Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier in Italy

Stan looked down and then up. They had plunged into very soupy weather with low clouds and some wind. His ship 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 ships 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.

“Ah, but we are in a very great hurry,” put in the junior officer. “General Bolero is leaving at once. You will be flown out in, say, twenty minutes. I am so sorry there will be no time for dry clothes.” He bowed and nodded to four soldiers armed with rifles who had appeared through a side door. “You will go with the guards.”

The three Yanks were rushed out upon the parade ground at the Italian base. Two squads of shouting Italian soldiers escorted them. They burst upon a scene of confusion and excitement. Stan looked across the grounds toward the runways. Suddenly he burst out laughing and poked Allison in the ribs.

“Look! His Nibs is deserting us!”

General Bolero was leading his staff toward a parked plane. For a big fat man he was making fast time. His cape floated out behind him and he had lost his jaunty cap. His officers were loaded down with brief cases, files, and bundles of papers. The general was a full ten paces ahead of them.

“I’d call that a rout,” Allison shouted.

“I think our outfits must be closing in. We’ll have to do some stalling,” Stan shouted.

O’Malley was already stalling. Four men were pushing him along, and he was beginning to show signs of temper. Stan tried to get close enough to shout a warning to him. He did not want O’Malley to start a riot at that moment.

The Italians were evacuating the base in every sort of machine they had. Cars roared across the field, men pedaled by on bicycles, trucks lumbered past, and a whippet tank snorted as it rolled past dragging a field gun. Men on foot rushed in every direction.

Stan stumbled and went down, managing to trip two soldiers. Instantly a dozen Italians were upon him, tugging at him, waving their rifles and shouting. O’Malley took this as a signal to go into action. He swung hard on the chin of an officer standing beside him. The surprised officer went down like a felled beef. With a yell O’Malley waded in, swinging at soldiers as they piled in on him. Many bloody noses and black eyes developed in a hurry, but O’Malley was swarmed under by the weight of sheer numbers. He went down yelling like a Comanche Indian and swinging like Joe Louis.

Stan struggled to his feet and held up his hands. He realized the uselessness of fighting against such odds. The melee O’Malley had caused had drawn almost a company of Italians to the spot. Allison had managed to stay on his feet, but he had suffered from rough handling along with Stan and O’Malley. His uniform, which was wet and sagging, had been torn in a dozen places.

“Go quietly!” an Italian officer bellowed. He had just arrived on the scene. “Go quietly or you will be sorry!”

“We’re going, call off your dogs!” Stan shouted.

The officer shouted orders in Italian and soon restored a semblance of order. Allison called across to Stan.

“Have a look above, and you’ll see what all the excitement is about.”

Stan looked into the sky and caught his breath. The paratroopers were coming. Low over the hilly country a fleet of transports and gliders swept in from the sea. They swept along in perfect formation like giant birds seeking a tree to light upon. Above them fighter planes wove in and out, while on either side fighter-bombers roared along. It was a beautiful sight.