A Yankee Flier in Italy Read online

  CHAPTER IX

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  Stan was not sure of the terrain he had to fly over. He wanted to avoidthe German flying fields if possible, but knew there would be manydispersal areas and flight strips. Getting through would be largely amatter of luck.

  The formation of Nardi FN's swooped over the ridge above Bolero Villa.Stan was flying low and pushing the Nardi hard. He grinned as he glancedat the air-speed indicator. They were topping three hundred miles perhour.

  Suddenly they swept away from the hilly country and were over the Germanair base. There was nothing to be done about it but keep on going. Stancast a critical eye downward and laughed softly. He took in the detailsof the carefully hidden dispersal plots, the tree-shaded oil dumps andthe shrub-covered barracks. The picture he was fixing in his mind mightbe useful later.

  They had reached the center of the area when the surprised ack-ackgunners woke up. A half-dozen groves of trees suddenly erupted flame andthe sky above the three streaking Nardi's was filled with smoke tracersand exploding steel.

  The Yanks went on and were away from the field before the gunners gottheir altitude spotted. Stan drew a deep breath of relief. He was gladthat he had followed his hunch to fly low. Then he noticed O'Malley, onhis right, zoom upward, while Allison looped off to the left. An instantlater he spotted the reason for this maneuver. He had been so interestedin the ground below that he had forgotten the sky. A returning flight oftwenty Messerschmitts had spotted the Italian planes.

  The Me pilots evidently had received orders not to let any Italianplanes escape to join the Allies. They were coming in low for a landingand that gave the Yanks a break. But there were twenty of them, and theywere faster and more heavily armed than the Nardi ships.

  Stan held his course steadily, while he tried to coax a few more revsout of his motor. He was doing three-forty and could get no more.Glancing up he saw that by quick thinking O'Malley and Allison hadgotten the edge on the Jerries. They were up above and getting set tocome down to cover his retreat.

  Grimly Stan gave his attention to his course. He was hedge-hopping overtrees and power lines. Never in his life had he seen so many powerlines. By staying down he made it tough for a diving enemy. But theseJerries were veteran fliers. They had learned a few things about rhubarbraiders and how to handle them from the many raids staged out of Englandupon the low countries. Three of them fanned out each way, right andleft, and came zooming around in a circle like coyotes bent upon cuttingoff the retreat of a jack rabbit.

  Stan watched them as they went into their circle and saw that even inmaking such a maneuver they could outfly his ship. He held his courseand a tight smile formed on his lips. Everything depended upon histiming. If he handled the thing right and guessed right, he would dodgethe cross fire of the six killers.

  The Me's came in in pretty formation, three to a side, staggered so asto lay down a terrible and enclosing wall of death. Stan's hands werecold upon the controls, but they were steady. His eyes took in all theattackers in one moving picture. He was waiting for a tip that wouldgive him the break he needed. He had given up hope that O'Malley orAllison would be able to break through and crack the deathtrap. FourteenMe's were savagely attacking them, bent upon their destruction.

  The Jerries gave Stan his break just before they went into the final actof the kill. They thought they were trapping an Italian pilot and theyknew just how the Italian boys flew. One of the planes on the leftlifted a little to clear the zoom of the Me under him. That was all Stanneeded to know. The three Jerries on the left would go up, slamming leadacross his path. Two of the Me's on the right would go down and onewould come in straight. Stan kicked the Nardi over hard to the left,heading her for the tower of a high line that swung down from the hills.

  The Me's went into their act, guns blazing away, punching holes into theair. The maneuver was a beauty. The only thing wrong with it was thatthe target had shifted course suddenly, leaving them in a wild tanglewith a lot of stunting to be done before they could close in again.

  But Stan's troubles were not over. His left wing raked through the topof a small tree less than ten feet high. The power line and the highsteel tower were hurtling at him. He flattened out and held his breath.There was no time to zoom over the heavy cables; he had to go under andhope for the best.

