Rocko nodded and asked, “Speaking of ‘a lot of planes,’ how many bombers are on this field?”
“Twenty-six. I hope to get more, but you know how the government moves: not like me! When I think we need something, I go and get it.”
Rocko grinned and with a nod agreed with him.
LaGuardia held up one hand and said, “Excuse me, Rocko, I’m wrong. We have 25 bombers here. The twenty-sixth is in the repair depot at Orta Nova.”
Rocko took a long pull on his cigar and listened to the sounds of the night. Suddenly he sat up straight and said, “You said that you have a bomber at a repair depot?”
Now it was LaGuardia who sat up straight. “Yes . . . but well, you don’t think . . .?”
“Where is Orta Nostra?”
“Orta Nova,” he said correcting him, Orta Nova is about twelve miles from here.”
Rocko looked at his watch and said, “Ten fifteen. Can we get a car to take us there?”
“My friend, between here and Orta Nova there are no street lights, no paved roads and they might take off earlier than needed and just fly around until one o’clock.”
“Is the pilot with the plane an American?”
“My friend, there is no pilot with the plane. It is standard procedure to fly the plane to their field and return by automobile during the daylight hours and then return after the maintenance is completed.”
“Is the maintenance completed now?”
“Follow me,” he said as he ran into his room with Rocko right behind him. LaGuardia took a schedule from a clipboard and ran his finger down the page finally stopping at one line of copy and read it out loud: Caproni Ca3 aircraft number 570 scheduled for newer updated propellers.”
He turned to Rocko and said, “It is serviceable.”
“But, how do you know?”
“It’s in for a propeller upgrade. They leave the old ones on the bomber until they make the change all at once with the new ones. In a word: it either has the old props on or the new ones. Either way she’s ready to fly.”
“Can we call the base?”
“My next suggestion,” answered LaGuardia as he picked up the telephone and cranked the handle.
“Hello, Captain,” answered the base operator, “Who would you like to get in touch with?”
“Captain Meodeli at the Nova Orta repair depot, and please hurry.”
The two men waited five minutes until they heard, “Captain Meodeli, how may I assist you Captain LaGuardia?”
“Good evening, Louis, I’m afraid this is very important. Can you tell me the status of one of my Caproni bombers at your depot? Number 570, she’s in for a propeller upgrade.”
“Si, si, hold on a moment, my friend and I shall see for myself.”
Another five minutes passed before a slightly agitated Captain Meodeli said, “She’s gone, Fiorello. The stupid pilot demanded that he be allowed to take off even without the new props. He told my maintenance people that you demanded to have the bomber back in Foggia as soon as possible. He should be landing any minute at your base.”
“Who was the pilot?”
“Wait one moment while I read their flight plan. Ah. Here it is, Lieutenant Mudge is the pilot and the other fellow, . . . “
“There are two pilots?”
“Si, the other fellow is that rabble rouser, Benito Mussolini. We don’t allow that man on our base but as he was here with your pilot we didn’t wish to offend your man.” There was silence as a person at the Orta Nova office passed Captain Meodeli a note. He quickly read it and said to LaGuardia, “”Fiorello, it seems that before they lifted off they overpowered a man in the ammunition tent and strapped a small bomb beneath the plane.”
LaGuardia slapped his forehead and grimaced as he said, “Thank you so very much, Louis. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.” He hung up the telephone and immediately dialed the officer on duty in the Operations Building.
One ring and the telephone was picked up, “Lieutenant Boyer. How may I help you?”
“Boyer, this is Captain LaGuardia. Can you tell me where Lieutenant Cambridge is?”
“Yes sir, in fact, I just left him at the base hospital. He was mugged while in town getting some supplies.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes sir, just a big headache.”
“And I guess they took his wallet and dog tags?”
“Yes sir, they did.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I must ask you to write me a flight plan from here to Rome. Two pilots in a Caproni and Lieutenant, please make sure there is ammunition for the machine guns.”
“Yes sir, what time is your departure; sunrise?”
