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 werecold 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 lotof 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 ofshell 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 flattenedher, 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 sawwas 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, theskipper 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, torpedotubes, 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 hiseyes 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 Iwouldn'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.
A week passed with Stan lounging around Mess Nine waiting to be assigned to a fighter squadron. During that time he divided his hours between the officers at Intelligence and the board of strategy. He rubbed elbows with generals, British and American and French. During those interviews he got an idea of the great campaign which was being planned. It helped to soften the ache inside him, because he had heard nothing from O'Malley or Allison. It also helped to keep him from getting restless. He knew that a great reserve of air power was being assembled to throw an umbrella of planes over the coming thrust, which was aimed at the heart of Germany, through or across Italy.
The second week was well under way and everyone, except the generals, was beginning to complain and to cast a critical eye at the headquarters of General Dwight D. Eisenhower andGeneral Harold R. L. G. Alexander. Stan knew enough of the plans from his meetings with the officers to know that the blow was coming, and that it would be a swift, savage thrust.
One morning he received a call. It was delivered by an orderly. Stan opened the folded sheet and read an order from headquarters. "Report to Colonel Benson at once for assignment." Stan stared at the order. Benson had located him and demanded his return. The friendly general who had promised to transfer Stan was now in North Africa. Folding the report, Stan began packing the few things he owned. Colonel Benson's command had been moved up to a field close to Messina. That was some comfort. It meant action as soon as the main invasion broke.
But Stan was uneasy. There were many nasty jobs around a fighter squadron to which he could be assigned as punishment for his part in the ferry mess. When Stan was given a low-powered observation plane to fly to Messina, his worst fears seemed about to be realized.
The plane was a Ryan ST-3, a plane used for basic training back home and for odd jobs of scouting, ferrying first-aid supplies, and othernon-combat jobs. It was sleek and fast, as light planes go, but it was far from a fighter.
Stan sent the Ryan up and headed her north by a point or two east. The Ryan showed surprising speed for the size of her engine. Stan grinned as he gunned her. He got to thinking that after the war he would like to own a ship like it.
Swinging in around Mount Etna's cone, he set down on the Italian field where Colonel Benson's boys were holding forth. A field officer took his papers and waved him toward a row of drab buildings.
"The commander wants to see you at once." He spoke gruffly and showed no interest at all in Stan.
Stan unloaded his gear in the briefing room and walked across to the colonel's headquarters. The door was open and he looked into a room barely large enough for a table and three chairs. Colonel Benson was seated at the table. He looked up and when he saw Stan he frowned.
"Come in, Lieutenant Wilson," he called.
Stan stepped inside, saluted, and stood waiting.
"Sit down." The colonel motioned to a chair.
Stan seated himself and waited. The colonel regarded him for a moment, then started to speak.
"In all of the years I have been in service I have never read a report like the one handed to me. That report covers your activities as ferry pilot in my command." The colonel shifted some papers on his desk, selected one and began reading it silently.
"Yes, sir," Stan said, feeling some reply was called for.
"It is a continuous recital of violations of orders resulting in a great deal of trouble. In my opinion it deserves drastic action." His cold eyes stabbed into Stan.
"Yes, sir," Stan answered. He did not intend to argue, not at that moment.
"Take this report." A smile formed at the corners of the colonel's mouth. "The Navy gives us the numbers from three planes that saved a warship from being sunk off Sicily. In checking the numbers we discover the planes are ferry planes bound for Malta." He picked up another report. "Here is a memorandum from General Eisenhower citing Lieutenant Wilson for the delivery of vital documents frominside Italy." The smile faded. "And there is a line mentioning Lieutenant's O'Malley and Allison for covering your escape." The colonel dropped the paper and leaned back.
"Yes, sir," was all Stan could say, but a warm glow was beginning to stir inside him.
"And that last line is the reason for my calling for your services, Lieutenant. I have received a message brought in by an Italian pilot who managed to fly his plane over here." He shoved a piece of soiled paper across to Stan. "It is addressed to you."
Stan caught the paper eagerly and read the scrawled lines upon it.
"Shot down. Prisoners. Held in shed back of Bolero barns. Tony with us. One of the Bolero servants will try to smuggle this out." The note was signed by Allison.
"They're alive!" Stan almost shouted.
"They are," the colonel said dryly.
"They'll be treated like spies and not prisoners of war. The Germans pulled that on us before," Stan said anxiously.
"You three seem marked down as irregulars," the colonel said. "I now find myself in the position of becoming a party to your wildschemes." He laughed outright. "I have not reported this to headquarters. I am afraid O'Malley and Allison should and would be marked down as expendables and left to be shot by the Germans." He straightened and shoved the papers aside. "With a fast, light bomber, would you have a chance to land over there?"
