Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier in Italy

“Sure, an’ they need shootin’ practice!” O’Malley bellowed as he slipped off on one wing, did a stall, and laid over for another dive. They were now close to the treetops. Another Airacobra dived in and when it zoomed away, they were minus one wing tip and their port engine was stuttering. But they were down among the treetops and O’Malley was hedge-hopping like a wild man. They missed an ancient castle set on a cliff. How O’Malley managed it he himself did not know. One wing lifted and the turrets of the old castle slipped under. Down they went into a little valley, fanning the treetops. One motor was dead and the other was not putting out much power.

Suddenly they realized that they were being covered by flak fired from a field ahead of them. The barrage was fierce and concentrated. It sent the Yank fighters kiting up to a safer level. The boys felt sure of their kill anyway. The Fiat had started to billow smoke out of the tail compartment where an incendiary shell had lodged.

“I’d rather bail out than land in this thing!” Allison shouted.

O’Malley shook his head and grinned. “Not one chance, she won’t lift a foot. Here goes for a belly landing!”

They skimmed over a row of trees and headed for an open field surrounded by woods. The Fiat gave up the ghost halfway across the field. She just settled down and hit the earth in a cloud of smoke and dust. Twisting and turning she plowed her way toward the far tree line. Finally she whirled around and piled up. The dust and smoke was so thick the three Yanks could see nothing. Pawing and struggling they fought their way out of the mass of wreckage. They heard men shouting all around them. Bursting out of the smoke and dust, they found themselves surrounded by fifty or more German soldiers.

For a moment the Germans were as surprised as the three Yanks. They had expected to rescue a crew of Italian fliers. The men before them were dressed in the garb of Italian civilians. An officer bellowed an order and the Germans charged in.

There was no place to run, except out on the open field, and that would have been suicide because a half dozen of the Germans were armed with tommy-guns. The Yanks just stood waiting for the Germans to reach them. The officer in command of the rescue group, a tall fellow with a saber scar on his cheek, halted before them and regarded them critically. Slowly a sarcastic smile formed on his lips. He spoke to them sharply in Italian.

Stan answered in English. “We are officers of the United States Army.”

The officer looked blank but another officer who had come up broke in, speaking clipped but perfect English.

“American fliers dressed as Italian civilians.” He raised his eyebrows. “We can thank your fighters for shooting you down. Your spy system is very dumb, indeed. Your fighter planes should have known better.”

“We were Italian prisoners of war. Our uniforms were ruined. As a matter of courtesy the Italians furnished us what clothing they had.” Stan spoke stiffly. “We demand the rights of prisoners of war.”

“We will decide what rights you have, but I believe you will be shot as spies.” The officer turned to his superior and spoke in rapid German.

Allison had said nothing at all. O’Malley just glared at his captors, his big hands balled into fists. Stan moved close to him.

“Keep your shirt on. We’re in a tight spot,” he said in a low voice.

“Quiet, you!” bellowed the officer. “Do not talk to each other.”

The ranking officer shouted a command and three German soldiers with machine guns closed in behind the boys.

“March!” the younger officer snapped.

They marched toward the woods. The officer moved stiffly ahead. The boys realized that escape from two squads of Italians would have been much easier than escape from the three Germans. They seemed eager to use their deadly tommy-guns.

“I understand German, you know,” Allison murmured as he bumped against Stan. Stan moved closer to his pal and Allison went on.

“The commander is very angry because they were forced to open up on our fighters. Now the location of their guns is known. He is also eager to learn something about the strength of our air forces attacking Sicily and heading for Italy. He hinted we would be baited on by a promise of being treated as prisoners of war if we talked.”

“We won’t talk,” Stan muttered. “Anyway, we don’t know anything.”

Entering the woods they found themselves in a cleverly hidden camp. The boys were lodged in a barracks room with barred windows. Two other prisoners, both Italians, were in the room. A guard stood at the door, while several others paced up and down outside.

“Looks snug and tight,” Stan said.

“Sure, an’ we’ll soon find out,” O’Malley growled.

“We’ll go into a huddle and cook up something,” Stan said. “We’re not in the hands of Italians now, and I don’t feel up to facing a firing squad.”

The three Yanks seated themselves on a rough bench in their cell. The two Italian prisoners looked them over without interest, then went back to their own talk, which they were carrying on in whispers. Every once in a while they shot glances at the boys as though fearing they were trying to hear what was being said.

“Suspicious chaps, what?” Allison said, amused.

“Wonder what they were thrown in for?” Stan mused.

“Sure, an’ it matters very little. What happens to Mrs. O’Malley’s boy is what’s worryin’ me,” O’Malley broke in. “Ivery window is fastened as tight as the purse o’ a Scotsman an’ the door is well guarded.”

“They’ll be coming after us very soon,” Stan said. “They’ll question us one at a time.”

“You’d best act as commander,” O’Malley said. “I might plant a fist on the nose o’ one o’ their generals.”

“I say, that’s a fine idea,” Allison agreed. “Stan, you are in command.”

It was natural for them to turn to Stan. He had always been the most level-headed of the three in tight spots. He grinned at them.

“We’ll see who they pick,” he answered. “But we don’t talk.”

A few minutes later the junior officer who spoke English appeared. He shoved past the guard and stood at the barred door. The two Italian prisoners stopped talking at once. The boys did not get up from their bench. They returned the stare of the officer. His eyes moved over them and paused on Stan.

“Are you in command?”

“I am in command,” Stan answered.

“Come with me. The colonel is very reasonable. If you are not pig-headed you may be treated as prisoners of war.”

Stan got to his feet. One of the Italians had risen. He looked at Stan closely. Suddenly Stan turned back to his pals and bent close to them. In a whisper he said:

“Be careful. I just got the idea those Italians may be planted in here to listen to what we say.”

“Come on, you,” the officer snapped.

Stan moved to the iron grating. Pulling a bunch of keys out of the side pocket of his tunic, the guard unlocked the door. Stan stepped out on a narrow walk which led to a row of doors. The officer marched stiffly at his side. At a glance Stan saw that the place was well guarded. Not less than a dozen men with rifles were spotted within sight of the guardhouse and of the buildings grouped around it.

“You will do well to answer all questions truthfully and in detail. Colonel Kittle is a man of action.” The officer gave decided emphasis to the last words.

Stan did not reply. They were entering a big room with wall cabinets and a desk. Chairs ringed the desk on which lay various trophies and gadgets such as might have decorated the room of any flight lieutenant. Stan spotted a piece out of a Hurricane fighter. There was an American Colt forty-five automatic and a Russian helmet.