“Within five minutes, Lieutenant. This is an emergency.”
“Yes sir, meet you in front of hangar number five in five minutes.” He clicked off and LaGuardia turned to Rocko and said,
“The pilot is an imposter! And the second man is a troublemaker of the worst kind. He writes for a newspaper, the Il Popolo d'Italia and preaches anti-government slander. I see it all now: Him and an accomplice had Lieutenant Cambridge mugged and took his wallet and tags, stole an airplane and then stole a couple of bombs and are now heading towards Rome to bomb the Palazzo del Quirinale.” He hesitated a second and added, “Thankfully they are only small bombs and can’t do much damage and at this time of the night the place will be empty.”
“That’s not it, Fiorello,” said a frantic Rocko, “It’s not the size of the bomb that scares the government into quitting the war and freeing up thousands of enemy troops to go to France, it’s just the fact that many of the politicians are scared and any size bomb will sway their votes.” He shook his head, “No, we must stop them from completing their mission.”
“And that is why I ordered the bomber to be readied for us.”
“Us? You mean you and I are going up again?”
“We must, my friend, if this Mussolini has his way, I’m sure he has others ready to take over the government when the panic reins in the Palazzo del Quirinale. Grab your flight clothes and get dressed.
Rocko was stunned at that name and said, “Mussolini? Benito Mussolini?”
“Yes. Have you heard of him? He was wounded in the trenches and now struts around spewing defeatism to all that will listen, and, my friend, there are many who would follow him.”
Rocko nodded as he slipped into his flying pants, “Yes, I’ve heard of him and you are right he is a dangerous man who would drag Italy down in flames. You are right, he must be stopped. But how?”
“We must intercept him and shoot them down.”
“But doesn’t he have a head start?”
LaGuardia grinned as they both dressed in haste, “Yes, but his bomber did not get the newly upgraded propellers and my bomber did. We will have the faster bomber.”
“But how are we going to find him in the dark?”
“I’m sure his pilot is going to fly a straight line from Orta Nova to Rome so all we have to do is intercept that same line of flight and sooner or later we’ll see the exhaust flames from his three engines as they glow a cherry red in the dark. Plus I know that there are no other night flights so when we see the bomber, we’ll know it’s his.”
“So when we see him, what do we do?”
Snapping his leather helmet on, LaGuardia smiled as he pointed at Rocko and said, “Have you ever fired a machinegun, my friend?”
Rocko rolled his eyes. “Well, if we must, we must.”
“Come, let’s get our bomber up.” They waddled out and headed towards the runway where a group of men stood after rolling out the big three-engine plane. They were still putting fuel in the tanks as the two men climbed up and into the open cockpit.
“Switch on,” called out LaGuardia ignoring the fact that his aircraft was still being fueled. The trooper at the right hand engine pulled the prop through and the engine coughed and caught, throwing a cloud of smoke back. The exhaust from the engine flamed brightly in the darkness of the night a
nd for a moment Rocko thought they had caught fire. The second engine started and finally all three were purring evenly, and as was predicted by LaGuardia, even though they couldn’t be seen in the daylight, the exhaust flames lit up the aircraft and ground around the bomber in the dark.
“Clear?” he shouted and the men on the runway shouted back, “Clear!” He pushed the throttles forward and the bomber started its undulating ride down the grass runway.
Rocko watched a different LaGuardia than the usual flamboyant and cheerful base commander. Now he was Captain Fiorello LaGuardia, a bomber pilot whose muscular arms wrestled the controls until the large aircraft lifted off into the night. Both men looked at the poorly lit instruments, as that was their only way of knowing where they were heading. Once the bomber had settled on a compass heading of northwest both men sat back and scanned the dark sky for exhaust flames. Rocko was torn between being happy that there was no moonlight, thus making it easier to see their engine’s exhausts and the danger of flying in the dark on so few instruments.
He would have bitten his fingernails if not for the long gloves as he thought, I can’t kill these guys! I mean how many times had Bill said ‘no killing allowed, they must live their life as our history books say they did.’
