outfly his ship. He held his course and a tight smile formed on his lips. Everything depended upon his timing. If he handled the thing right and guessed right, he would dodge the cross fire of the six killers.
The Me’s came in in pretty formation, three to a side, staggered so as to lay down a terrible and enclosing wall of death. Stan’s hands were cold upon the controls, but they were steady. His eyes took in all the attackers in one moving picture. He was waiting for a tip that would give him the break he needed. He had given up hope that O’Malley or Allison would be able to break through and crack the deathtrap. Fourteen Me’s were savagely attacking them, bent upon their destruction.
The Jerries gave Stan his break just before they went into the final act of the kill. They thought they were trapping an Italian pilot and they knew just how the Italian boys flew. One of the planes on the left lifted a little to clear the zoom of the Me under him. That was all Stan needed to know. The three Jerries on the left would go up, slamming lead across his path. Two of the Me’s on the right would go down and one would come in straight. Stan kicked the Nardi over hard to the left, heading her for the tower of a high line that swung down from the hills.
The Me’s went into their act, guns blazing away, punching holes into the air. The maneuver was a beauty. The only thing wrong with it was that the target had shifted course suddenly, leaving them in a wild tangle with a lot of stunting to be done before they could close in again.
But Stan’s troubles were not over. His left wing raked through the top of a small tree less than ten feet high. The power line and the high steel tower were hurtling at him. He flattened out and held his breath. There was no time to zoom over the heavy cables; he had to go under and hope for the best.
Stan did not see the cables or the tower go by; all he knew was that he was boring straight for a red-roofed building set on a knoll. He zoomed up and drew in a big lungful of air. Looking back, he saw that his hounds were still busy getting untangled. He spotted only five of them and guessed that one had come to grief in the circus stunting they had been forced to do.
Looking upward he saw, far above in the blue sky, smoke trailers and little, darting planes. O’Malley and Allison were still up there, he could tell by the pattern of the fight. Then he noticed that the five Jerries who had been battling him started up to join the fight. He had a powerful urge to turn back and help his pals, though going back would be a suicide move.
Bending forward he felt the bulky package inside his shirt and his eyes hardened. His job was to go ahead. O’Malley and Allison were sacrificing themselves so that he could go on. If he went back, he would be throwing away the fruits of their courage and daring.
Dimly and like a miniature motion picture, the battle above and behind him was reflected on his rear-vision mirror. There was a lump in Stan’s throat as he noticed that two of the planes were coming down, twisting and turning, trailing plumes of smoke. Before the picture faded out he saw one parachute blossom, a tiny white flower against the green of the hills and the blue of the sky.
A little later he spotted the coast and the sea. A line of hilly, high ground slipped under his wings and he headed out toward the beaches. Suddenly the peaceful sky around him exploded in his face. Coastal batteries had spotted him. He was low, but this time the gunners were looking for low-flying bombers and strafing planes. They laid their flak and their tracers on him in a deadly hail of screaming steel. The Nardi bucked and turned half over as a shell burst under her belly. Ragged, saw-edged pieces of shell casing ripped through the wings. An exploding shell ripped away the whole nose and the prop. Stan felt the Nardi wobble. Her terrific speed hurled her on and out over the water, away from the pattern of shells. But she was a dead duck and Stan knew it. His greenhouse was mashed down close above his head. He tried the hatch cover and found it jammed tight. Testing the controls, he found he could still handle the ship in a glide.
Below him he could see two destroyers lying off the shore. They were blasting away at the batteries he had spotted for them. In closer, two PT boats darted back and forth, leaving trailing plumes of white foam behind them.
The Nardi had been flying so low that Stan had no chance to maneuver. He figured she would sink like a rock when she hit the water. Heaving with all of his strength he tried to open the hatch. The cover refused to budge. Green waves were reaching up for him. He smashed at the glass overhead and was able to push out a pane. Savagely he battered away as the Nardi settled down.
With a twist he laid the ship over, then flattened her, heading straight for one of the PT boats. Now he was smashing with both hands at the panes over his head. The glass cut his hands and arms, but he did not feel the pain. He had a hole and he needed desperately to enlarge it.
The Nardi nosed gently into the trough of a big wave, then it hit the wave and crumpled up. Green water surged over the cockpit into Stan’s face. He heaved himself upward and fought to get clear. His parachute was off and he was half out of the cockpit, but a great force was sucking him down, down into the cool depths of the sea.
Stan felt the Nardi hit bottom. The thought flashed through his mind that they were in shallow water. At a moment like this, cold, unwavering control of mind and body was necessary. One moment of panic meant death. Stan gritted his teeth and heaved hard. His waist pulled free and suddenly he was floating upward. His lungs were bursting with fire and his hands smarted, but he stroked hard and a few seconds later he burst out of the water, blowing and flailing. The first thing he saw was the PT boat. It was circling the spot where the Nardi had disappeared. Its skipper waved to Stan and shouted.
“Keep afloat! We’ll toss you a line!”
“Thanks!” Stan shouted back.
The line came out as the boat moved closer. Stan grabbed it. Two sailors hauled him aboard. He was met by a grinning young lieutenant, junior grade.
“I sure appreciate the lift,” Stan said and grinned.
The skipper stared at him. “A Yank!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get the Eity plane?”
“It was loaned to me by Italian friends,” Stan replied. “I have important papers which need to be dried,” he added.
“And some dry clothes,” the skipper said. “Come below.”
They went below and the lieutenant introduced himself. “I’m Lieutenant Del Ewing.”
“I’m Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Army Air Corps,” Stan said. “I have been a guest of the Italians for more weeks than are good for anyone.”
“They outfitted you when they gave up?”
“They did. A lot of them are German haters and will help us all they can.” Stan spoke soberly. He was thinking of Lorenzo lying on the floor with a smile on his lips, and of General Bolero, who probably had been shot by now. “A lot of them have real courage,” he added.
Del Ewing nodded. “I’ve seen some of it,” he said.
“Now about these papers.” Stan took the package out of his dripping shirt. The gummed wrapper fell off, exposing an oiled cloth envelope. That was lucky. The maps and papers were dry.
Del Ewing was digging into his sea chest, laying out dry clothing and an oilskin coat. He spoke over his shoulder:
“I can’t land you until tomorrow. This is a mission that can’t be dropped. My radio is shot and I’m here to stay until that destroyer out beyond turns in. If I quit my sector, a sub or a torpedo boat might slide in and plant a tin fish in her side.”
“The papers are vitally important to both Army and Navy,” Stan said. “But tomorrow will do.”
After fitting Stan out with dry clothing, the skipper went on deck and the PT boat got under way to resume her patrol work. Stan soon began to wonder if the little boat had not joined battle with a German craft. She was hitting a nerve-shattering, plank-busting speed that tossed Stan all over the little room. He turned to the navigator and discovered that the kid was having trouble keeping from being sick all over his charts. He gave Stan a green- lipped smile.
“The skipper is pushing her a bit fast, isn’t he?” Stan asked as he lurched into a seat beside the navigator.
“Just planing speed, sir,” the boy answered.
“Seems to me like a cross between a submarine and an airplane,” Stan said. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself.
Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clinging to the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs of water hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching bucker while
