“I might ask you the same question, Paulina.” Heinrich’s features showed no sign of amusement.
“I never really left, Heinrich,” she confessed with a little laugh. “I was too sleepy.”
Eying her suspiciously, he turned again to the chest and began to use both hands, pulling the silken material out, little by little, blue and sapphire, tangerine and yellow, decorated with gold threads, until, in a frenzy, he turned the chest upside down, spilling the contents over the floor. A bracelet of topaz stones, an old brass lamp, gold necklaces, a marble egg, a piece of carved ivory, and loose, semiprecious stones rolled onto the floor. But the box containing the priceless icon was missing.
“What have you done with it, Paulina?”
“With what?”
“The jeweled icon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Heinrich.”
He picked up his pistol and pointed the weapon directly at her. “Give it to me, Paulina. Now. Or I swear the stolen robe you have on will be your burial gown.”
In a quiet, warning voice she said, “You don’t dare shoot me, Heinrich.”
“And why not?”
“The sound would bring the American paratroopers from the barn.”
Heinrich laughed. “Don’s try to bluff me, Paulina.”
Watching and listening from the barn, Marsh heard the shot the same moment as Heinrich’s aide, who had waited uneasily for his superior to reappear.
As Metz leaped from the German command car with pistol in hand, Marsh said, “Okay, Giraldo.”
The exchange between the paratrooper and the German was brief. Metz slumped to the ground while Marsh, Gig, and Laroche stormed the villa, with the others in a covering position.
Heinrich ran from the bedroom to look out the upstairs window. Damn! So she was right, after all. He saw his aide lying on the ground beside the car. Heinrich knew then that he could never make it in that direction without being killed, too.
The great rumble of the Tiger tanks drawing closer caused the chandelier overhead to rattle as Heinrich barricaded the bedroom door with furniture. Then he opened the French doors to the small balcony off the bedroom—and saw the sheer drop to the rocks below.
He was trapped—unless he could find the spiral staircase hidden behind the panel in the bedroom alcove. At least the Mafia knew how to construct their villas. And for once he was grateful to them.
With the loudening sound of his own tanks vibrating in the room, he searched for the concealed staircase while beyond the bedroom door, a voice called, “Signora, are you inside?”
Heinrich broke into a sweat as he saw the huge chest moving slowly from its place in front of the bedroom door. But the hidden panel turned. Heinrich quickly disappeared. In the last brief light before the panel closed, he saw the figure of a blond American paratrooper.
Marsh burst into the room with his rifle lifted to his shoulder. A pale Paulina, hugging the white embroidered pillow stared at Marsh from the bed. With Heinrich nowhere in sight, she watched as the American searched for him. His eyes roved over the room, the empty alcove, the open balcony doors. Marsh frowned while he crept to the balcony doors, pushed one wider with his combat boot, and rushed onto the empty parapet. He examined the roof above, the rocks below. No one could have escaped in either direction. The woman must have barricaded the door herself as a protection against the intruders—his own men, probably. And the shot he heard must have come from another room.
Walking back inside, he looked toward the woman. “You’re all right?” he questioned.
“Just frightened,” Paulina answered. She made no attempt to move from her position. Marsh felt sorry for the woman. Her face was deathly pale, waxen, and her brown eyes were great pools of fear.
Along the hall a trampling of feet sounded. A cautious Marsh lifted his weapon to his shoulder, but it was Gig joining him from the floor below.
“Did you see the German?” Marsh asked, lowering his rifle.
“No sign of him.” Gig answered, “but the men are still looking.”
“What about the servant? Did you find her?”
“No. Not a trace.”
A frowning Marsh turned back to Paulina. “You think the German may have shot her?”
“No. Vittoria left this morning. To get help.”
The confession didn’t surprise Marsh, that the women had chosen to betray the paratroopers. Yet the news left him with the puzzle of the fired shot and the German unaccounted for. Suspiciously, Marsh took his rifle and lifted the coverlet of the bed, but he found nothing underneath.
