A Yankee Flier in Italy Part 8

There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of guards who stood around with rifles at ready until the plane started down the runway.

Stan was squeezed in between O'Malley and Allison. The s.p.a.ce inside the bomber was very limited, for it was not intended as a pa.s.senger plane.

Besides the pilot and copilot, two men armed with pistols sat in the cramped quarters. The Italians had very thoughtfully provided their prisoners with parachutes. One of the guards spoke English and was not unwilling to talk. Stan singled him out at once.

"I have been in America," the guard said in a friendly fas.h.i.+on.

"What city?" Stan asked.

"New York. I stay one year."

"Didn't you like it?" Stan asked with a grin.

"Sure, it was much good. I come back for my brother and then there is war. I must stay." The soldier shook his head sadly.

"After the war you'll be going back?" Stan asked.

"Sure. It is a fine place to live, New York. I make plenty money, got friends." The soldier smiled. "I will see you then."

Stan laughed. "You sure will." His eyes were on the back of the pilot's neck. If O'Malley reached out he could touch the man flying the plane.

Stan bent forward, at the same time signaling O'Malley with his knee in short and long taps. O'Malley finally woke up and answered the Morse SOS. As Stan talked to the soldier he also telegraphed to O'Malley and later to Allison.

What Stan suggested was that they get control of the two pistols. The friendly soldier was bending closer. Stan would offer to show him some pictures from America that he had in his wallet. He would get the man off guard and when he had a chance would grab his pistol and push him over into the cramped back part of the s.h.i.+p. O'Malley and Allison would have to get the other pistol.

"I think I have some pictures you may recognize," Stan said. He fished out a wallet which the Italians had not taken from him. Opening it he pulled out several snapshots of planes he had piloted at one time or another, but he held them so that the soldier had to bend forward. The guard leaned over almost against Stan.

Like a flash Stan's hand shot out and he had the pistol. He lunged forward at the same instant, planting his head in the guard's chest. The soldier went over his stool and landed in a cramped position in the narrow waist of the plane.

O'Malley had leaped the instant Stan's hand shot out. Allison did a good imitation of an American tackle. The second guard lost his gun but put up a tussle. Stan wedged past the struggling men and jammed the pistol barrel into the neck of the pilot.

"We'll take over now," he snapped.

The pilot cringed forward while the copilot turned about. Stan circled his neck with an arm and cinched down tight. Before the copilot could wiggle free, O'Malley was up forward with the other pistol. The copilot lifted his hands. His face was white and he seemed scared.

"Drag him back and tuck him away with the guards," Stan ordered.

O'Malley and Allison dragged the copilot back and crowded him into the narrow rear compartment with the others. Allison stood guard over them, while O'Malley and Stan took over from the pilot. The pilot was not afraid of the Yanks. He did signals of distress with his wings and put the s.h.i.+p into a dive before Stan laid him out with a rap over the head.

Sliding into the seat Stan began to fight the old Fiat to get her out of a spin.

She was going down, twisting and shuddering in every rivet and stay.

O'Malley finally climbed up front and grabbed the free set of controls.

They heaved her out of her spin just in time. Their wings fanned the tops of a grove of trees and they had to lay over to miss the spire of a church.

"I can handle her now," Stan called across. "I'll go up a bit and then you get back there and have the Italians bail out. We won't need any prisoners. If they kick about it, tell them we'll be setting this s.h.i.+p down on a Malta air strip. That ought to make them bail out." Stan grinned at O'Malley.

"Sure, an' it ought to," O'Malley agreed. "No Fiat iver got to land on Malta under her own power. We'll be shot to kindlin' wood."

"Maybe we won't go to Malta, but that's where we're headed until they bail out," Stan laughed.

O'Malley went back and within a few minutes the Italian crew was unloading. O'Malley had convinced them the plane was headed for Malta and they wanted none of the reception they knew an Italian plane would get over that base.

Stan watched them sail down, one after another. As the last parachute blossomed out, Allison and O'Malley crowded forward. Stan had swung due south, and was holding that course.

"Suppose you see what you can do with the radio," Stan said.

Allison laughed. "There isn't any radio and there isn't a gun aboard this s.h.i.+p, except our two pistols."

"Fine," Stan said and opened the old Fiat up a bit more. "In that case we better get in before dark."

"You better be after rememberin' that I'm commander o' this outfit,"

O'Malley broke in.

"All right, Commander, the s.h.i.+p is yours." Stan eased over a bit. With a grin O'Malley squeezed into the pilot's seat.

"Now you can be after givin' the orders," he said. "Where in blazes are we?"

"We're over Italy," Stan said. "I think the town we just flew over was Cosenza, up the coast from Reggio."

"Do you be after thinkin' that's water ahead?" O'Malley asked.

They looked ahead and saw a strip of water and a long beach. Stan frowned. "Must be the Gulf of Taranto. I guess I'm a bit mixed up."

"I say, old man, we better swing around and head southwest," Allison said.

"We could fly to Africa," O'Malley remarked.

"Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They certainly didn't fill this crate up." Allison's mocking grin appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"How much? Don't be holdin' out secrets on us," O'Malley growled.

"It's only a wild guess, but I'd say about forty minutes."

O'Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the s.h.i.+p around to a south by west course. "Sure, an' we're gettin' out o' here," he said.

Allison slipped into the copilot's seat while Stan sat on a folding stool behind him. O'Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out of the old s.h.i.+p. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.

Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near enough to be identified.

"Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o'clock, Commander," he shouted.

O'Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. "Sure, an'

there is," he said. "It's an escort we've been needin'. Likely the boys will know the way home."

"Certainly they will," Allison said. "And they'll know a Fiat BR 20, also. This crate looks like a bomber."

"We better duck and go downstairs for a bit of hedge-hopping," Stan advised. The Airacobras had spotted the lone bomber and were peeling off like hounds scenting a buck.

O'Malley did not need any suggestions as to what to do. He nosed the Fiat over and sent her down the chute in a screaming dive that threatened to pull the wings off her. Stan glanced at his chute harness to make sure everything was in order. He figured O'Malley would fold up the Fiat like an old accordion when he started to pull her out of the dive.