"I certainly would," Stan said eagerly. "The Bolero boys have a secret landing strip where they hid their planes when they didn't want Mussolini's agents to trail them. That landing strip is just above the place where the Germans are holding Allison and O'Malley."
"In that case I'll assign you a fast bomber and an objective. You will drop your bomb load at another spot and make a try." His eyes were twinkling. "And if you should bring back Mussolini, I think you might get a medal."
They both laughed. Stan looked at his watch. "Dusk would be the time to hit there. I can make it tonight."
"As you like," the colonel said. "Report to me at once when you get back. What information you gather should clear over my desk." He grinned. "I am a bit of a politician, you see."
Stan saluted and made off while the colonel got busy on the telephone getting a ship assigned to him.
When Stan reported to the briefing room he found the colonel there. The briefing officer and his second in command gave him his locations and his bombing data, the weather and the wind drift. Everything was very much routine and like a hundred other sorties being made hourly over selected targets by from one to fifty planes. The colonel walked out to the runway with Stan.
They shook hands like old pals. Stan smiled. The colonel was deadly serious.
"Landing almost on a German flying field isn't going to be a soft touch," he said grimly. "Not even with your luck."
Stan turned to his ship and his smile broadened. Colonel Benson had gone to considerable trouble in selecting a bomber. The ship that stood with idling props was a De Havilland Mosquito. She was humpbacked like a codfish. Her forward gun opening and her nose greenhouse made her look like a fish. They furnished eyes and mouth. She was a plywood job, light, but the fastest bomber in the world.
He waved a hand to the colonel and climbed up. None of the ground men seemed interested in his lack of crew or light bomb load. In the swelter and rush of round-the-clock operations the boys followed orders and rushed each job out, knowing that another ship had to be on the line as soon as one craft cleared a spot.
Stan leaned back against the shock pad and checked his dials. He cracked the throttle a bit more and his powerful radials roared with surging power. The Mosquito shuddered and trembled against her chocks.
"Ready, Flight Fifty-four?"
"Ready," Stan called back.
"Lane Three, Flight Fifty-four." The voice from the control tower snapped off.
Stan eased up and signaled the men below. The chocks were jerked loose and Stan gunned the ship. She leaped forward with a snap that would have done credit to any fighter craft. Darting down the runway she hoiked her tail and was off before she had covered a fourth of the alloted space. Upward she roared like a streak. The boys on the ground grinned. The Mosquito got off so fast she was out of sight before any spotter could pick her up.
Easing around in a wide circle, Stan put her nose into the wind and let her have her head. He settled himself to the job ahead, his pulses beating in tune with the roar of the slip stream of air piling up and rolling off the leading edges of his wings. A good ship, the De Havilland. She was the craft used to make regular flights between England and Malta. Too fast for interception, the Mosquitoes streaked right across Hitler's Germany or across France, running supplies daily through enemy-guarded skies.
The coast of Italy showed clearly ahead. Slipping in over Reggio Stan picked a rail line and checked with his eye. No need for a bombardier here. He lined up on the track and then spotted a short string of cars. The train was standing still and smoke lifted from its locomotive. Stan suspected some other Yank had spotted it and laid a stick of bombs on the track, blocking it.
Stan knew he should cut loose his bombs and be on his way. But the feel of the Mosquito made him eager to try her out. This was an ideal target for the fast-flying bomber. If he went down he would be sure to stir up German fighter planes. The temptation was great.Stan nosed over and sent the Mosquito roaring down the chute. He lined up on the freight train as he went.
The landscape wavered up at him. The train seemed to be twisting and turning like a snake trying to wiggle away, though he knew it was not moving. The wind ahead of his diving wings piled up and banked like invisible snow, making the plane shudder and shake. Stan grinned. Only the Lockheed Lightning could fly a dive fast enough to bank up air like snow; that was what he had always thought, but the diving Mosquito was doing it. Stan began to wonder if a ship made of plywood could take the strain of a pull-out after such a dive.
He released his stick of bombs and the Mosquito bounced like a golf ball before the cutting edge of a driver. Up she went and Stan set himself against the "high G's" he had to expect. First, as he started up, there was a blurring of vision, then a graying, and then a momentary blackout. Instantly the graying appeared before his eyes again, then the blurring, and a moment later clear vision. Stan whistled softly.
"Some ship!" he muttered. "She makesanything I ever flew except the old Lightnings look slow."
