by James R Benn
It turned out that dinner was next. Kaz, Big Mike, and I were led into a dining room where Croft, his Marine pal, and a couple of British officers were mixing themselves drinks.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Croft said, approaching us as if we were weekend guests at his country home. “Will you join us for a drink?”
“The hell with drinks,” I said, steamed at the runaround and now the soft soap. “Why are we being held here and what’s he got to do with it?” I pointed to the marine.
“Lieutenant Boyle, all will be explained. …”
“Don’t try that polite crap with me, Croft. I don’t care if you’re a captain or a cardinal, I want the truth, and I want it now.”
Croft raised his eyebrows, glanced at the marine, and asked the two other Brits to give us some privacy. He eyed me until they closed the door behind them.
“You’d do well to remember the rank, Boyle. A captain trumps a lieutenant, and SOE trumps every other branch, so mind your manners.”
“This is war, not a goddamn tea party,” I said, my temperature rising. “What the hell is going on, and what aren’t you telling us?” I stepped closer to Croft, my fists clenched and arms pressed to my sides. It wasn’t his fault, I knew. He was only following orders. Orders that might make sense or might not, but clearly came from over his head. Still, I wanted answers. I tried to hold my temper in check, but the thought of Diana in prison kept it white-hot. If I did have a chance to get near her, I didn’t want any SOE funny business to interfere.
“War or tea party, we’re all on the same side,” the marine said. His deep voice sounded so familiar. “Let’s have a drink and sit down, okay fellas?” He had an easy smile, and clapped his hand on Croft’s shoulder, breaking the tension in the room. The two of them looked like cousins from across the Atlantic. Both tall and blond with well-weathered faces, they moved with a grace that comes from confidence borne of challenges met and mastered. I didn’t like the idea of them arrayed against us, but if so, I wasn’t going along with their schemes without a fight.
“Agreed,” Croft said. “Let’s begin again. Drink?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Irish whiskey, straight. You know, like the truth.”
“Irish whiskey I believe we have in ample supply,” Croft said, with a barely suppressed grin. “Have you met Lieutenant Hamilton?”
“No, we haven’t been introduced,” I said, taking the glass Croft offered.
“Sorry, Lieutenant Boyle,” the marine said. “John Hamilton, US Marine Corps.”
“You sure we haven’t met?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, wearily, as if he heard that line often. “Big Mike, Baron, what’ll you have?”
“Vodka,” Kaz said. “Truth on the side, please.”
“I’ll have what you’re drinking,” Big Mike said. “I never drank with a movie star before.”
“Aw, Christ,” Hamilton said, pouring Kaz’s vodka. “Don’t ask a bunch of stupid questions about starlets. I hope you like tawny port. Love the stuff myself.”
“What?” I said, trying to figure out what was going on.
“Tawny port,” Hamilton said. “Great stuff, packs a wallop.”
“No, I mean—”
“Bahama Passage,” Big Mike said. “I saw him in it before I left the States. I don’t remember the name, but it wasn’t John Hamilton.”
“Gentlemen,” Croft said, chuckling at Hamilton’s discomfort, “allow me to introduce Sterling Hayden, otherwise known as Lieutenant John Hamilton. He is our liaison with your American OSS.”
“I must have seen that movie too,” I said. “I was sure we’d met. Don’t recall it, though.”
“For good reason,” Hayden answered. “It was only my second film, and might be my last. Silly way for a man to make a living. Come on, let’s all take a load off and talk this thing through.”
“What does the OSS have to do with this operation?” Kaz asked as he took a seat at the table. I saw Croft and Hayden exchange glances, Croft giving a subtle nod.
“Okay, we’ll play it straight with you guys, since you sound like a no-nonsense bunch,” Hayden said. “The orders that Big Mike here brought with him came via a slightly different route than he thought.”
“I got those from Colonel Harding,” Big Mike said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I wouldn’t like to hear him called a liar.”
“If he’s a friend of yours, I’d hate to call him one,” Hayden said. “And I won’t have to. Or General Eisenhower either. There’s just a missing link in the story. It wasn’t the president that Bishop Finch called when he heard of the murder. It was another old pal, this one from Columbia Law School.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “William Donovan. Head of the Office of Strategic Services.” The OSS was the American equivalent of the Special Operations Executive. We were newer at the game, but eager to make up for lost time. “Your boss.”
