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.
“You three seem marked down as irregulars,” the colonel said. “I now find myself in the position of becoming a party to your wild schemes.” He laughed outright. “I have not reported this to headquarters. I am afraid O’Malley and Allison should and would be marked down as expendables and left to be shot by the Germans.” He straightened and shoved the papers aside. “With a fast, light bomber, would you have a chance to land over there?”
“I certainly would,” Stan said eagerly. “The Bolero boys have a secret landing strip where they hid their planes when they didn’t want Mussolini’s agents to trail them. That landing strip is just above the place where the Germans are holding Allison and O’Malley.”
“In that case I’ll assign you a fast bomber and an objective. You will drop your bomb load at another spot and make a try.” His eyes were twinkling. “And if you should bring back Mussolini, I think you might get a medal.”
They both laughed. Stan looked at his watch. “Dusk would be the time to hit there. I can make it tonight.”
“As you like,” the colonel said. “Report to me at once when you get back. What information you gather should clear over my desk.” He grinned. “I am a bit of a politician, you see.”
Stan saluted and made off while the colonel got busy on the telephone getting a ship assigned to him.
When Stan reported to the briefing room he found the colonel there. The briefing officer and his second in command gave him his locations and his bombing data, the weather and the wind drift. Everything was very much routine and like a hundred other sorties being made hourly over selected targets by from one to fifty planes. The colonel walked out to the runway with Stan.
They shook hands like old pals. Stan smiled. The colonel was deadly serious.
“Landing almost on a German flying field isn’t going to be a soft touch,” he said grimly. “Not even with your luck.”
Stan turned to his ship and his smile broadened. Colonel Benson had gone to considerable trouble in selecting a bomber. The ship that stood with idling props was a De Havilland Mosquito. She was humpbacked like a codfish. Her forward gun opening and her nose greenhouse made her look like a fish. They furnished eyes and mouth. She was a plywood job, light, but the fastest bomber in the world.
He waved a hand to the colonel and climbed up. None of the ground men seemed interested in his lack of crew or light bomb load. In the swelter and rush of round-the-clock operations the boys followed orders and rushed each job out, knowing that another ship had to be on the line as soon as one craft cleared a spot.
Stan leaned back against the shock pad and checked his dials. He cracked the throttle a bit more and his powerful radials roared with surging power. The Mosquito shuddered and trembled against her chocks.
“Ready, Flight Fifty-four?”
“Ready,” Stan called back.
“Lane Three, Flight Fifty-four.” The voice from the control tower snapped off.
Stan eased up and signaled the men below. The chocks were jerked loose and Stan gunned the ship. She leaped forward with a snap that would have done credit to any fighter craft. Darting down the runway she hoiked her tail and was off before she had covered a fourth of the alloted space. Upward she roared like a streak. The boys on the ground grinned. The Mosquito got off so fast she was out of sight before any spotter could pick her up.
Easing around in a wide circle, Stan put her nose into the wind and let her have her head. He settled himself to the job ahead, his pulses beating in tune with the roar of the slip stream of air piling up and rolling off the leading edges of his wings. A good ship, the De Havilland. She was the craft used to make regular flights between England and Malta. Too fast for interception, the Mosquitoes streaked right across Hitler’s Germany or across France, running supplies daily through enemy-guarded skies.
The coast of Italy showed clearly ahead. Slipping in over Reggio Stan picked a rail line and checked with his eye. No need for a bombardier here. He lined up on the track and then spotted a short string of cars. The train was standing still and smoke lifted from its locomotive. Stan suspected some other Yank had spotted it and laid a stick of bombs on the track, blocking it.
Stan knew he should cut loose his bombs and be on his way. But the feel of the Mosquito made him eager to try her out. This was an ideal target for the fast-flying bomber. If he went down he would be sure to stir up German fighter planes. The temptation was great. Stan nosed over and sent the Mosquito roaring down the chute. He lined up on the freight train as he went.
The landscape wavered up at him. The train seemed to be twisting and turning like a snake trying to wiggle away, though he knew it was not moving. The wind ahead of his diving wings piled up and banked like invisible snow, making the plane shudder and shake. Stan grinned. Only the Lockheed Lightning could fly a dive fast enough to bank up air like snow; that was what he had always thought, but the diving Mosquito was doing it. Stan began to wonder if a ship made of plywood could take the strain of a pull-out after such a dive.
He released his stick of bombs and the Mosquito bounced like a golf ball before the cutting edge of a driver.