Three Messerschmitts knifed down from a cloud, but the Mosquito was on her way under full throttle and leaving the toe of the Italian boot at a space-devouring pace. The Me pilots saw what they had picked up and slid off in disgust.
The Mosquito went up so fast that Stan could not see the results of his attack upon the train. Heading east he caught sight of the bay of Taranto, then turned north. Flying on the east rim of a mountain ridge he bored along.
Checking the miles off as best he could, Stan turned west when he thought he was opposite Naples. He zoomed up higher and higher until he spotted the city on the coast, then he eased around and ducked back and up into a layer of clouds. Darkness had not settled, but he figured he could slide in back of the ridge above the Bolero villa and spot the hidden landing strip.
Easing down he clipped along the tops of the trees. Three Focke-Wulf 190 fighters spotted him and he made off, leaving them to wander above the hill country. Returning, he zoomedalong the ridge. Back and forth he slid but failed to locate the strip. Again he was spotted and had to run for it. The next time he came back he flew along the top of the ridge, which caused no less than a dozen Jerry fighters to take after him. But he spotted the hidden strip before he made off.
Dusk was beginning to settle when he came back. This time he had to land regardless of the fighter planes. He came in straight for the strip, flying so low he was below the trees in many spots. He was surprised to find that there was a natural avenue which allowed him to slide in under fair cover. The Bolero boys had selected their secret field well. One Me darted over to have a look, but did not dive down. Stan set himself and cut his engines. He was coming in now, either for a landing or a crash. Topping a row of small trees he let the Mosquito settle toward the grassy lane below.
The wheels of the ship tipped the grass, then settled down solidly. Stan applied his brakes and eased into a smooth and even landing. As he rolled in, he spotted the big trees with overhanging branches where the Nardi fighters had been parked. Gunning the Mosquito a bit heslid under cover just as three Me's roared past looking for him. They went on to the east, but came back to crisscross the ridge. Stan smiled. The German pilots seemed puzzled over the way a bomber had vanished into thin air.
Swinging the Mosquito around under her own power he set her in position for a quick take-off, then began getting out his pack of rations and the light machine gun he had brought with him. He was eager to work his way down the bridle path before darkness settled completely.
Stan kept under cover until he located the bridle path leading over the ridge. The Me's were still combing the ridge above, but the woods and the meadows were full of long shadows which made spotting a camouflaged object impossible.
Moving down the path Stan kept a sharp watch for guards. The pathway was really a tunnel under the trees. Overlapping branches formed a natural roof. This cover made the path almost pitch-dark. But Stan moved swiftly. He wanted enough light to spot the prison where the boys were being held.
Reaching the opening in the hedge he discovered that someone had moved the branches of the hedge row so that they entwined over the opening hiding it. Standing behind the hedge he listened. Judging by the sounds, there was plenty of activity in the camp, and Stan couldsee lights shining through the wall of leaves. A motorcycle roared and a truck motor joined it. Men's voices could be heard clearly.
Moving along the hedge Stan peered over it. He could see into the wide yard of the villa and also into the yards around the barns. Every building was lighted up and the place swarmed with Germans. Stan had never seen so many German officers in a single spot before. Groups of them sat around outdoor tables in the back yard of the villa. They were eating and drinking wine from the Bolero cellars. There was a lot of shouting and laughter.
Stan turned to the barns. He moved along them until he could see the back yard of the big barn. Here there were a number of smaller sheds and barns as well as the kennels. All of them were lighted and so were the yards around them. Guards marched back and forth in front of the kennels and before three of the sheds. Stan was certain he had located the prisons, but there was no way of telling which one contained his pals. One thing was certain, the Germans felt safe here at Bolero Villa. They probably figured Allied bombers would think the place was Italian and leave it alone. The manytrees hid the trucks, cars, and German soldiers from view. Stan grinned. When he got back, the bomber boys would know where to drop a stick of bombs.
This condition made it easy for Stan to observe because the guards figured their only job was to keep the prisoners from escaping. They were not worried about an attack. Moving around behind the kennels Stan found darkness. He managed to wiggle up to the back wall. There were no windows in the back of the shed. He checked the other guarded sheds and found no windows in the rear of them. Moving back to the hedge he crouched there watching the three buildings.
The only way to get into any of those buildings was through the doors or one of the front windows. The windows were open and not barred, but at least a dozen guards patrolled the grounds. They were scattered out, making a blitz machine-gun attack difficult. By the time Stan had blasted the guards out of the way he would have several hundred officers and men attacking from the grounds below.
