HOMEWARD BOUND
Stan was not sure of the terrain he had to fly over. He wanted to avoid the German flying fields if possible, but knew there would be many dispersal areas and flight strips. Getting through would be largely a matter 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 glanced at the air-speed indicator. They were topping three hundred miles per hour.
Suddenly they swept away from the hilly country and were over the German air base. There was nothing to be done about it but keep on going. Stan cast a critical eye downward and laughed softly. He took in the details of the carefully hidden dispersal plots, the tree-shaded oil dumps and the shrub-covered barracks. The picture he was fixing in his mind might be useful later.
They had reached the center of the area when the surprised ack-ack gunners woke up. A half-dozen groves of trees suddenly erupted flame and the sky above the three streaking Nardi’s was filled with smoke tracers and exploding steel.
The Yanks went on and were away from the field before the gunners got their altitude spotted. Stan drew a deep breath of relief. He was glad that he had followed his hunch to fly low. Then he noticed O’Malley, on his right, zoom upward, while Allison looped off to the left. An instant later he spotted the reason for this maneuver. He had been so interested in the ground below that he had forgotten the sky. A returning flight of twenty Messerschmitts had spotted the Italian planes.
The Me pilots evidently had received orders not to let any Italian planes escape to join the Allies. They were coming in low for a landing and that gave the Yanks a break. But there were twenty of them, and they were faster and more heavily armed than the Nardi ships.
Stan held his course steadily, while he tried to coax a few more revs out 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 had gotten the edge on the Jerries. They were up above and getting set to come down to cover his retreat.
Grimly Stan gave his attention to his course. He was hedge-hopping over trees and power lines. Never in his life had he seen so many power lines. By staying down he made it tough for a diving enemy. But these Jerries were veteran fliers. They had learned a few things about rhubarb raiders and how to handle them from the many raids staged out of England upon the low countries. Three of them fanned out each way, right and left, and came zooming around in a circle like coyotes bent upon cutting off the retreat of a jack rabbit.
Stan watched them as they went into their circle and saw that even in making such a maneuver they could outfly his ship. He held his course and a tight smile formed on his lips. Everything depended upon his timing. If he handled the thing right and guessed right, he would dodge the cross fire of the six killers.
The Me’s came in in pretty formation, three to a side, staggered so as to lay down a terrible and enclosing wall of death. Stan’s hands were cold upon the controls, but they were steady. His eyes took in all the attackers in one moving picture. He was waiting for a tip that would give him the break he needed. He had given up hope that O’Malley or Allison would be able to break through and crack the deathtrap. Fourteen Me’s were savagely attacking them, bent upon their destruction.
The Jerries gave Stan his break just before they went into the final act of the kill. They thought they were trapping an Italian pilot and they knew just how the Italian boys flew. One of the planes on the left lifted a little to clear the zoom of the Me under him. That was all Stan needed to know. The three Jerries on the left would go up, slamming lead across his path. Two of the Me’s on the right would go down and one would 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 the air. The maneuver was a beauty. The only thing wrong with it was that the target had shifted course suddenly, leaving them in a wild tangle with 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 top of a small tree less than ten feet high. The power line and the high steel 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 and hope for the best.
Stan did not see the cables or the tower go by; all he knew was that he was boring straight for a red-roofed building set on a knoll. He zoomed up and drew in a big lungful of air. Looking back, he saw that his hounds were still busy getting untangled. He spotted only five of them and guessed that one had come to grief in the circus stunting they had been forced to do.
Looking upward he saw, far above in the blue sky, smoke trailers and little, darting planes. O’Malley and Allison were still up there, he could tell by the pattern of the fight. Then he noticed that the five Jerries who had been battling him started up to join the fight. He had a powerful urge to turn back and help his pals, though going back would be a suicide move.
Bending forward he felt the bulky package inside his shirt and his eyes hardened. His job was to go ahead. O’Malley and Allison were sacrificing themselves so that he could go on. If he went back, he would be throwing away the fruits of their courage and daring.