Laroche hurriedly limped to the open bedroom door. “A tank’s headed up the hill toward the villa,” he announced.
It was too much to hope for—that the American tanks could have traveled that far from the beaches. “A kraut?” Marsh asked.
“Yes.”
With his suspicion corroborated, Marsh snapped out orders. “Gig, have the men retrieve their equipment from the barn—on the double. And bring everything into the house.
“Laroche, stand guard downstairs at the main entrance.”
Gig, running from the barn with the donkey, P-35, fell to the ground as an 88mm shell racked the stone structure, removing a chunk of tiled roof and taking one wall with it. Gig absorbed the ground shock through the palms of his hands, then got up and tugged at the donkey.
“Come on, P-35, before they make hamburger out of us both.”
The donkey’s stubborn streak had been effectively removed by the sound of the gun. He willingly went with Gig toward the kitchen door.
“Hey, Madison, you can’t bring that animal into the house.” Giraldo shouted.
“He’s part of the equipment. I got orders,” Gig retaliated and pulled the donkey inside just as another shell hit the barn, demolishing the roof.
Seeing Marsh leaving the bedroom, Paulina stopped him. “Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
“There’s an escape route from the dungeon below—to the hillside. You and your men should have no trouble finding it.”
Another shell hit. The chandelier fell from the bedroom ceiling and narrowly missed the bed where Paulina lay. Bits of plaster and glass covered the rug while chalky dust permeated the air. As if the devastation to the room were a minor irritation, Paulina continued, “Go, Lieutenant. Now.”
Still not trusting her and afraid that it was a trick, Marsh said, “I think you’d better come with us.”
“No, Lieutenant. I won’t be going anywhere.”
She unclasped the pillow from her side, revealing the deep, red stain of blood that marred the green silk caftan.
“I’m done for, as you can see.” She managed a tiny smile as she reached toward Marsh. “Take my hand. Please.”
Reluctantly, he did so.
Her face changed. Her eyes narrowed, her voice took on a strident quality. “Promise me—you’ll find Heinrich von Freiker and avenge my honor.”
What could he do? The woman was dying. It mattered little if he promised to kill one more German. But to Paulina di Resa, it evidently meant everything.
“I promise.”
Paulina’s face relaxed. With a slow, weak gesture she pressed her other hand to her side and then, in Marsh Wexford’s palm, she drew a cross in her own blood. “Go, now,” she ordered. “Before it’s too late.”
Staring down at the cross of blood rapidly dissolving into the grooved life line in his own palm, Marsh Wexford had an uncomfortable feeling that, by this act of Sicilian vengeance, he was irrevocably linked to one Heinrich von Freiker.
Chapter 5
Alpharetta Beaumont sat in the meeting room of the Bluebonnet Hotel in Sweetwater, Texas, and waited for the orientation to begin.
Surrounded by other women pilots, she was silent, thinking of the busy days since she had left Atlanta. A steady hum of whispered conversations filled the air before a uniformed woman, Adrienne McBain, came into the meeting room and walked to the podium. Then the conversations ceased,
as the older woman looked over the rows of young women assembled before her.
She smiled and then began to speak. “Miss Cochran has asked me to welcome you into the Women Airforce Service Pilots’ program. You have reason to be proud today, for all forty of you in this room have passed the grueling physical examination to determine your fitness for the program.
“Your depth perception is outstanding; your reflexes quick; your health excellent; and your patriotism unquestionable.”
A murmur rippled through the room, an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. And each young woman leaned forward to capture the words about to be spoken.
“Although you will be trained for noncombat roles, you will soon realize that, in wartime, these are just as necessary as the bombing of a German munitions factory or the shooting down of a Japanese fighter. For this reason, you will be treated as any other military air cadet, subject to the same regulations, the same rules—with the exception of two.