A soldier approached one of the guards, spoke to him, then entered one of the buildings,a shed between the kennels and the third barn. A light flashed on and Stan could see men inside the building. They were packed in, standing close together, those he could see through the window. All of them were Italian soldiers.
After a bit the soldier came out with an Italian officer walking ahead of him. They went directly to the grounds below. Stan eased along the hedge until he was opposite the kennels. Here he halted and parted the branches of the hedge. He listened intently. The prisoners in the kennels were talking but their voices were very low. One of them laughed and the guard at the door shouted an order in German. With the butt of his rifle he hammered against the sill. There was silence inside and then a voice called out:
"Get away from that door, ye dirty spalpeen! Yer disturbin' the pleasure o' gentlemen!"
Stan almost shouted. That was the voice of O'Malley. The guard beat harder upon the sill of the door and shouted louder. Stan heard Allison warning O'Malley to keep his mouth shut. Silence settled inside the building.
Pulling out his sheath knife Stan began cutting a hole in the hedge. The hedge had beencarefully tended by the Bolero gardener. The limbs of the shrubs had been entwined and laced together, making the hedge almost a solid wall. Stan cut away a large hole, leaving only a few branches over the inside to hide his work. Getting down he crawled into the opening.
The guard was standing facing the spot where Stan was crouching. A floodlight in the yard made the whole place as light as day. Stan watched the other guards as they moved about. Under a tree at the entrance to the yard a heavy machine gun had been planted. A crew of three men manned the gun. It was set to cover the three jails and the whole yard.
The situation looked hopeless. With so much light an attack could not be engineered. Suddenly Stan's lips pulled into a straight line. He had a bright thought. The yards and grounds had never been lighted up so completely by the Bolero family. That meant the Germans had strung a lot of wire. If he could locate the main line and cut it, he could plunge the place in darkness long enough to break into the shed where his pals were being held.
After studying the yard and the lighting, Stan decided the wires came in from the bigbarn. Working his way around the sheds he came to a spot where a wide and well-lighted roadway separated them from the big barn. Four Germans guarded the road and they were well spaced. Again he was blocked.
Then he noticed that a set of heavy wires came down from somewhere in the darkness to the corner of the big barn. They swung in from high above his head. Stan grinned. The electricity for the whole villa came in from behind the barns. It was like General Bolero to have unsightly power poles at the back of his estate. Stan turned and headed into the woods. He was looking for a power line pole.
The job of locating a pole among a forest of trees was not easy, but Stan had the general location from the run of the lines. After a few minutes of hunting he located the pole and got set to climb it. He stacked his things at the base of the pole. He would have to slide down in a hurry and dash to the attack. He hoped there would be plenty of confusion. He also hoped the lead-in wires were insulated. The line was at least 220-volt, because there were three wires leading to the barn.
Climbing up the pole Stan came to a transformer.Gingerly he tested one of the wires with the hard rubber handle of his knife. Nothing happened, so he started sawing away. He was not shorted by any part of the transformer or any wire he might be touching in the darkness. The wire was thick and heavy but it was copper and his sharp knife bit into it. With a tug Stan severed the heavy wire and felt it go twisting away into the darkness, which had suddenly become very black because all of the lights in and around the villa had snapped off.
Stan almost fell down the pole. He heard shouting and bellowing from the yard. Shots were fired and flashlights began to stab back and forth. Stan grabbed his machine gun and leaped into the road leading to the small barns. Suddenly the machine gun under the tree opened up. The Germans knew a prison delivery attempt was on. Stan halted and pulled a grenade from the sack slung over his shoulder. Jerking the pin, he tossed it just as he had often tossed a forward pass in a football game.
A sharp roar and a flash of fire told him the grenade had gone off, and the sudden ceasing of the staccato voice of the machine gun told him he had scored a hit. He did not have timeto look as he charged toward the kennels. He ran into a German and knocked the soldier down with the barrel of his machine gun. Reaching the door he came to grips with three Germans. They had an electric lantern and they spotted him closing in, but not quick enough. Stan's tommy-gun blasted them off the wide stone flagging before the door.
"Hi, Allison! O'Malley!" Stan hit the door with his shoulder in a leaping dive. He went crashing into the room with the door draped around him.
"Stan!" O'Malley roared from the darkness.
"Here! Get close to me and follow me!" Stan shouted as he staggered to his feet.
Outside, the flaming and the sound of Stan's tommy-gun had given away his location. Rifles and pistols began blasting away. Bullets splintered the front of the building.
"Get down low!" Allison called.
A dozen men had rushed out of the kennels, carrying Stan with them. He heard a man groan and go down as a bullet hit him.