  Stan did not see the cables or the tower go by; all he knew was that hewas boring straight for a red-roofed building set on a knoll. He zoomedup and drew in a big lungful of air. Looking back, he saw that hishounds were still busy getting untangled. He spotted only five of themand guessed that one had come to grief in the circus stunting they hadbeen forced to do.

  Looking upward he saw, far above in the blue sky, smoke trailers andlittle, darting planes. O'Malley and Allison were still up there, hecould tell by the pattern of the fight. Then he noticed that the fiveJerries who had been battling him started up to join the fight. He had apowerful urge to turn back and help his pals, though going back would bea suicide move.

  Bending forward he felt the bulky package inside his shirt and his eyeshardened. His job was to go ahead. O'Malley and Allison were sacrificingthemselves so that he could go on. If he went back, he would be throwingaway the fruits of their courage and daring.

  Dimly and like a miniature motion picture, the battle above and behindhim was reflected on his rear-vision mirror. There was a lump in Stan'sthroat as he noticed that two of the planes were coming down, twistingand turning, trailing plumes of smoke. Before the picture faded out hesaw one parachute blossom, a tiny white flower against the green of thehills and the blue of the sky.

  A little later he spotted the coast and the sea. A line of hilly, highground slipped under his wings and he headed out toward the beaches.Suddenly the peaceful sky around him exploded in his face. Coastalbatteries had spotted him. He was low, but this time the gunners werelooking for low-flying bombers and strafing planes. They laid their flakand their tracers on him in a deadly hail of screaming steel. The Nardibucked and turned half over as a shell burst under her belly. Ragged,saw-edged pieces of shell casing ripped through the wings. An explodingshell ripped away the whole nose and the prop. Stan felt the Nardiwobble. Her terrific speed hurled her on and out over the water, awayfrom the pattern of shells. But she was a dead duck and Stan knew it.His greenhouse was mashed down close above his head. He tried the hatchcover and found it jammed tight. Testing the controls, he found he couldstill handle the ship in a glide.

  Below him he could see two destroyers lying off the shore. They wereblasting away at the batteries he had spotted for them. In closer, twoPT boats darted back and forth, leaving trailing plumes of white foambehind them.

  The Nardi had been flying so low that Stan had no chance to maneuver. Hefigured she would sink like a rock when she hit the water. Heaving withall of his strength he tried to open the hatch. The cover refused tobudge. Green waves were reaching up for him. He smashed at the glassoverhead and was able to push out a pane. Savagely he battered away asthe Nardi settled down.

  With a twist he laid the ship over, then flattened her, headingstraight for one of the PT boats. Now he was smashing with both hands atthe panes over his head. The glass cut his hands and arms, but he didnot feel the pain. He had a hole and he needed desperately to enlargeit.

  The Nardi nosed gently into the trough of a big wave, then it hit thewave and crumpled up. Green water surged over the cockpit into Stan'sface. He heaved himself upward and fought to get clear. His parachutewas off and he was half out of the cockpit, but a great force wassucking him down, down into the cool depths of the sea.

  Stan felt the Nardi hit bottom. The thought flashed through his mindthat they were in shallow water. At a moment like this, cold, unwaveringcontrol of mind and body was necessary. One moment of panic meant death.Stan gritted his teeth and heaved hard. His waist pulled free andsuddenly he was floating upward. His lungs were bursting with fire andhis hands smarted, but he stroked hard and a few seconds later he burstout of the water, blowing and f
lailing. The first thing he saw was thePT boat. It was circling the spot where the Nardi had disappeared. Itsskipper waved to Stan and shouted.

  "Keep afloat! We'll toss you a line!"

  "Thanks!" Stan shouted back.

  The line came out as the boat moved closer. Stan grabbed it. Two sailorshauled him aboard. He was met by a grinning young lieutenant, juniorgrade.

