Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier in Italy

“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 and General 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 other non-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 from inside 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.