“Congress has not yet authorized flight pay for women, so you will receive compensation under civil service until a bill is passed to militarize the women’s program. General Arnold has been assured of its passage. The other exception is that from now on, any floor of this hotel, beyond the first, is off limits. Please remember this, for any infraction of this regulation will automatically terminate your part in the WASP program.”
A hand went up in the back of the room.
“Yes?”
“My parents are on the third floor right now, Miss McBain. Does this mean I can’t go up to tell them good-buy?”
The woman smiled again. “No. There are exceptions to rules. Relatives staying here are the exception.” Her face grew serious again. “But I think each of you understands. The program is new. Miss Cochran had to fight opposition on two continents. We cannot afford any cloud on the program or the women involved. Now, are there any further questions?”
She waited a moment. No one spoke. “Then, let’s get on with our assignments.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s now 1400 hours. The bus will leave from in front of the hotel for Avenger Field in thirty minutes. At the field, you will be divided into bays—six women to a bay. As I call your names, will you please form your groups, two by two.
“Happy Anderson?”
“Here.”
“Flossie Aronson?”
“Here.”
“Alpharetta Beaumont?”
“Here.”
“Mary Lou Brandon?”
“Present.”
Alpharetta turned around to find her partner. Mary Lou smiled at her in acknowledgment, as Miss McBain continued, “Agnes Cavanaugh? Lark Dennison?”
Thus the first bay was completed. All six stood up, took their luggage, and walked out the lobby of the hotel and toward the bus.
As she matched steps with Alpharetta across the hot concrete of the parking lot, Mary Lou Brandon inquired, “Where are you from?”
“Atlanta. And you?”
“Originally from Topeka. But I’ve been a test pilot for a company in California for the past three years.”
The woman, tall and tanned, looked athletic, with her long legs in easy stride, her honey-colored hair pulled back in a straight style that contrasted with the curled tresses of the majority. Seeing Alpharetta push her red hair from her neck, Mary Lou confided, “You’re going to have a problem.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your fair skin is going to burn in this Texas heat.”
Alpharetta laughed. “Oh, that. Actually, the heat is the least of my problems. I’m much more concerned about the mechanics of an airplane engine. I’ve only worked on car engines with my fian—with a friend,” she corrected.
“Don’t worry. You’ll master that in no time,” the woman assured her with a self-confident air.
“I hope you’re right,” Alpharetta replied, less certainly.
As they approached the dusty old bus at the edge of the parking lot, Mary Lou hailed the driver, “Is this the limousine to Avenger Field?”
Sitting in the shade of the lone tree, the driver took one look at the woman and scowled, “Just put your bags in and be sure to shove ‘em all the way to the rear.” He made no move to help.
“There’s a decided drawback, Red—coming at the beginning of the alphabet. First in, last out.”
Alpharetta flinched at the nickname. In an apologetic voice she said, “My name’s Alpharetta, but you can shorten it to Retta, if you like.”
“Then Retta it will be,” she responded, not at all embarrassed by the gentle rebuke.
Soon the bus was filled. The driver started the engine and the town of Sweetwater disappeared, to be replaced with a monotonous countryside of buffalo grass and mesquite.
Windswept particles gathered momentum, finding their way through the open windows of the bus. Alpharetta’s dress was covered in a white silt that resembled finely sifted flour. She held her handkerchief over her nose and mouth to avoid breathing it into her lungs.
Mary Lou, seated beside her, choked and coughed, even though she had also covered her face. “Close the window,” she gasped. “I’d rather die of heat stroke than be asphyxiated by this Texas dirt.”
Alpharetta, agreeing, pushed the window up.
Finally Avenger Field loomed in the distance and, to the sound of a Dakota making its approach for landing, the bus came to a stop.
“All right. Out you go.” The driver’s voice still sounded grumpy as the women filed from the bus and retrieved their luggage. An army officer sat in a jeep nearby and watched until they were all out. Then he began to walk toward them.
There was something about the officer that caused each woman to stop talking and stand at attention.