“Right on both counts,” Hayden said, slapping the table with glee. “Wild Bill—that’s Donovan’s nickname, one he doesn’t mind a bit—Wild Bill didn’t want OSS to be connected to this operation, for security reasons and out of the same concern for Vatican neutrality that Colonel Harding has. But Wild Bill wants to do his pal a favor and find out who killed Monsignor Corrigan, so the story was altered a bit in case anyone spoke out of school.”
“As for your being detained,” Croft said, “that is standard procedure before a mission. Nothing sinister about it.”
“So other than keeping watch on us, Lieutenant Hamilton, or Hayden, what’s your game?”
“Hey, call me Sterling if you want, but don’t spread it around. I’d prefer to keep the movie business quiet. It’s all a load of horseshit anyway. And hell, I’m not here to watch you boys. I’m here to drive the boat.”
“Boat?” Kaz said.
“Sure, the boat. We’re taking a little trip up the Adriatic,” Hayden said, a wide grin spreading across his face.
“Lieutenant Hamilton is an experienced seaman,” Croft said. “He makes regular runs to Yugoslavia to deliver arms and supplies to the partisans, and brings out downed Allied airmen.”
“Billy and Kaz are going to Rome, not Yugoslavia,” Big Mike pointed out.
“Yes,” Croft said. “And we will get them there, via the Adriatic. We can’t use the western coastline, since there is heavy activity around the Anzio beachhead. So Lieutenant Hamilton and his men will take you up the eastern coast, past the front lines and into Pescara.”
“Why don’t we fly out in one of those Lysanders you have parked outside? Isn’t that what they’re used for?”
“Quite,” Croft said. “But we’ve had some losses recently from Luftwaffe interceptions. We think there may be agents nearby watching our flights take off. We’re taking countermeasures, but we can’t wait for them to take effect. So I asked Hamilton here for a favor.”
“I didn’t know the SOE and the OSS were so chummy,” I said.
“We have to be,” Hamilton said. I decided it was too confusing to call him by two names, and if he wanted to go incognito, that was fine by me. I liked him for it. “We spend as much time fighting the brass as we do the Nazis.”
“The OSS is dependent upon the Royal Navy for shipping,” Croft said. “And when it comes to sharing resources with Americans, who seem to have so much of everything, it brings out the worst in some officers.”
“Same goes for American regular army types,” Hamilton said. “They don’t want to cooperate with the Brits and learn from them, even if they’ve been at this cloak-and-dagger stuff for years. Stupidity knows no boundaries. Guys like Croft and me just want to get things done, so we help each other out.”
“If the Royal Navy isn’t helping you out, what kind of boat are we talking about?” I asked.
“An Italian fifty-foot sailboat with a rebuilt diesel engine. Looks like an ancient wreck, but she’s gotten me home safely every time. Crewed by a dozen Yugoslav Partisans, able seamen, all of them. Damn good fighters, too.�
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“Well, Billy,” Big Mike said. “What do you think? They sound like our kinda fellas.”
“I’m game,” I said. “Kaz?”
“I do not like boats,” Kaz said, and downed his vodka.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS FOUR in the morning. I stood at the window, watching the stars and the silvery water below. I couldn’t sleep, while everyone else was dead to the world. I could hear Big Mike sawing logs in his room, and watched Kaz thrashing, dreaming of all that had been lost, or at least that was my guess.
I’d slept for a while, and dreamed of horses. Galloping horses with black manes, against green fields and blue skies. They were all around me, and I held out my hands to feel their flanks as they sped past, my fingertips grazing warm, silky hides. The horses slowed and circled me, shaking their heads, frosty plumes of breath pumped from heaving lungs. They came closer, nuzzled me, pushed me forward until I fell against a saddled horse and felt a booted heel in the stirrup. I looked up. It was Diana. Suddenly the sky turned dark as thunder crashed and lightning flashed hot white. The horses reared in terror, large brown eyes wide with fear. As one, the herd turned and galloped away, taking Diana with them, leaving me alone in the field, watching them disappear into the rain and darkness.
I’d awoken, gasping for breath, not knowing where I was, but thinking instantly of Diana and where she was. In prison, but alive. I knew it now. The first time I’d ever seen her, she was on horseback, bringing horses to the safety of her father’s barn as a thunderstorm drew close. It was a message, I was certain. She wasn’t dead. She was waiting, waiting for me to follow where the horses led, and carry her to shelter from the storm.
I felt a calm I hadn’t known in days. I got up, dressed, and waited. Waited for the other dreamers to rise and bring me where I needed to go. I watched the sky until I saw the first faint trace of sunrise edging up from below the horizon. It was time.