"Here!" he bellowed.
O'Malley and Allison located him. They knew just about where he was headed. Wigglingalong on their hands and knees, the three fliers moved to the hole in the hedge.
They slid through and, paused. "Where's Tony and Arno?" Stan asked.
"In the shed next to ours," Allison answered. "They were captured the day we were shot down."
"Sure, an' if you'll wait I'll go beat down the door," O'Malley whispered.
"We'll all go," Stan answered. "We'll batter open both prisons."
The three, keeping close together, circled and charged into the mass of milling Germans. They were not spotted because there was little light. Flashlight beams stabbed here and there, but none of the fingers of light found the three Yanks. They actually shouldered their way to within a few yards of the first door.
"I'll take this one, you and O'Malley take the other. I'll clear the way with the tommy-gun," Stan hissed.
He opened up with a burst of fire which scattered the Germans, then charged the door. O'Malley and Allison smashed the other door. Stan heard the shouts of the prisoners as they piled out. He backed away as men lunged outof the building he had opened. Stan thanked his luck that the doors had been built out of light plywood. He leaped aside and turned his submachine gun on the Germans. He swung his arc of fire across the yard and sent the Nazis charging for cover.
Ceasing his fire he ducked for the hole in the hedge. Allison was already there, but O'Malley had not showed up.
"Hope he hasn't gotten any crazy ideas," Stan growled.
"He probably has," Allison said. "How'd you douse the lights?"
"I cut the main line, but they'll locate the break and fix it in a hurry."
Suddenly they heard O'Malley coming. He ducked through the hedge. Behind him came two other men. O'Malley had stayed to locate Tony and Arno.
"How did you find us?" Tony asked excitedly.
"Allison got someone to smuggle out a note. I have a bomber up on your secret field to take us off, if we can get up there," Stan answered. "It's so dark, I don't know whether we can locate the path."
Arno laughed softly. "We will lead you and we will show you how to take off in the dark."
"I'm glad you're along," Stan said.
Arno led the way up the trail. He moved along at a fast pace. He knew every twist and turn in the trail. The Yanks were hard put to keep up with him. Tony brought up the rear, which helped to keep the party together.
They reached the little meadow that served as a runway. Arno led them straight to the hidden parking ground. Here they halted under the wing of the Mosquito.
"What you flying?" O'Malley asked.
"A Mosquito bomber," Stan answered.
"One o' them wood crates?" O'Malley asked. He did not try to hide his disgust.
Stan laughed. "And I'm flying her, see? I wouldn't ride in as fast and tricky a ship as this Mosquito with you at the controls."
"I'll bet me auld grandmother could fly as fast," O'Malley said.
"The lights are on below," Arno broke in. "I hear German soldiers coming up the slope through the woods."
"They have a big force down there," Allison said. "I'll bet they comb this mountainside."
"We'll never be able to take off as black as it is," Stan said. "We'll have to wait for the first light so we can see something."
"By that time the Germans will have found the ship. See the lights flashing in the woods below?" Tony spoke sharply.
Arno laughed. "Now I will show you how we took off on black nights. Will your bomber lift in a hurry?"
"Faster than a Nardi fighter," Stan said.
"Wait. I will show you," Arno said and disappeared into the blackness.
"We have done it many times," Tony said, laughing.
Arno was gone only a few minutes. When he returned he explained:
"First we roll the ship out from under the trees by hand if we can."
"That will be easy. There is a downgrade and the Mosquito is light weight," Stan said.
"Then we get the engines warm enough to take off." Arno paused.
"That will take a little time. We may have to stand off the Germans," Stan said.
"When the engines are hot I will place two blue flares with a red one in the middle for atarget. It is so easy. You head for the red flare and take off before you get to it."
"Good work. You have the flares?" Allison asked.
"We keep a supply here," Arno said. "I will place them. When you shout to me that the engines are ready, I will light them. Then I come running and we take off."
"'Tis very simple," O'Malley said eagerly. "Sure, an' we better get her rolled out."
The boys got hold of the Mosquito and rolled her out. Arno made off to set his flares. Before the boys piled in, Stan handed his tommy-gun to Allison. "You're an artist with this sort of banjo. You stay on the ground. If any German squads show up, you chase them back into the woods."
"Good idea, old boy," Allison said as he took the gun.
Stan went up and wound up the radial motors. They coughed and sputtered but finally took hold, first with a rumbling gallop that was uneven, then with a smoother roar. The sound of those powerful radials shook the night air. Stan knew their full-throated exhausts could be heard by the Germans.
