A Five Sentence Fiction
Captain Bobby Rossi, late of the 307th Fighter Squadron, United States Army Air Corps, was awakened this fourth morning of his escape from Locano Canavese prison camp by the rumble of the heavies–B-24 Liberator bombers–overhead, just like he was back in his airfield bunk in Sicily.
But, feeling the week’s worth of beard stubble and the smell of goats on him, he remembered he was in a barn only a few miles from the Swiss border owned by signora Lenzi, who he surprised the night before with his hidden presence and ability to say to her in Italian, “Aiutami, ti prego, io sono un pilota americano, do you understand?…an American flyer.”
Signora Lenzi told him he could spend the night, but must leave at dawn, lest the German soldiers patrolling the border passes to Switzerland find him and kill them both.
“I wonder if any of my guys are up there supporting those Libs,” he breathed as he opened the barn door and peered at the sky for any specks that might be 307th Squadron Spitfires and wishing he was flying in one instead of in the midst of an entirely different type of flight.
Between his heart pounding loudly and the roar of 200 Pratt & Whitney engines aloft, Rossi never heard signora Lenzi’s appasionato, Unteroffizier Gunter Grenze slip up and place the muzzle of his Mauser pistol behind the pilot’s ear with a whispered, “Hallo, amerikanisch.”