Rocko felt a soft tap and looked at LaGuardia who gave him the thumbs up and a big grin. He returned the gesture.
According to the luminescent dial of the clock, they had been up for one hour and thirty-seven minutes when the darkness below them suddenly started showing lights from the towns and villages that were closer to Rome. A lighter horizon told both men that they were getting close to Rome and their heads were swiveling as they tried to catch a glimpse of the other aircraft.
Suddenly Rocko thought he saw a flicker of light to their right. He strained, trying to pierce the darkness, and was rewarded by another flicker. He didn’t take his eyes off of the spot as he reached over and grabbed the sleeve of LaGuardia’s flying suit with one hand and pointed at the spot with the other. He knew that LaGuardia saw the third flash of light as he gently tipped the bomber to the right closing the gap between the nocturnal flying giants of the air. Suddenly LaGuardia pulled on his sleeve and when Rocko looked to see what he wanted, he saw him pointing at the front machinegun.
Bill, he thought as he unbuckled his seat belt, forgive me if this comes down to having to kill these guys in order to prevent losing the war. He was happy that he had done this earlier as he doubted that he could have found the access door to the open machinegun position in the dark. Rocko finally got into the open hole. A safety belt was hooked up to a steel u-clamp and he hooked the belt to his own belt and tried to stand in the 85 mile-an-hour wind. Wow, he thought as he stood and leaned into the wind, I got to hand it to the guy who mans this position: it’s freezing! A pinpoint of flame in the dark got his attention as it didn’t go out but stayed steady, meaning that they were close to the other ship. He knew that the other pilot couldn’t hear Rocko’s bomber creeping up on them because of the noise of his own engines.
The time traveler unlimbered the machinegun and remembering where the ammo was, felt around in the dark for the buckled down canister of ammunition. He had to take off his gloves in order to unbuckle the straps and immediately the cold air rushing into the open cockpit attacked his exposed flesh. He undid the belt and a sudden movement of the bomber threw him against the cockpit’s rim and he dropped the can of ammunition. Rocko bent down and tried to locate it in the dark and was shocked to find that the floor of the compartment was made of canvas and he had only a small wooden section to stand on! Making sure that his feet rested on the wooden part, he ran his hands around the floor but couldn’t find the elusive can of ammo.
I better open another one, he thought as he glanced out and saw the lights much closer. Hope they don’t spot ours before I’m ready. He unbuckled another canister and with freezing fingers opened the tin feeder and slid it into the opening on the machinegun and cocked it as he thought, Finally! He had fired every type of gun in his time when he visited various gun clubs, but he never fired a 1917 machinegun.
Got to be pretty much the same, he thought as he swung it around getting the feel of it. He looked back at LaGuardia whose face was eerily lit by the soft glow of the instrument panel lights. The man pointed at their adversary and gave him a thumbs up.
Rocko knew what he had to do. He pulled back the bolt to enter a bullet into the firing chamber.
Suddenly both men were shocked to see a string of glowing orbs coming at them from the other bomber.
“They spotted us!” said Rocko as he saw the tracer bullets heading towards them.
“Sorry, Bill,” he said as he aimed his gun at the other ship that was now bobbing around making it a hard-to-hit target. Well, if they bob and weave at least their gunner will have a hard time hitting us. Suddenly a line of holes appeared in the canvas between Rocko and LaGuardia. He squeezed the trigger and sent a burst of tracer bullets at them . . . missing by a wide margin. He clenched his teeth and thought, as another string of glowing bullets came at them, Okay, Rocko, now it’s not just losing the war, it’s also about you and the future Mayor of New York City getting shot down. He kneeled down and aimed slightly ahead of the glowing engine exhaust and squeezed off a burst. He was happy to see them strike the area of their exhaust stacks. “That’s it,” he said, “I’ll shoot their engines up! No engine, no flying!”