  "I sure appreciate the lift," Stan said and grinned.

  The skipper stared at him. "A Yank!" he exclaimed. "Where did you getthe Eity plane?"

  "It was loaned to me by Italian friends," Stan replied. "I haveimportant papers which need to be dried," he added.

  "And some dry clothes," the skipper said. "Come below."

  They went below and the lieutenant introduced himself. "I'm LieutenantDel Ewing."

  "I'm Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Army Air Corps," Stan said. "I have been aguest of the Italians for more weeks than are good for anyone."

  "They outfitted you when they gave up?"

  "They did. A lot of them are German haters and will help us all theycan." Stan spoke soberly. He was thinking of Lorenzo lying on the floorwith a smile on his lips, and of General Bolero, who probably had beenshot by now. "A lot of them have real courage," he added.

  Del Ewing nodded. "I've seen some of it," he said.

  "Now about these papers." Stan took the package out of his drippingshirt. The gummed wrapper fell off, exposing an oiled cloth envelope.That was lucky. The maps and papers were dry.

  Del Ewing was digging into his sea chest, laying out dry clothing and anoilskin coat. He spoke over his shoulder:

  "I can't land you until tomorrow. This is a mission that can't bedropped. My radio is shot and I'm here to stay until that destroyer outbeyond turns in. If I quit my sector, a sub or a torpedo boat mightslide in and plant a tin fish in her side."

  "The papers are vitally important to both Army and Navy," Stan said."But tomorrow will do."

  After fitting Stan out with dry clothing, the skipper went on deck andthe PT boat got under way to resume her patrol work. Stan soon began towonder if the little boat had not joined battle with a German craft. Shewas hitting a nerve-shattering, plank-busting speed that tossed Stan allover the little room. He turned to the navigator and discovered that thekid was having trouble keeping from being sick all over his charts. Hegave Stan a green-lipped smile.

  "The skipper is pushing her a bit fast, isn't he?" Stan asked as helurched into a seat beside the navigator.

  "Just planing speed, sir," the boy answered.

  "Seems to me like a cross between a submarine and an airplane," Stansaid. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself.

  Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clingingto the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs ofwater hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching buckerwhile somebody dumped buckets of water into his face. The whole ship wasvibrating from the powerful thrusts of the Packard engines in the stern.The deck bristled with light cannon, torpedo tubes, and machine guns.Up there in that wild smother of foam and noise there was no chance totalk, but Stan watched a while.

  The PT boat ducked and wove in and out between the destroyers and theshore. Shells burst around her, churning up the sea, but the gunnerswere unable to guess where the flighty PT would be at any given moment,so they never hit very close to her. Stan hoped they would spot a sub oran enemy patrol boat, but nothing showed up except other PT boats.

  Stan started to go below. He did not even want to think about food, buthe did feel like resting. The skipper came forward and offered to showhim a bunk, but before they went down he said:

  "You must undo your oilskin up topside; I mean, up here on the deck."

  "But I'll get soaked," Stan protested.

  "No matter, if you remain vertical for any length of time below decksyou're done for." He grinned at Stan.

  Stan went below and made it into his bunk after the third try. He laythere with the bunk falling away from him, then slapping him hard in theface as it came back at him. He closed his eyes and utter exhaustionfinally put him to sleep. His dreams were filled with writhing seamonsters, every one of them rushing through the water at express-trainspeed.

  In the morning the skipper informed him that they were heading forMalta, which was now the headquarters of the Allied invasion forces.

  "We got the radio going and asked permission. When we mentioned papersfrom General Bolero, they called us right in." Del Ewing grinnedbroadly. "We're in luck getting away from this game of tag."

  Stan was standing beside him on the deck and the boat was knifing alonghalf out of the water. Suddenly Ewing bellowed:

  "Hard a port!"

  The helmsman spun the wheel and Stan clung to the railing with thebreath knocked out of him. He saw a black object swish past.

