightnings stood there with their props spinning. A ground crew was just leaving them. O’Malley nodded toward the chief mechanic who swung down out of the cockpit.