not being hit.
The firing died down, but I knew it would only last a moment while the fighters gained altitude for another run at us. It might be the last.
“There!” Hamilton shouted. “He’s going for that cloud bank.”
Ahead of us, a wall of dark cloud rose in the distance. Safety. The Halifax strained in an even steeper dive, as fighters swarmed around us. I saw the two Spitfires, still aloft, circling higher in a tight weave, pulling the Me-109s away from us.
“Look!” Kaz said, pointing to a trail of black smoke heading for the sea. One Kraut fighter down.
“That got their blood up,” Hamilton said. “They’re going after the Spitfires.”
The sound of firing faded as the bomber descended and the fighters drew away. We were almost to the cloud as the pilot feathered the stricken engine. The propeller stopped as part of the cowling flew off and a last burst of thick, black, oily smoke billowed from the engine, turning the wing black before the cloud swallowed us in protective, gray nothingness.
Compared to the noises of the fight, it was silent. Only the remaining three engines and the sound of hearts pounding against terrified chests competed with the hydraulic whirr of turrets as the gunners remained alert, knowing the clouds could disappear at any moment. We listened for the snarl of engines, straining to pick out the sound of approaching fighters. Minutes passed and the cloud cover held. I felt myself relax, and saw Hamilton puff out his cheeks, exhaling a breath of relief.
“I’ve decided I do not like airplanes either,” Kaz said, crossing his legs as if he were in a London parlor. Hamilton and I looked at each other for a long second, then burst out laughing. Laughter that comes from cheating death, the relief of feeling life for another hour, appreciating the sensations of the body as the reaper retreats, vanquished. The giddiness of war.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Both Spitfires went down,” Hamilton said. “One pilot bailed out. The other didn’t make it.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Damn shame.”
We were in the RAF mess hall in Termoli, waiting for a truck to take us to the boat. Our pilot and crewmen sat at a table opposite us, nursing mugs of tea and pointedly ignoring us, as if we were to blame for running into a Luftwaffe fighter sweep. Maybe they had a point. At the next table, half a dozen Italian laborers sat smoking, their old army uniforms grimy and stained.
“If enemy agents were observing the Lysander flights,” I said, “wouldn’t they report a Halifax taking off as well?”
“They might,” Hamilton said. “That’s why we had an escort. We weren’t even crossing the front line, so it seemed unlikely they’d find us before we got to Termoli.”
“Who knew about the flight?” Kaz asked, glancing at the Italians.
“Me, Croft, the aircrew, and my first mate. Likely others at the Brindisi RAF base, not to mention OSS headquarters in Caserta,” Hamilton said. “It wasn’t out of the ordinary. We fly back and forth all the time.”
“Getting jumped by six Me-109s is damn well out of the ordinary,” I said. “That Spitfire pilot getting killed was out of the ordinary.”
“No, it wasn’t, Lieutenant Boyle. You know that. Yeah, maybe someone blabbed, or maybe the Luftwaffe wanted to show us they still can pack a punch. It’s war. People die.” I couldn’t argue with that.
“He’s right, Billy,” Kaz said. “We can’t change what happened. But we need to be sure that not too many people know about the rest of our route.” He eyed Hamilton, then turned his attention to his tea.
“Okay, okay,” Hamilton said. “We have to set sail tonight, and make our rendezvous in Pescara, there’s no getting around that.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Tides and minefields. The tides have to be just right to navigate around the minefields. I have two of my men ashore with a radio. They’ll contact us if anything looks suspicious.”
“Do you trust them?” Kaz asked.
“One of them has a sister,” Hamilton said. “She’s a Partisan too. The Ustashi captured her last year. Sent her back with her arms cut off. What do you think?”
“I think we don’t have to worry about him,” I said. “But who are the Ustashi?”
“Croatian fascists,” Hamilton said. “The Nazis set them up as a puppet government in Croatia. They happily kill Jews, Serbs, Gypsies, anyone who isn’t a Croatian Catholic. They’re so damn bloodthirsty the Germans had to step in and disarm some of their militia units, since they were driving so many of their opponents to join the Partisans.”
“More violent than the Nazis,” Kaz said. “An uncommon occurrence.”
“They are enthusiastic about killing in the name of religion,” Hamilton said. “A Franciscan monk is the head guard at the Jasenovac concentration camp. Defrocked, but he still likes to wear his robes. So don’t worry about a little trip through the Italian countryside with good papers and a decent cover story. You could be going to Zagreb, not Pescara.”
“Okay,” I said. “I get it. What about after Pescara?”
“The Germans have a garrison there, so we’ll land you outside of town. The plan was to bring you inland to meet up with an OSS team. They were detailed to bring you overland, to a rail yard north of Rome, at Viterbo.”
“Sounds like a lot of people must be in on that plan,” I said.
“Yep,” Hamilton admitted. “A dozen, at least. So we’ll do something different. Hide you in plain sight.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Hamilton leaned across the table, turning his face away from the others in the room. We did the same, foreheads almost touching. “It means we’ll see how good your forged identity papers are. You’re going to buy tickets at the train station in Pescara. You’ll be on your own almost all the way. You speak Italian, right?” Hamilton said to Kaz.
“Yes, but not well enough to pass as a native.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your papers say you are a Romanian priest, Baron. And you, Boyle, an Irish man of the cloth. A neutral and a German ally, both on Vatican business, traveling back to Rome.”
“So we just ride the train straight into Rome? Then call a cab to take us to see the Pope? This sounds risky as all hell,” I said.
“The good news is that no one else knows this route, until you get to Viterbo. Your papers look good, and there are documents on actual letterhead from the Holy See. You’re inspecting the refugee situation and reporting your findings. I’ll give you the train schedule and the route you should take. Very plausible-they have priests traveling all over Italy now that they can’t leave the country for missionary work.”
“What happens at the Viterbo rail yard?” Kaz asked.
“We need a safe method to get you into Vatican City,” Hamilton said. “The closer to Rome and the Vatican, the more checkpoints and roadblocks the Germans have. Once you’re in the Vatican, it’s fairly easy to move around, with the right papers and some luck. But the Nazis are watching the approaches. They’re after Allied agents, Italian partisans, escaped POWs, deserters-you name it. Everybody wants to get to Rome, and everyone on the run wants to get to neutral ground. So we have a safe passage prepared for you.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“The Vatican has its own railroad station. Railcars bring in food and supplies from the north, and they enter through a special gate.”
“Yes,” Kaz said. “A sliding iron gate that retracts into the wall. I’ve seen it, along the Viale Vaticano.”
“That’s your way in,” Hamilton said. “We have a trusted agent, a railroad worker, who will seal you in with a load of produce at Viterbo. We only use him for priority missions, and it’s worked every time. When the doors open, you’ll be inside Vatican City.”
“The Germans don’t search it?”
“They oversee the loading and lock the doors, but they don’t search it before it enters the Vatican,” Hamilton said. “Wait on the platform at Viterbo for trains bound for Florence. There will be less scrutiny there. A worker in a
