A Yankee Flier in Italy Part 6

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 s.h.i.+ps. Stan kicked his throttle on full and raised his nose until he had the bandit in his sights. His thumb pressed the gun b.u.t.ton 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 s.h.i.+p so low, he could see the grateful Navy boys waving at him.

Swinging insh.o.r.e, 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 n.a.z.i 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 battles.h.i.+p," 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 sh.o.r.es."

"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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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.