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

  Stan struggled to his feet and held up his hands. He realized the uselessness of fighting against such odds. The melee O’Malley had caused had drawn almost a company of Italians to the spot. Allison had managed to stay on his feet, but he had suffered from rough handling along with Stan and O’Malley. His uniform, which was wet and sagging, had been torn in a dozen places.

  “Go quietly!” an Italian officer bellowed. He had just arrived on the scene. “Go quietly or you will be sorry!”

  “We’re going, call off your dogs!” Stan shouted.

  The officer shouted orders in Italian and soon restored a semblance of order. Allison called across to Stan.

  “Have a look above, and you’ll see what all the excitement is about.”

  Stan looked into the sky and caught his breath. The paratroopers were coming. Low over the hilly country a fleet of transports and gliders swept in from the sea. They swept along in perfect formation like giant birds seeking a tree to light upon. Above them fighter planes wove in and out, while on either side fighter-bombers roared along. It was a beautiful sight.

  Suddenly the Yank air soldiers began to pile out. The sky blossomed with colored parachutes until the blue was thickly dotted with them like a field crowded with spring flowers. They came floating down with machine guns and supply hassocks dangling from their chutes. On a slope above the field a glider nosed in. It slid to a halt and a jeep bounded out of its fat, rounded snout. Another glider slid in and a tank rolled out of it almost before it had slid to a halt. The slope above them was already swarming with Yanks, and machine guns were rattling.

  Stan looked around desperately. They were being rushed toward a big truck. He made one last attempt to slow down their retreat. Shaking off the men who held him, he ducked his head and hit the line of soldiers like a blocking back clearing a path for a ball carrier. Two Italians went down, one under a straight, stiff arm and the other from a solid body-block. Then a soldier clipped Stan across the head with the butt of his rifle. Stan went down on his face and lay still.

  O’Malley had started his fight again, but this time the Italians were not wasting precious minutes. O’Malley got a rap such as the one that had felled Stan. Allison went down under a pile of soldiers. Two minutes later the three Yanks, out cold, were dumped into the truck and it was rumbling away along a paved road.

  A few minutes later Stan groaned and opened his eyes. The truck was so packed with soldiers that he was forced to sit up, even though he had been out limp and cold. His head throbbed and felt twice its normal size. Turning it a little he could look out over the side of the truck. They were rolling along a winding road, climbing in low gear. Looking back Stan saw the battlefield they had just left.

  The Yank airborne troops had swarmed onto the airfield. Already two big Yank planes had landed and men were spilling out to take over the field. With a groan Stan looked up. Twisting his head caused pains to shoot up and down his neck. He saw that the paratroopers were still coming in. A field of white chutes filled the air, while behind them dropped the varicolored chutes carrying equipment and ammunition. Gliders were casting off their toggle hooks and swooping earthward. Equipped with tommy-guns, folding rifles, mortars, folding bicycles, bazookas and light artillery, the air soldiers swarmed down.

  Suddenly excited shouts from the Italians in the truck made Stan look up again. A fighter-bomber was roaring down toward the truck. Stan saw that there were three trucks in the group and that they were closely bunched, an ideal target for the diving Yank. Grimly he watched the hundred-pound egg slide free as the bomber lifted and zoomed upward. The deadly missile seemed to hang in the air for a moment, though it grew bigger and bigger every second. It appeared to be aimed straight at the last truck in line, which was their transport. Stan looked about for Allison and O’Malley.

  His pals were standing against the side of the truck, wedged in by soldiers. They both looked weak and shaken. O’Malley was almost without clothes. Then the bomb hit. It landed in a bank just behind the truck. A great upheaval of earth and rocks lifted into the air and showered over the truck. One rear tire exploded with a bang and the truck began to wobble and jolt as it swayed along.

  Then they broke over the top of the ridge and went careening down a steep slope. Five minutes later they had reached cover in an avenue of trees. But the Italians did not halt for repairs. They wanted to put as many miles as possible between them and the Yank air army before their gas ran out.

  An hour later the truck limped into another airfield which had not been attacked. It was tucked away in a circle of hills with wooded slopes reaching down to a little valley. Here they found they had overtaken General Bolero. He was out on the field rushing about, shouting orders and apparently getting ready to take off again. His staff was trailing him about, with their bundles and brief cases and files.

  Stan and his pals were rushed into a small barracks room. The junior officer who spoke English had charge of them, backed by a dozen guards.

  “We will supply you with clothing,” he said, casting his eye over their ragged uniforms.

  The clothing turned out to be blue shirts and bright green dungaree overalls. O’Malley glared at the officer. Stan grinned as he slipped into his outfit.

  “It would save you a lot of trouble if you just turned us loose,” he suggested.

  “You will not escape. You will be sent to Italy.” The officer matched O’Malley’s glare. “Sicily can never be taken. Our infallible leader Mussolini has said Sicily can never be taken.” He waved his hands excitedly. “Your forces will be driven into the sea.”

  “I’ll bet you a bottle of your finest wine that half of the island is already taken,” Stan answered.

  “I say, why don’t you kick the Germans out and help us along?” Allison asked. He felt he might touch a sore spot in mentioning the Germans.