Flashes of light winked in the woods below, Stan judged that the German squads were not over two hundred yards down the slope. Some might be even farther up the hill. He tested the engines with a jerk of the throttle. They bogged down and sputtered, too cold to take off.
Suddenly rifle fire broke out across the open meadow. The Germans were firing at the flaring exhaust flames from the Mosquito's engines. Bullets whistled past the ship. Allison opened up and the firing from the woods ceased. Suddenly a machine gun began to blast. Its bullets ripped into the ship and around it. Stan gunned the engines and they caught, bursting into a perfect and unbroken stream of power.
On the ground Allison could tell by the sound of the engines that the ship was ready. He began shouting to Arno. Stan throttled down to allow Allison's shouts to carry.
Suddenly a flare blossomed. A few minutes later another flamed. Stan waited impatiently for what seemed a long time. He could tell by the stabs of flame from the rifles across the meadow that the Germans were charging down upon Arno. Then the red flare burst into flame. Stan fixed the spot in his mind, just in case aGerman got to the flare and put it out. Allison was blistering the Germans rushing down upon Arno, but the distance was too great for a tommy-gun.
Stan kicked the motors on, setting his brakes hard. The attackers were now fanned out and charging across the meadow. Allison could not halt them because they had spread out thinly over a wide front.
"Should we leave Arno?" Tony asked. "He would want more than anything else that you men got away."
"We're not leavin' him!" O'Malley shouted. "I'll get down an' go help him. He may have been hit by a bullet."
"No, we won't leave him," Stan agreed grimly.
Suddenly Allison climbed up. "They'll be on us in a minute!" he shouted.
"Here comes the boy!" O'Malley bellowed.
Arno's head appeared in the circle of light from the instrument panel. Allison gave him a hand, dragging him into the cockpit.
Before the trap could be closed Stan gave the Mosquito her head. She shot away like an arrow released from a bow as her brakes easedfree. Straight at the stabbing tongues of rifle fire she roared. The firing ceased as the Germans leaped frantically out of the path of the charging bomber.
Stan held her straight for the red flare. Long before they reached it he hoiked her tail and bounced her off. She went up like a kite caught by a gale. O'Malley, sitting beside Stan, looked over and grinned.
"That was sweet!" he shouted.
"You haven't seen anything yet!" Stan shouted back. He leaned toward O'Malley, "Have Allison get the radio set working."
A few minutes later Allison had established long-range communications with the base at Messina and was reporting in. O'Malley went back to put in an order for three huckleberry pies and a steak. Arno took his place. Stan was letting the Mosquito cruise along. He leaned toward Arno.
"What about the general?"
"The Germans have him. He is a prisoner at Naples," Arno said in a worried voice.
"We'll take care of that. We're taking Naples very soon," Stan assured him.
"I'm afraid that may not help much. TheGermans are in a fury over the action we have taken. They will take revenge not only upon Father, but upon the people of Naples and of every city they have occupied." Arno looked straight ahead into the night.
"We'll figure out something," Stan said grimly.
O'Malley came forward and sat back of Stan. Stan called over his shoulder.
"I am to deliver you fellows to Colonel Benson."
"Colonel Benson!" O'Malley yelped. "Sure an' that means we'll spend the rest o' the war in the guardhouse!"
"That's the safest place for you," Stan retorted.
Allison called forward over the intercommunication phone that the colonel sent his regards and that he had personally ordered O'Malley's pies and steak for him. O'Malley listened in. He began to grin.
"Sure, an' mebby the old brass hat has some feelin's after all."
"Don't build up any false hopes," Stan warned.
"Did he send you after us?" O'Malley demanded.
"He did," Stan said.
O'Malley leaned back and licked his lips. He closed his eyes so as to be better able to get a mental picture of the pies awaiting him.
Stan eased down a bit and called to Allison for a check on their location and course. Everything looked fine and fair, but Stan knew that it was at such times that trouble usually popped.
Messina was easily located as they came in at low altitude because the Yank and British batteries on the island were shelling the German-held port of Reggio across the two-mile strait. Flares were blossoming along the mainland, dropped by Yank fliers. Allison got in touch with their field and they came in. The air traffic was heavy and the field was a beehive of activity. No special attention was given the De Havilland except by the crew assigned to take her over. They came racing out to make her fast.
The master mechanic grinned at Stan as he jumped down. "Good work, sir," he said eagerly. The Mosquito was his pet and he hadworried about her all the time she was away. After finding out where she was going he had been sure she would never get back.
Stan smiled at him. "She's home without a scratch, and she's a great ship, sergeant," he said.