Dimly and like a miniature motion picture, the battle above and behind him was reflected on his rear-vision mirror. There was a lump in Stan’s throat as he noticed that two of the planes were coming down, twisting and turning, trailing plumes of smoke. Before the picture faded out he saw one parachute blossom, a tiny white flower against the green of the hills and the blue of the sky.
A little later he spotted the coast and the sea. A line of hilly, high ground slipped under his wings and he headed out toward the beaches. Suddenly the peaceful sky around him exploded in his face. Coastal batteries had spotted him. He was low, but this time the gunners were looking for low-flying bombers and strafing planes. They laid their flak and their tracers on him in a deadly hail of screaming steel. The Nardi bucked and turned half over as a shell burst under her belly. Ragged, saw-edged pieces of shell casing ripped through the wings. An exploding shell ripped away the whole nose and the prop. Stan felt the Nardi wobble. Her terrific speed hurled her on and out over the water, away from 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 hatch cover and found it jammed tight. Testing the controls, he found he could still handle the ship in a glide.
Below him he could see two destroyers lying off the shore. They were blasting away at the batteries he had spotted for them. In closer, two PT boats darted back and forth, leaving trailing plumes of white foam behind them.
The Nardi had been flying so low that Stan had no chance to maneuver. He figured she would sink like a rock when she hit the water. Heaving with all of his strength he tried to open the hatch. The cover refused to budge. Green waves were reaching up for him. He smashed at the glass overhead and was able to push out a pane. Savagely he battered away as the Nardi settled down.
With a twist he laid the ship over, then flattened her, heading straight for one of the PT boats. Now he was smashing with both hands at the panes over his head. The glass cut his hands and arms, but he did not feel the pain. He had a hole and he needed desperately to enlarge it.
The Nardi nosed gently into the trough of a big wave, then it hit the wave and crumpled up. Green water surged over the cockpit into Stan’s face. He heaved himself upward and fought to get clear. His parachute was off and he was half out of the cockpit, but a great force was sucking him down, down into the cool depths of the sea.
Stan felt the Nardi hit bottom. The thought flashed through his mind that they were in shallow water. At a moment like this, cold, unwavering control of mind and body was necessary. One moment of panic meant death. Stan gritted his teeth and heaved hard. His waist pulled free and suddenly he was floating upward. His lungs were bursting with fire and his hands smarted, but he stroked hard and a few seconds later he burst out of the water, blowing and flailing. The first thing he saw was the PT boat. It was circling the spot where the Nardi had disappeared. Its skipper 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 sailors hauled him aboard. He was met by a grinning young lieutenant, junior grade.
“I sure appreciate the lift,” Stan said and grinned.
The skipper stared at him. “A Yank!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get the Eity plane?”
“It was loaned to me by Italian friends,” Stan replied. “I have important 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 Lieutenant Del Ewing.”
“I’m Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Army Air Corps,” Stan said. “I have been a guest 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 they can.” Stan spoke soberly. He was thinking of Lorenzo lying on the floor with a smile on his lips, and of General Bolero, who probably had been shot 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 dripping shirt. 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 an oilskin coat. He spoke over his shoulder:
“I can’t land you until tomorrow. This is a mission that can’t be dropped. My radio is shot and I’m here to stay until that destroyer out beyond turns in. If I quit my sector, a sub or a torpedo boat might slide 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 and the PT boat got under way to resume her patrol work. Stan soon began to wonder if the little boat had not joined battle with a German craft. She was hitting a nerve-shattering, plank-busting speed that tossed Stan all over the little room. He turned to the navigator and discovered that the kid was having trouble keeping from being sick all over his charts. He gave Stan a green-lipped smile.
“The skipper is pushing her a bit fast, isn’t he?” Stan asked as he lurched 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,” Stan said. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself.
Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clinging to the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs of water hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching bucker while somebody dumped buckets of water into his face. The whole ship was vibrating 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 to talk, but Stan watched a while.
The PT boat ducked and wove in and out between the destroyers and the shore. Shells burst around her, churning up the sea, but the gunners were 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 or an 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, but he did feel like resting. The skipper came forward and offered to show him 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 decks you’re done for.” He grinned at Stan.
Stan went below and made it into his bunk after the third try. He lay there with the bunk falling away from him, then slapping him hard in the face as it came back at him. He closed his eyes and utter exhaustion finally put him to sleep. His dreams were filled with writhing sea monsters, every one of them rushing through the water at express-train speed.
In the morning the skipper informed him that they were heading for Malta, which was now the headquarters of the Allied invasion forces.
“We got the radio going and asked permission. When we mentioned papers from General Bolero, they called us right in.” Del Ewing grinned broadly. “We’re in luck getting away from this game of tag.”
Stan was standing beside him on the deck and the boat was knifing along half out of the water. Suddenly Ewing bellowed:
“Hard a port!”
The helmsman spun the wheel and Stan clung to the railing with the breath 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 a plane!” 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 laughed heartily.
Stan wiped salt water out of his eyes and shook his head. He had seen many rough-riding vehicles of war, such as tanks and jeeps, but the PT boat had them all bested. Any craft that was such a rough-riding brute that half of its seasoned crew got sick was no place for him, he assured himself.
Toward eleven o ’clock Malta came into view, and they put into port through a mass of ships and flatboats and barges. A sprinkling of warcraft, including one British warship, filled the channel they were following. But that did not bother the skipper. He sent his boat in at planing speed which necessitated a lot of ducking and dodging.
Pulling alongside a dock, the PT boat was made fast. Stan climbed over the side and set his feet firmly on the ground. He was glad to be off the 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 to walking that far.”
“Thanks,” Stan said. “I’d be picked up by the M.P.’s for being drunk if I tried to walk.”
The skipper secured a jeep for Stan from a Navy supply outfit. They shook hands and the jeep roared away at top speed. Stan leaned back and took 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. A lieutenant was waiting for him.
“This way, sir,” he said and hurried away with Stan almost running to keep 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 handed over the package. The general took it and ripped it open at once. Stan stood waiting to be dismissed. He started to back away. The general lifted a hand.
“Don’t leave, Wilson. These papers are vitally important.” He stopped talking and spread out the contents of the package. The other officers were leaning forward. “These are most important, most valuable,” the general said. He shoved the papers over to a colonel.
“Look them over and let me know what you think of them.” He turned to Stan and smiled.
Stan waited for whatever might be coming. The general fingered his close-cropped mustache and continued to smile. Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke.
“Since receiving a message from the Navy regarding your rescue I have had your service record handed to me. I find it quite interesting. What happened to Lieutenant O’Malley and Lieutenant Allison?”
Stan did not smile. “The last time I saw them they were fighting a ten-to-one battle with a flight of Messerschmitts, a delaying action, so that I could get through with these papers. We were flying Nardi fighters 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 and Allison have come back from some tough fights.”
The general reached for a telephone. “I’ll have a check made,” he said.
“Has Colonel Benson been asking about us?” Stan asked and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“I believe it will be best to transfer you to another command. We do not wish to approve your conduct as ferry pilots, but you certainly have rendered a great service.” The general gave his attention to the phone. After fifteen long minutes of waiting and talking he cradled the instrument and shook his head. “No Nardi fighters have been reported flown in by escaped American pilots. A number have come in piloted by Italian officers.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan said. “I would like to have immediate service in a fighter squadron.”
“That will be arranged from my office. Now get into some proper clothing and report to Mess Nine. Hold yourself ready there to report to this office. We have a lot of questions to ask and we’ll be ready to start asking them as soon as you are clothed and fed.”
Stan snapped a salute and about-faced. He marched out of the office, got the location of Mess Nine from an orderly, and headed in that direction.