  The shot hit home. A flush spread over the face of the officer. “The Nazi dogs,” he snapped. “We will deal with them after we have used them to help us.”

  “Sure, an’ they’ll treat you like they did the Poles,” O’Malley said. “An’ it will serve you right well, you spalpeens.”

  “We’d like to stop over here and rest a bit,” Stan cut in. “We realize you treated us roughly because we made you a lot of trouble. We’ll give you our parole. There’ll be no more rough stuff.”

  “You talkin’ fer me?” O’Malley growled.

  “I am,” Stan said and gave O’Malley a hard look. “We’ll see that you’re a nice, well-behaved boy.”

  “Agreed,” Allison said, catching Stan’s idea that he was playing for time. Even if they gave their parole it would not prevent their being captured by the Yanks.

  The officer smiled knowingly. “You would like to stay here. You think your air troops will take over this field. No, we will not be so foolish. You leave for Italy in one hour.” He turned and marched out, after giving orders to the guards.

  “That’s that,” Stan said. “But we still have a chance. He didn’t accept our parole.”

  “They ought to be usin’ their men to fight an’ not be after keepin’ a whole company here as guards,” O’Malley grumbled.

  “After the show you put on, they need a company,” Stan snapped. “If we’d been good boys, they might have left us with a couple of guards.”

  “Who started the fuss?” O’Malley demanded.

  “I stumbled, but that was just to slow down the procession,” Stan answered. “I’ll admit it was a mistake.”

  “We’d better be doing some heavy thinking,” Allison warned. “If we don’t we’ll spend the rest of this campaign in a prison camp.”

  There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of guards who stood around with rifles at ready until the plane started down the runway.

  Stan was squeezed in between O’Malley and Allison. The space inside the bomber
was very limited, for it was not intended as a passenger plane. Besides the pilot and copilot, two men armed with pistols sat in the cramped quarters. The Italians had very thoughtfully provided their prisoners with parachutes. One of the guards spoke English and was not unwilling to talk. Stan singled him out at once.

  “I have been in America,” the guard said in a friendly fashion.

  “What city?” Stan asked.

  “New York. I stay one year.”

  “Didn’t you like it?” Stan asked with a grin.

  “Sure, it was much good. I come back for my brother and then there is war. I must stay.” The soldier shook his head sadly.

  “After the war you’ll be going back?” Stan asked.

  “Sure. It is a fine place to live, New York. I make plenty money, got friends.” The soldier smiled. “I will see you then.”

  Stan laughed. “You sure will.” His eyes were on the back of the pilot’s neck. If O’Malley reached out he could touch the man flying the plane. Stan bent forward, at the same time signaling O’Malley with his knee in short and long taps. O’Malley finally woke up and answered the Morse SOS. As Stan talked to the soldier he also telegraphed to O’Malley and later to Allison.

  What Stan suggested was that they get control of the two pistols. The friendly soldier was bending closer. Stan would offer to show him some pictures from America that he had in his wallet. He would get the man off guard and when he had a chance would grab his pistol and push him over into the cramped back part of the ship. O’Malley and Allison would have to get the other pistol.

  “I think I have some pictures you may recognize,” Stan said. He fished out a wallet which the Italians had not taken from him. Opening it he pulled out several snapshots of planes he had piloted at one time or another, but he held them so that the soldier had to bend forward. The guard leaned over almost against Stan.

  Like a flash Stan’s hand shot out and he had the pistol. He lunged forward at the same instant, planting his head in the guard’s chest. The soldier went over his stool and landed in a cramped position in the narrow waist of the plane.

  O’Malley had leaped the instant Stan’s hand shot out. Allison did a good imitation of an American tackle. The second guard lost his gun but put up a tussle. Stan wedged past the struggling men and jammed the pistol barrel into the neck of the pilot.

  “We’ll take over now,” he snapped.

  The pilot cringed forward while the copilot turned about. Stan circled his neck with an arm and cinched down tight. Before the copilot could wiggle free, O’Malley was up forward with the other pistol. The copilot lifted his hands. His face was white and he seemed scared.

  “Drag him back and tuck him away with the guards,” Stan ordered.

  O’Malley and Allison dragged the copilot back and crowded him into the narrow rear compartment with the others. Allison stood guard over them, while O’Malley and Stan took over from the pilot. The pilot was not afraid of the Yanks. He did signals of distress with his wings and put the ship into a dive before Stan laid him out with a rap over the head. Sliding into the seat Stan began to fight the old Fiat to get her out of a spin.

  She was going down, twisting and shuddering in every rivet and stay. O’Malley finally climbed up front and grabbed the free set of controls. They heaved her out of her spin just in time. Their wings fanned the tops of a grove of trees and they had to lay over to miss the spire of a church.

  “I can handle her now,” Stan called across. “I’ll go up a bit and then you get back there and have the Italians bail out. We won’t need any prisoners. If they kick about it, tell them we’ll be setting this ship down on a Malta air strip. That ought to make them bail out.” Stan grinned at O’Malley.

  “Sure, an’ it ought to,” O’Malley agreed. “No Fiat iver got to land on Malta under her own power. We’ll be shot to kindlin’ wood.”