According to the lights below, they were just entering Rome’s airspace. Feeling the urgency, LaGuardia zoomed in even closer and taking advantage of the closeness, Rocko fired a burst at the rear engine and was happy to see a long line of burning gasoline begin to trail from the bomber. The other bomber fired back and hit their right engine, which came to an abrupt stop.
Rocko gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger and feeling no kick, realized he was out of ammo. He quickly removed another canister from its straps, loaded his machine gun, cocked it and in a moment, poured every bullet it held into the other bomber’s left and rear engines. Rocko watched as the bomber started to go into a dive. He felt his bomber do the same. LaGuardia must be following them down, he thought, guess he wants to see where they crash.
A shouting LaGuardia got Rocko’s attention and now he understood why they were diving and how he could hear LaGuardia over the roar of the engines: two of their engines were out and their bomber was going to crash too.
“Rocko, get back in your seat and buckle up.”
The time traveler squeezed through the tight opening, wiggled into his seat and buckled up as tight as he could. He was torn between looking at the other falling bomber or ahead to where they were going to crash. He held the wooden rim around the open cockpit as tight as he could. LaGuardia struggled with his controls as he aimed his aircraft towards a flat area between a house and a small pond. Rocko did what everyone did, as they were about to touch down: hold on tight.
The big aircraft hit the ground hard and bounced back up for another twenty feet before hitting again and losing the right wing. She rolled towards the house and Rocko glanced over at LaGuardia as he pulled back on the controls causing the tail to drag along the grass slowing it down. They came to a stop, just feet from the house.
Both men sat in the bomber getting their breath as a man and woman came out of the house.
“Are you all right?” he shouted in Italian.
They climbed down and LaGuardia asked Rocko, “Are you all right?”
“Fine. What about you?”
“I’m fine too.” He turned to the farmer and asked, “Do you have a car, sir?”
“No,” he answered, “a horse.”
Suddenly a siren pierced the quiet of the night and a truck came around the house. Two men jumped out and ran towards the wreck: one carried a stretcher.
“Is anyone hurt,” the tall, dark haired man asked in poor Italian.
“No,” said Rocko, but another airplane crashed not too far from here. Can you take us to it?”
“Yes,
we were going there next. Yours was closer. Come, hop in.”
Rocko and LaGuardia climbed in the rear of the truck and as soon as the two rear doors were closed; the driver took off, siren wailing.
“Let me see to your shoulder,” the medic asked Rocko as he took off his great coat.
“Just a scratch,” said Rocko seeing it for the first time. The medic cleaned it as the truck bounced off and on a dirt path as they headed towards the fire that could be seen in the distance.
“Not deep enough to get you a ticket home, Captain.” Said the medic as he put a bandage on the wound.
Rocko laughed, “Are you an American?” he asked as he flexed his arm and grimaced.
“Yes, I am,” answered the medic. “And you are with the Foggia Air Base, right?”
“Yes, I’m Rocko Perna and this is the commander of the wing, Captain LaGuardia.” Rocko went on, “This ambulance is Red Cross not American, right?”
“True, I live in Kansas City and when the war started I volunteered for the Red Cross and here I am, Medic Hemmingway driving from one scene of action to another.”
Rocko looked hard at him as he thought, Hemmingway? Wow! This is Ernest Hemmingway the writer. I forgot that he drove an ambulance in the war, first in France and then in Italy.
Hemmingway picked up a writing pad and started writing on it.
I must ask, thought Rocko as he braced himself against the canvas side of the bouncing ambulance truck. “I imagine that you must write up every little incident that happens when you are on duty for the bosses to go over.”
He laughed, “Right, the bosses that are never even close to the front. I believe they read our reports so they can feel what we experience, but without the danger.”
Rocko couldn’t resist telling a little white lie, “I try to write my thoughts after a mission to relive them when things are dull. Maybe I’ll write a book on them.”
Hemmingway sat closer and said as he shook his head in understanding, “Exactly! I too try to write my feelings down after seeing all of the horrible things that war brings. Perhaps someday I too will write a book. But as a medic all I really see are the dark sides of the human race.”
Book X Page 18