Tall, stern-looking, eyes veiled by aviator’s glasses, Major Grier came to a stop directly in front of Alpharetta. He examined one row and then another of the women, and again his eyes came to rest on Alpharetta. Her position in line was not the best, sandwiched as she was between Mary Lou Brandon and Agnes Cavanaugh, both extremely tall in comparison to her own height of five feet, four inches. Somehow she felt that the waiver on her physical exam because of her weight—110 pounds—was emblazoned across her forehead. Alpharetta, so close, could see the muscles tightening in the officer’s jaw as he spoke, although she tried to stare straight ahead.
“You have already been given a welcome,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. “I see no need in repeating it. Only, a warning. No allowances will be made for your being female. As long as you are in training here at Avenger Field, you will be treated like any other flying cadet. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
He turned abruptly. “Lieutenant Gifford, you may take over.” With those parting words, he climbed into the jeep and signaled the driver to leave.
“All right, you guys. Pick up your suitcases and follow me.” The froglike voice, seemingly coming from nowhere, startled Alpharetta. Then she saw the officer standing a short distance from the hood of the bus. She picked up her suitcase and joined the line, following the lieutenant to a Nisson hut that served as a supply house.
“Here, try these on for size.” A pair of mechanic’s coveralls was thrown in Alpharetta’s direction. And the supply sergeant waited for her reaction with a grin.
She looked down at her dress and back to the supply sergeant. “I don’t suppose you have a fitting room.”
He laughed. “This ain’t Neiman-Marcus, Beaumont.”
Self-consciously, Alpharetta tucked her dress around her and stepped into the coveralls while he watched. Her feet and hands disappeared in the excessive length of sleeves and trouser legs.
“Do you have another size?” she inquired.
“Larger or smaller?”
“Stop being so cute,” Mary Lou Brandon cut in. “Give her a smaller size, and while you’re at it, find me a pair that’s longer in the crotch.”
Curiously deflated, he complied with Mary Lou’s requests.
Armed with her first uniform, bed linens, and
towels, Alpharetta went back to her place in line. Within a half hour, she and the six others in her bay had been deposited into a Nisson hut that she would call home for the next several months.
In the bay, she emptied her suitcase, stashed it into the locker at the end of the bunk assigned to her, and began to put the sheets on the bed. She was careful to stretch the linen taut so that there was no sag in the middle. Once that was finished, she stripped herself of the dusty yellow dress, hung it up in her locker, took her towel and soap, and leisurely walked toward the showers. It was then that she discovered where everyone else had vanished so quickly.
“Hurry up, Aronson. You can’t stay in there all day.”
“Oh, this water is already ice cold,” another voice complained from the adjacent shower stall.
“No wonder. You’ve used all the hot water washing your hair.”
Impatiently, women from the two bays lined up before the shower stalls, urging the others to hurry. In her first lesson in communal living, Alpharetta took her place in line. When her turn came, she felt no need to hurry since no one else remained to take a shower after her. The water, running in riverlets across her face, washed away the heat and dust of the summer afternoon. Alpharetta reveled in the feeling, even in the inadvertent shiver as the water trickled down her body and disappeared in a small, whirling eddy at her feet.
Just as she was toweling herself dry, she heard a male voice outside. “Inspection in two minutes.”
Alpharetta, with the towel wrapped around her, raced to the bay, grabbed her underwear from the locker, and began to dress. But before she could step into her mechanic’s coveralls, the door had already opened and Lieutenant Gifford walked into the bay with the commanding officer.
“Attention!”
Each woman stood at attention before her bunk, her posture ramrod straight, her arms at her sides. All except Alpharetta. Like a mannequin in another pose, she held her coveralls stiffly in front of her and silently prayed for death before the two reached her bunk.
Her wish was not granted. Major Grier, taking note of her state of undress, turned to his junior officer. “Lieutenant Gifford, from now on you will give the cadets five minutes notice before an inspection.
On Wings of Fire Page 4