  “Maybe we won’t go to Malta, but that’s where we’re headed until they bail out,” Stan laughed.

  O’Malley went back and within a few minutes the Italian crew was unloading. O’Malley had convinced them the plane was headed for Malta and they wanted none of the reception they knew an Italian plane would get over that base.

  Stan watched them sail down, one after another. As the last parachute blossomed out, Allison and O’Malley crowded forward. Stan had swung due south, and was holding that course.

  “Suppose you see what you can do with the radio,” Stan said.

  Allison laughed. “There isn’t any radio and there isn’t a gun aboard this ship, except our two pistols.”

  “Fine,” Stan said and opened the old Fiat up a bit more. “In that case we better get in before dark.”

  “You better be after rememberin’ that I’m commander o’ this outfit,” O’Malley broke in.

  “All right, Commander, the ship is yours.” Stan eased over a bit. With a grin O’Malley squeezed into the pilot’s seat.

  “Now you can be after givin’ the orders,” he said. “Where in blazes are we?”

  “We’re over Italy,” Stan said. “I think the town we just flew over was Cosenza, up the coast from Reggio.”

  “Do you be after thinkin’ that’s water ahead?” O’Malley asked.

  They looked ahead and saw a strip of water and a long beach. Stan frowned. “Must be the Gulf of Taranto. I guess I’m a bit mixed up.”

  “I say, old man, we better swing around and head southwest,” Allison said.

  “We could fly to Africa,” O’Malley remarked.

  “Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They certainly didn’t fill this crate up.” Allison’s mocking grin appeared at the corners of his mouth.

  “How much? Don’t be holdin’ out secrets on us,” O’Malley growled.

  “It’s only a wild guess, but I’d say about forty minutes.”

  O’Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the ship around to a south by west course. “Sure, an’ we’re gettin’ out o’ here,” he said.

  Allison slipped into the copilot’s seat while Stan sat on a folding stool behind him. O’Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out of the old ship. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.

  Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near enough to be identified.

  “Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o’clock, Commander,” he shouted.

  O’Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. “Sure, an’ there is,” he said. “It’s an escort we’ve been needin’. Likely the boys will know the way home.”

  “Certainly they will,” Allison said. “And they’ll know a Fiat BR 20, also. This crate looks like a bomber.”

  “We better duck and go downstairs for a bit of hedge-hopping,” Stan advised. The Airacobras had spotted the lone bomber and were peeling off like hounds scenting a buck.

  O’Malley did not need any suggestions as to what to do. He nosed the Fiat over and sent her down the chute in a screaming dive that threatened to pull the wings off her. Stan glanced at his chute harness to make sure everything was in order. He figured O’Malley would fold up the Fiat like an old accordion when he started to pull her out of the dive.

  The Airacobras rapidly overtook the bomber, even though she was power-diving far beyond her limit of stability. Stan saw one of the boys flash in on their tail.

  “Kite her!” he bellowed. “Stinger on your tail!”

  O’Malley and Allison both hauled back and the Fiat wobbled and staggered as she started to lift. Stan could hear her joints giving way, then she bounced. Lead whistled below them, while the Airacobra roared down the trail of its own bullets.

  “Close,” Allison muttered.

  Stan
squinted up and back. Two more fighters were lining up. It seemed plain that they were surprised at the antics of the Fiat. They had never seen one do stunts like that before. The two came raking in, blasting from longer range. Stan felt the lead rip through the Fiat’s wings and body. One bullet plunked through close to his head, ripping a big hole, another exploded back in the tail compartment and half of the peninsula could be seen through the hole.

  “Sure, an’ they need shootin’ practice!” O’Malley bellowed as he slipped off on one wing, did a stall, and laid over for another dive. They were now close to the treetops. Another Airacobra dived in and when it zoomed away, they were minus one wing tip and their port engine was stuttering. But they were down among the treetops and O’Malley was hedge-hopping like a wild man. They missed an ancient castle set on a cliff. How O’Malley managed it he himself did not know. One wing lifted and the turrets of the old castle slipped under. Down they went into a little valley, fanning the treetops. One motor was dead and the other was not putting out much power.

  Suddenly they realized that they were being covered by flak fired from a field ahead of them. The barrage was fierce and concentrated. It sent the Yank fighters kiting up to a safer level. The boys felt sure of their kill anyway. The Fiat had started to billow smoke out of the tail compartment where an incendiary shell had lodged.

  “I’d rather bail out than land in this thing!” Allison shouted.

  O’Malley shook his head and grinned. “Not one chance, she won’t lift a foot. Here goes for a belly landing!”

  They skimmed over a row of trees and headed for an open field surrounded by woods. The Fiat gave up the ghost halfway across the field. She just settled down and hit the earth in a cloud of smoke and dust. Twisting and turning she plowed her way toward the far tree line. Finally she whirled around and piled up. The dust and smoke was so thick the three Yanks could see nothing. Pawing and struggling they fought their way out of the mass of wreckage. They heard men shouting all around them. Bursting out of the smoke and dust, they found themselves surrounded by fifty or more German soldiers.