O’Malley and Allison dragged the copilot back and crowded him into the narrow rear compartment with the others. Allison stood guard over them, while O’Malley and Stan took over from the pilot. The pilot was not afraid of the Yanks. He did signals of distress with his wings and put the ship into a dive before Stan laid him out with a rap over the head. Sliding into the seat Stan began to fight the old Fiat to get her out of a spin.
She was going down, twisting and shuddering in every rivet and stay. O’Malley finally climbed up front and grabbed the free set of controls. They heaved her out of her spin just in time. Their wings fanned the tops of a grove of trees and they had to lay over to miss the spire of a church.
“I can handle her now,” Stan called across. “I’ll go up a bit and then you get back there and have the Italians bail out. We won’t need any prisoners. If they kick about it, tell them we’ll be setting this ship down on a Malta air strip. That ought to make them bail out.” Stan grinned at O’Malley.
“Sure, an’ it ought to,” O’Malley agreed. “No Fiat iver got to land on Malta under her own power. We’ll be shot to kindlin’ wood.”
“Maybe we won’t go to Malta, but that’s where we’re headed until they bail out,” Stan laughed.
O’Malley went back and within a few minutes the Italian crew was unloading. O’Malley had convinced them the plane was headed for Malta and they wanted none of the reception they knew an Italian plane would get over that base.
Stan watched them sail down, one after another. As the last parachute blossomed out, Allison and O’Malley crowded forward. Stan had swung due south, and was holding that course.
“Suppose you see what you can do with the radio,” Stan said.
Allison laughed. “There isn’t any radio and there isn’t a gun aboard this ship, except our two pistols.”
“Fine,” Stan said and opened the old Fiat up a bit more. “In that case we better get in before dark.”
“You better be after rememberin’ that I’m commander o’ this outfit,” O’Malley broke in.
“All right, Commander, the ship is yours.” Stan eased over a bit. With a grin O’Malley squeezed into the pilot’s seat.
“Now you can be after givin’ the orders,” he said. “Where in blazes are we?”
“We’re over Italy,” Stan said. “I think the town we just flew over was Cosenza, up the coast from Reggio.”
“Do you be after thinkin’ that’s water ahead?” O’Malley asked.
They looked ahead and saw a strip of water and a long beach. Stan frowned. “Must be the Gulf of Taranto. I guess I’m a bit mixed up.”
“I say, old man, we better swing around and head southwest,” Allison said.
“We could fly to Africa,” O’Malley remarked.
“Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They certainly didn’t fill this crate up.” Allison’s mocking grin appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“How much? Don’t be holdin’ out secrets on us,” O’Malley growled.
“It’s only a wild guess, but I’d say about forty minutes.”
O’Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the ship around to a south by west course. “Sure, an’ we’re gettin’ out o’ here,” he said.
Allison slipped into the copilot’s seat while Stan sat on a folding stool behind him. O’Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out of the old ship. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.
Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near enough to be identified.
“Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o’clock, Commander,” he shouted.
O’Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. “Sure, an’ there is,” he said. “It’s an escort we’ve been needin’. Likely the boys will know the way home.”
“Certainly they will,” Allison said. “And they’ll know a Fiat BR 20, also. This crate looks like a bomber.”
“We better duck and go downstairs for a bit of hedge-hopping,” Stan advised. The Airacobras had spotted the lone bomber and were peeling off like hounds scenting a buck.
O’Malley did not need any suggestions as to what to do. He nosed the Fiat over and sent her down the chute in a screaming dive that threatened to pull the wings off her. Stan glanced at his chute harness to make sure everything was in order. He figured O’Malley would fold up the Fiat like an old accordion when he started to pull her out of the dive.
The Airacobras rapidly overtook the bomber, even though she was power-diving far beyond her limit of stability. Stan saw one of the boys flash in on their tail.
“Kite her!” he bellowed. “Stinger on your tail!”
O’Malley and Allison both hauled back and the Fiat wobbled and staggered as she started to lift. Stan could hear her joints giving way, then she bounced. Lead whistled below them, while the Airacobra roared down the trail of its own bullets.
“Close,” Allison muttered.
Stan squinted up and back. Two more fighters were lining up. It seemed plain that they were surprised at the antics of the Fiat. They had never seen one do stunts like that before. The two came raking in, blasting from longer range. Stan felt the lead rip through the Fiat’s wings and body. One bullet plunked through close to his head, ripping a big hole, another exploded back in the tail compartment and half of the peninsula could be seen through the hole.
“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
