BEACH-HEAD
O’Malley grabbed his flight orders. He scowled at Captain Marks. For once the captain did not insist that he read his orders. O’Malley turned upon his heel and strode out of the briefing room. He was met in the darkness outside the office by an officer.
“You will fly a course over Tunis and approach Malta from due south, Lieutenant. Colonel Benson’s orders. You are to make as many flights as possible today. There will be heavy action in the straits and you are to avoid that area.” The officer saluted and moved on into the briefing room.
“Sure, an’ I’ll do me own settin’ o’ the course,” O’Malley bellowed.
He was met at his plane by his master mechanic. “You have two new men today, sir. I have given them a few details of your course.”
“An’ I’ll be givin’ them some more,” O’Malley growled as he climbed into the cockpit.
He settled down and listened for a few minutes to the excited orders jamming the air. Flights were heading out, bomber squadrons were calling in or taking orders. O’Malley set his phones on the beam and bent forward.
“Get ready, you birds of Ferry Flight,” he called in.
“All set,” came back a reply in muffled tones.
O’Malley wondered who the unlucky fliers were. Some poor saps who had gotten in bad with Benson, he guessed. He bent down and shouted to the sergeant.
“How much ammunition have we?”
“From now on the ferry ships will be fully loaded. You may run into trouble, sir.”
O’Malley pulled in his head and kicked on the power. He snapped a release to his mates and waited for them to get off. He had not taken the trouble to get their names, so he could not order them off one at a time. They did not seem to need any instruction. One Lightning wheeled around and roared away, followed closely by the other. O’Malley grunted his approval. The two relief men could fly.
Opening up his engines, O’Malley roared after his flight. He tried to cut across above them but had all he could do to catch up with them. In the gray dawn he saw that the two new men understood how to get speed out of a Lockheed P-38. Finally his two men eased over and let him slide in between them. They closed in, snuggling dangerously close.
“I’d thank ye for a bit more air,” O’Malley growled.
“Are we crowding you, Commander?” a high-pitched voice asked.
“’Tis not crowdin’ me, but I don’t trust yer flyin’ ability,” O’Malley shot back.
“You’re a bit off course,” an unusually gruff voice broke in.
“Sure, an’ I’m flyin’ this outfit,” O’Malley snapped.
They were swinging east by north, which headed them for Sicily. O’Malley scanned the skies as light began to break. Below him the strait was alive with barges and transports. A British monitor wallowed on its way, rolling and plunging. Flight after flight of medium bombers fanned out at low level. High above, the fighter patrols were roaring toward Sicily. O’Malley scowled as he scanned the scene hopefully. Not a German or an Italian plane in sight. It appeared that the best O’Malley would get for setting his own course was a good view of the invasion fleet and the opening wedge of the air forces.
Suddenly the shores of Sicily appeared below, and almost at once O’Malley was jerked out of his sour mood by a shout from one of his pilots.
“Me 110’s coming down at four o’clock!”
“Protect yerselves!” O’Malley shouted eagerly. “Run fer it!”
“Shall we follow your example?” came in a mocking voice.
O’Malley started and his mouth popped open. He knew that voice! Then in came the voice of his other pilot.
“We’ll do as you do, Commander. Lead on!”
“You spalpeens!” O’Malley bellowed. Then he broke out in a loud laugh. “Sure, an’ the Auld Man made monkeys out of you two.”
There was no more time for happy reunion. Seven Messerschmitts were coming down after the bombers. They were not interested in the three Lightnings and hoped that the Yanks flying them had not noticed any Jerries near by. In this they were very much disappointed.
Stan peeled off and banked steeply. Laying over he rolled into position and cut out an Me. As the Jerry flashed past his sights, he opened up and his Brownings sawed a wing off the fighter. He was over and the Jerry was gone before he was able to see what had happened to the enemy ship. As he came up he saw that O’Malley was celebrating. He was doing mad loops and dives that threatened to drive the six Me’s out of the sky before Allison could tangle with one of them. Allison’s voice came in, crisp and exasperated.
“I say, you Irisher. Lay off and let me have a chance!”
“Come on in!” O’Malley yelled back and he stalled and dived after an Me.