One hour later, Kaz and I said our good-byes to Big Mike, and made him promise to take it easy for a while. Croft said he’d watch out for him, and Big Mike, still not quite trusting how things had turned out, said he’d watch Croft for us until we got back. I felt fine on both counts.
Kaz was relieved when he found out the first leg of our trip was not by boat. Croft drove us out to a Halifax from 148 Squadron, already warming up. We stood on the tarmac, prop wash whipping at our clothes as the engines roared. Croft went over the final details while crewmen loaded gear into the belly of the black bomber.
“You’ll have an escort of two Spitfires north to Termoli,” he said. “It will be a quick hop. Hamilton will look after you from here on out. You’ve got your clothing, identity papers, and everything you’ll need for Rome in duffle bags, marked with your name. He’ll take you by sea from Termoli to Pescara. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” I said, shouting to be heard above the din. “You seem to have this well organized, but you’ve missed one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How the hell do we get out of Rome? Or is that not part of your plan?”
“One step at a time, Lieutenant. Find that murderer first. Someone from SOE will contact you when the time comes to smuggle you out,” Croft said. “Good luck.”
The hatch closed behind me, the metal clang echoing inside the fuselage. The Halifax, converted from bombing to ferrying men and supplies, wasn’t built for comfort. Kaz, Hamilton, and I sat crowded on a narrow bench, surrounded by wooden crates and canvas bags. The aircraft lurched forward and picked up speed, the four engines snarling as they carried the plane out over the water, climbing until Brindisi was nothing but a smear on the horizon. As we headed north, I thought of Diana waiting for release in Rome. I trusted the truth of my dream more than I trusted what I’d been told by Croft and Hamilton. Not that I thought they were lying to me, only that the chances were good they’d been lied to. The OSS had already hidden their involvement from General Eisenhower himself; what else had been hidden from their own junior officers? If Colonel Harding didn’t know the whole story, what had Captain Croft missed?
Diana was alive, I was certain of it. I couldn’t say why—other than because of the dream—but I was. Clandestine organizations like SOE and OSS played fast and loose with the truth—of that I was dead certain. What was waiting for us at the Vatican? Of that I was less sure. A helluva lot less.
“After we land, I’ll brief you on the route in,” Hamilton said, his voice raised against the engine noise and the wind beating against the bomber. “We set sail as soon as it’s dark.”
“I do not like boats,” Kaz said, as he peered out the small Perspex window. “Look, that must be our escort. Four—no, six fighters.” He pointed to small dots in the distance, descending from high cloud cover.
“I thought Croft said two Spitfires,” I said.
“Goddamn!” Hamilton said. “Those aren’t Spitfires.” Faster than I thought possible, the fighters were on us, machine guns chattering, tracers white-hot against the blue sky. The Halifax picked up speed, but outrunning Me-109s in a lumbering bomber wasn’t in the cards. Rounds hit the wing and the top of the fuselage, shredding the metal and sounding like a thousand stones blasting a tin roof. The Halifax’s machine guns answered, their fire trailing the German planes as they split into two groups. One probably going after the escort, the other coming in for the kill.
We didn’t stand a chance. A single bomber, no matter how many machine guns it has, is no match for fighters. Bombers were meant to fly in defensive boxes, covering each other with their guns. Alone, the fighters would swoop down on us, like a cat batting at a cornered mouse.
“Hang on,” Hamilton said, as the aircraft banked left and began a slow dive, the pilot using gravity to increase our speed. Not a bad idea, until the ground got in the way. I hung on, as Kaz kept his nose pressed to the window, watching the show. Hell, why not? It might be the last one we ever saw.
Two Me-109s came at us from the port side. Their noses were painted bright yellow, the rest of the sleek, deadly plane in dappled camouflage. They were overhead in a second, the noise of machine guns, cannons, and throaty engines incredibly loud. I thought they missed us until I saw one of our engines spew black smoke. In a flash, another fighter was coming in, but this one was a Spitfire, the distinctive spade-shaped wings instantly recognizable, and welcome. But he wasn’t coming to the rescue. He twisted and turned, then dove, trying to shake off two Me-109s on his tail.
The Halifax was vibrating now, the damage we’d taken slowing it, making us even more vulnerable. All of the bomber’s gunners opened up, meaning we were being hit from every direction. Tracer rounds stitched through the plane, leaving blackened and smoking holes of jagged metal. I looked at Kaz and Hamilton, all of us wide-eyed at 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 cloud
s 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.”