The sergeant beamed happily. "She sure is, sir," he agreed proudly. Then he added, just having remembered the important message he was to deliver to the bomber's skipper, "Colonel Benson wishes to see your entire crew as soon as you land." He snapped a salute and turned to his crew.
"Sure, an' I'm starved. I'm hopin' he won't give us a two-hour lecture on how to invade Italy," O'Malley grumbled.
They hurried to the colonel's headquarters, where they found their commanding officer waiting for them. He beamed upon the dirty, unshaven group headed by Stan.
"I'll only keep you a few minutes, gentlemen," he said. "Be seated."
Stan saluted smartly and spoke his piece. "I'd like you to meet General Bolero's sons, Tony and Arno. They made it possible forus to deliver the papers from the general and later to escape."
"What you have done is appreciated. I hope I may be able to be of service to you," the colonel said.
"We wish to fight the Germans. We are both pilots," Arno said.
"I believe that can be arranged," Colonel Benson said.
He looked at Allison and O'Malley and a broad smile formed on his lips.
"I have heard of the luck of the Irish. Now I am willing to add the British to that list. What I wanted to say is that you are requested not to talk about your experiences at all until you have reported to headquarters in Malta. After that you will be returned to my command. No one is going to talk me out of three fliers like you men." He looked at Tony and Arno. "Possibly I might be able to make it five."
O'Malley seemed to feel this was a soft spot where he could safely make a request. He grinned at the colonel.
"We have a job to do, sor, one that won't wait very long."
The colonel's smile faded and he eyed O'Malley sternly. "I'm listening," he said warily.
"General Bolero has to be rescued from them Germans. They may decide to shoot him."
The colonel looked suddenly very unhappy, "That is really a job I am not supposed to handle. After all, I am only a sector commander and not in charge of the war in the Mediterranean area."
"It could be done aisy," O'Malley said. "I'd like to have the job."
The colonel regarded O'Malley grimly. "I don't doubt but you would do it. However, there is some little risk. While you men are reporting to headquarters, Lieutenant Wilson and I will be giving the matter our consideration." He got to his feet. "Wilson, you see that our friends are outfitted. Get cleaned up and have a big feed." He nodded toward O'Malley. "I have set aside a supply of pie for you, Lieutenant."
The party saluted and made off. O'Malley was not too happy. "If you sneak off alone to get the general, I'll thrash the daylights outo' you when I get back from seein' the brass hats," he growled.
"I won't take on the whole German army alone," Stan assured him. "I'll see that you're in on it."
"You better," O'Malley warned sourly.
They found their quarters and all headed for the showers. O'Malley wanted to eat first but they talked him out of the idea.
Events moved rapidly for Stan during the next day or so. General Montgomery's Eighth Army was driving up the toe of the Italian boot, while General Clarke's Fifth Yank army was having a tough time holding its bridgehead at Salerno. Stan was tickled when O'Malley and Allison returned. Arno and Tony came with them.
Colonel Benson called the boys to his headquarters. He was a very busy man. He was working twenty hours a day and lines of weariness furrowed his face. His fighters and bombers were at last masters of the air over Salerno, but they got no rest after their victory. The Germans were entrenched in specially prepared spots on high ground overlooking the beaches. Artillery positions had to be blasted, and the repeated tank attacks had to be checked or the Fifth's landing force would be blasted into the sea.
The boys entered the colonel's office. He nodded toward chairs. When they were seated, he turned to Stan.
"Have you any plans for the rescue of General Bolero? We need his knowledge of military positions behind the German lines."
Stan looked at Arno. "The plans are really Lieutenant Arno Bolero's," he began. "Arno and Tony are familiar with every foot of the country where their father is being held. He is a prisoner in a house once owned by Don Sachetti. The Sachetti family and the Bolero family were very close friends. Arno and Tony have spent many days at their home. If they can go with us, we will have a chance of success."
"They can go. Now what is your plan?" the colonel glanced at his wrist watch. He was to have a conference with high officers in five minutes.
"We will take one De Havilland plane. Four of us will parachute into a field at night. Here, again, the boys will know just where to land to hit a field of grain the Germans are saving for harvesting. The plane will return to base and come after us the next night. If we do not set signal flares for landing, the plane will retireand keep watch until forced to fly home. It will return the next night and if we do not signal it then, it is not to try again."
Colonel Benson looked from one to the other of the boys. "I understand you men are accustomed to such dangerous jobs. To me it seems there is about one chance in a hundred of your even landing your parachute force."
"If there was an attack on the German field south of the place about the time we arrive, we could get in easily," Stan suggested. "I have prepared a set of maps showing good targets. The Bolero house is a hotel for German officers."