The three ferry pilots were finishing off the Jerries when a flight of six Lightnings and three Airacobras slid down from upstairs and joined in. There was only one luckless Me left. Three had been shot down and two had fled. The outnumbered Jerry dived and headed for home.
Allison and Stan closed in beside O’Malley. Their leader called over to them.
“There’s a big fight on down there on that beach. Looks like the boys needed some help to keep the Stukas away.”
“We’re under your orders, Commander,” Stan answered.
“Sure, an’ you birds stand trial right alongside o’ me when we get back,” O’Malley shouted back. He dived and his pals went with him.
Down they went over the invasion beach-head where sky battles raged as German and Italian fighter bombers tried to strafe or bomb Yank and British landing craft.
Stan leaned over and looked down. The scene below was a stirring one. Three battlewagons of the cruiser class lay offshore. In closer, a line of destroyers was blazing fire and smoke as they blasted the shore batteries of the enemy. A group of torpedo boats darted in and out, tormenting an enemy ship. Toward the shore and moving from four big transports came the landing barges: the personnel barges, the tank carriers, the mechanized armament barges. In swarms they were pouring toward the shore. In the air above, Yank and R.A.F. fighter pilots struggled to keep the dive bombers and the torpedo planes from getting at the ships. This was the zero hour for the boys in the barges. Either they established a beach-head or they failed at terrible cost.
Stan forgot that he was supposed to be a ferry pilot. He spotted a Stuka slipping in behind a screen of smoke rising from a burning freighter. Nosing down, he went after the Stuka. He caught a flash of O’Malley and Allison going in, too. They were needed, there was no doubt about that. The German planes were getting through.
Coming down on the bandit, Stan eased over a bit and flattened out to come in on the bomber’s tail. The Stuka was sloping down toward one of the transport ships. Stan kicked his throttle on full and raised his nose until he had the bandit in his sights. His thumb pressed the gun button and he felt the terrific kick-back from his bank of guns. He saw the tail and a large part of the rear compartment of the Stuka wobble and then sheer away. Whirling crazily, smoke billowing up from its torn body, the Stuka went down, landing with a splash close alongside the transport. Stan went over the deck of the ship so low, he could see the grateful Navy boys waving at him.
Swinging inshore, Stan knifed after a Focke-Wulf 190 which was strafing the barges. He sent the 190 kiting along the tops of the waves and away inland. Stan was hot on the tail of the Focke-Wulf. He was sure he would get in a burst, when suddenly a burst of flak from a ground battery enveloped him. He felt the steel ripping through his wings. One motor began to stutter badly. It was then that Stan remembered he was supposed to deliver his plane to Malta in good condition.
Easing around, he climbed upward at a slow rate. He was looking for O’Malley and Allison. He spotted O’Malley by the crazy manner of his attack against an Me 110 which had closed in upon him. Stan grinned in spite of the seriousness of their predicament. Half the tail had been shot off O’Malley’s Lightning. She was not handling very well. The Me had a big edge. Stan went up as fast as his one crippled motor would take him.
The Me pitted against O’Malley had the Irishman in a spot. He had doubled inside O’Malley’s loop and was now on his tail. Stan tried hard to power dive but got only feeble results. He waited grimly, expecting O’Malley to go down under a hail of Nazi lead. But O’Malley did not go down. Another Lightning came roaring down and cut the Me almost in half. Allison had been looking for O’Malley, too.
“How about hitting it for Malta, Commander?” Stan called.
“I say, old man, we better be getting out of here. The boys have everything under control in this sector,” Allison added.
“Sure, an’ we’re headed for home, tuck in close an’ follow me,” O’Malley called cheerfully.
“We better cook up a good report,” Stan said grimly.
“Sure, an’ we got waylaid. ’Tis something could happen to anyone flying ferry planes,” O’Malley answered. “Wasn’t that the way it happened?”
“That is a bit of the truth, you know,” Allison agreed.
“I don’t know how I’ll explain the flak holes I picked up. No Jerry or Italian plane ever carried five-inch guns,” Stan answered.
“We met a enemy battleship,” O’Malley said, unconcerned.
Stan snorted. “The Italian Navy hasn’t poked its nose out of a home base in over a year. We were supposed to be flying in close to Allied shores.”