  "Wandering mine!" Del Ewing bellowed. "Probably one of our own!"

  Stan drew a deep breath and grinned at the skipper. "I'll take mine in aplane!" he shouted.

  "I would, too, only I can't pass the physical examination for aviator.They tell me I wouldn't be able to stand the strain!" Ewing laughedheartily.

  Stan wiped salt water out of his eyes and shook his head. He had seenmany rough-riding vehicles of war, such as tanks and jeeps, but the PTboat had them all bested. Any craft that was such a rough-riding brutethat half of its seasoned crew got sick was no place for him, he assuredhimself.

  Toward eleven o 'clock Malta came into view, and they put into portthrough a mass of ships and flatboats and barges. A sprinkling ofwarcraft, including one British warship, filled the channel they werefollowing. But that did not bother the skipper. He sent his boat in atplaning speed which necessitated a lot of ducking and dodging.

  Pulling alongside a dock, the PT boat was made fast. Stan climbed overthe side and set his feet firmly on the ground. He was glad to be offthe deck of the speedy craft. The skipper grinned at him.

  "I'll get you a ride to headquarters. Your legs don't seem to be up towalking that far."

  "Thanks," Stan said. "I'd be picked up by the M.P.'s for being drunk ifI tried to walk."

  The skipper secured a jeep for Stan from a Navy supply outfit. Theyshook hands and the jeep roared away at top speed. Stan leaned back andtook the jolts. They seemed like caresses after the skipper's PT boat.

  News of the package he was carrying had come in ahead of Stan. Alieutenant was waiting for him.

  "This way, sir," he said and hurried away with Stan almost running tokeep up.

  They entered a room where a dozen officers sat around a big table.Stan's guide halted and saluted.

  "Lieutenant Wilson, sir."

  A grizzled general looked up from a map. Stan stepped forward and handedover the package. The general took it and ripped it open at once. Stanstood waiting to be dismissed. He started to back away. The generallifted a hand.

  "Don't leave, Wilson. These papers are vitally important." He stoppedtalking and spread out the contents of the package. The other officerswere leaning forward. "These are most important, most valuable," thegeneral said. He shoved the papers over to a colonel.

  "Look them over and let me know what you think of them." He turned toStan and smiled.

  Stan waited for whatever might be coming. The general fingered hisclose-cropped mustache and continued to smile. Suddenly he leanedforward and spoke.

  "Since receiving a message from the Navy regarding your rescue I havehad your service record handed to me. I find it quite interesting. Whathappened to Lieutenant O'Malley and Lieutenant Allison?"

  Stan did not smile. "The last time I saw them they were fighting aten-to-one battle with a flight of Messerschmitts, a delaying action, sothat I could get through with these papers. We were flying Nardifighters furnished us by the Italians."

  The general's smile faded. "You think they are lost?"

  "I'm going to check with operations," Stan said. "Both O'Malley andAllison have come back from some tough fights."

  The gener
al reached for a telephone. "I'll have a check made," he said.

  "Has Colonel Benson been asking about us?" Stan asked and there was atwinkle in his eye.

  "I believe it will be best to transfer you to another command. We do notwish to approve your conduct as ferry pilots, but you certainly haverendered a great service." The general gave his attention to the phone.After fifteen long minutes of waiting and talking he cradled theinstrument and shook his head. "No Nardi fighters have been reportedflown in by escaped American pilots. A number have come in piloted byItalian officers."

  "Thank you, sir," Stan said. "I would like to have immediate service ina fighter squadron."

  "That will be arranged from my office. Now get into some proper clothingand report to Mess Nine. Hold yourself ready there to report to thisoffice. We have a lot of questions to ask and we'll be ready to startasking them as soon as you are clothed and fed."

  Stan snapped a salute and about-faced. He marched out of the office, gotthe location of Mess Nine from an orderly, and headed in thatdirection.