"I'll have operations chart a raid," the colonel promised. "Now I have to go. Lieutenant Wilson will be in command. I have given orders to have him supplied with what he wants." He stepped around the table and shook hands with the boys. "I'm leaving this show up to you fellows. Good luck to you." He turned and hurried out of the room.
"Sure, an' that's the first time the brass hats iver turned us loose," O'Malley said with a big grin.
"And it will likely be the last time," Allison said with a chuckle.
"We'd better be getting over to operations. Now, who's flying the Mosquito?" Stan looked from Allison to O'Malley.
O'Malley swallowed eagerly. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, but he turned to Allison. Allison grinned at him.
"You fly the crate, old man. I'm one blighter who wants to get even for some of the slaps and kicks we got in that prison dog house."
"Sure, an' I'll be after flyin' her," O'Malley said. "But only because I'm thinkin' ye'll be needin' the best pilot in this crew at the controls o' that ship."
"You hate yourself, don't you?" Stan teased. "You fly her, but just remember, if you get into a dogfight and don't show up when we set off our flares, you'll get the beating of your life when we walk in." He grinned at O'Malley.
"I'll be right there," O'Malley promised.
All of the details had been worked out and gone over so many times by the boys that they did not need to check again. They drew the machine guns and grenades they needed along withflares and other equipment. The supply officer got blue parachutes for them from an operating unit.
"Can't be spotted at night," he explained.
Evening was closing in by the time they had everything set. The Mosquito was warmed up and ready. She was stripped down for carrier purposes and to enable her to handle an extra gasoline tank. The ground crews gave her a final once-over, waved to her crew, and backed off. Stan sat up front in the copilot's seat to see that O'Malley was not teased into a fight. Allison and the Bolero brothers manned the machine guns.
O'Malley was a bit skeptical about the powers of the De Havilland, in spite of what Stan had told him. He gunned her and gave her her head. When she snapped off the ground in a manner that would have done credit to a Lightning, he began to grin and mumble to himself.
"Just don't get any wild ideas," Stan warned. They had sighted a flight of Focke-Wulf 190 fighters and O'Malley was eying the Germans with a dangerous gleam in his eye.
"If they run in on us, ye can't blame me," he said sourly.
The 190 fighters tried a run at the De Havilland, but she ran away from them before they could begin to cut her off.
"She's so fast she keeps out of trouble," O'Malley said in disgust.
"That's just what she was built for. Every night her sisters keep Berlin awake with bombing attacks, and every night they fly materials and dispatches from England to Malta. This is something you've overlooked, Irisher." Stan chided O'Malley.
"I may be after lookin' into her doings one o' these days. Spendin' ivery other evenin' in London wouldn't be so bad," O'Malley decided.
Heading north they eased across the backbone of the peninsula which the Germans had not taken the trouble to occupy in any numbers. They moved along while darkness settled. Arno and Tony kept a close check on landmarks. Finally Arno called up to Stan over the phone.
"We can head west again. I have located the ridge and the mountain we will use as a marker."
O'Malley headed the Mosquito west, letting her ease down to low altitude. Arno called in directions.
"We are coming to the divide. There we will follow the ridge north."
O'Malley followed instructions. As they swept up the ridge they saw below them a great fire, with several smaller fires breaking out near by.
"Colonel Benson's boys have hit the flying field," Stan observed to O'Malley.
"Sure, an' I think they're over the Bolero place right now." O'Malley jerked his head to the right. At that moment Tony's voice came in over the intercom.
"The bombers are attacking the villa." He tried not to show his feelings, but the boys knew how he felt. His home was being blasted.
"The whole German staff for this area ought to be down there at this hour," Stan answered. "It's tough, but we have to do it."
"I know," Tony agreed. "If the boys catch even half the staff there, I'll be satisfied."
"Now head west again, very low," Arno ordered.
O'Malley swept lower over the darkening terrain. Stan began to wonder how Arno was going to spot any landmarks. Hopping out into the night would not be so nice. There werelakes and woods and rocky ridges all over the country.
"Into the valley a point left," Arno called. "Fly low and line up on two peaks with square tops which should be against the sky."
O'Malley and Stan peered ahead as the Mosquito dropped into a wide valley.
"There's yer peaks," O'Malley said. Stan spotted the markers as his pal spoke. Two peaks with square tops loomed against the sky ahead.
"Regular gunsights," Stan said.
"Get everything ready to jump," Arno called.
Stan slapped O'Malley on the shoulder. "Be seein' you soon," he said as he slid back to help with the guns and other things they were taking along.