“Sure, an’ you’re right,” O’Malley answered cheerfully. “But I’ll be thinkin’ o’ something, niver fear.”
Stan looked down and then up. They had plunged into very soupy weather with low clouds and some wind. His ship was not taking it very well. Then it began to rain.
“You better be thinking of getting us in, one of my engines is about to conk out on me,” he called across.
“I’m doing foine,” O’Malley said. “Hear them signals coming in? That’s the boys on Malta giving us the old signal. We’ll ride right in.”
They changed course, heading north. Stan began to frown. It did not seem right to be heading in that direction. Suddenly they sighted a field through the rain. O’Malley dived for the field and Stan followed with Allison close behind. They hit the runway in a drenching rain and rolled in wing to wing.
Suddenly they were confronted by four trucks. The trucks rolled out and halted across their paths, pulling in close before them so that the Lightnings could not turn around. Stan stared at the trucks. They certainly were not Yank or British. Then he saw squads of grinning Italian soldiers poking machine guns over the sides of the trucks. Ground men began swarming out. Everyone was smiling.
“You sure let them call you in,” Stan shouted to O’Malley.
“’Twas a dirty trick, them using our signals to call us in here,” O’Malley fumed.
“Malta is just across the strait, I’ll bet,” Allison said. “I’ve heard that the Italians use this trick, but I never thought they’d fool the Irish.” There was a mocking note in Allison’s voice. “We may as well climb down like good little boys. They have us covered with a hundred machine guns.”
“I’m getting out very carefully,” Stan said. O’Malley said nothing at all, but he climbed out and joined Stan and Allison.
A group of Italian officers crowded around them. All were smiling and bowing as though welcoming the Yanks. O’Malley scowled at them, but Stan grinned back and Allison lifted a hand.
One of the Italian officers stepped forward. He spoke good English.
“You are prisoners of war, gentlemen. Come with us.” He waved a hand toward the dim outline of a building.
The three Yanks were willing to move in out of the rain. They were drenched to the skin. Before they had reached the place where they were to be questioned the rain had ceased falling, and the sun had burst through the clouds. O’Malley was completely disgusted.
“Sure, an’ I calls that a dirty trick. The weather is against us as well as iverything else.”
“Please be seated,” the Italian officer said as they entered a large room.
The three Yanks sat down and waited gloomily. Three high-ranking Italian officers entered. They spoke swiftly in their native tongue to the officer who had escorted the boys to the room. Their words were excited and they made many motions with their hands. O’Malley stared at them sourly. Finally the junior officer turned to the boys.
“General Bolero wishes to ask you some questions.”
The general smiled as he put the questions. “We wish to know how many planes and how many ships you are using. Also we wish to know at what places your forces plan to land.”
Stan spoke up. He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide.
“No one can answer those questions but our high command. We are only ferry pilots as you will see if you examine the flight orders of our leader.” He nodded toward O’Malley.
The general turned and spoke quickly to the other officers in Italian. They looked at O’Malley and talked some more, then the general turned to O’Malley. Before he could speak, O’Malley cut in:
“What I want to know is who’s responsible for the trick that was pulled on us?”
The general smiled and his medal-covered chest expanded at O’Malley’s question.
“I am honored that you appreciate my clever trick,” he said affably.
O’Malley scowled at the general. “’Tis a foul trick,” he said. “I have been insulted an’ I’ll get even with you.”
Stan broke in to avoid O’Malley’s getting into real action against the general.
“What are you going to do with us?”
“You will be flown to one of our prison camps on the mainland. You will be treated strictly according to International Law,” the general answered.
“How soon?” Stan asked. He was thinking the paratroopers might take over this airfield very soon. He knew they would be hitting the coastal fields in order to give the boys spots to work from that were closer to Italy than the African coast.
“At once, at once,” the general said and he seemed suddenly nervous.
“We are in no hurry, old man,” Allison said and grinned.
“Ah, but we are in a very great hurry,” put in the junior officer. “General Bolero is leaving at once. You will be flown out in, say, twenty minutes. I am so sorry there will be no time for dry clothes.” He bowed and nodded to four soldiers armed with rifles who had appeared through a side door. “You will go with the guards.”