When he had cut through four of them, he felt the pull lessen and found he could pull himself up on the branch. For a few moments he sat there, waiting for his head to stop swimming as the blood receded from it. Finally, he cut the rest of his parachute lines and was free.
“Can’t leave that ’chute up there,” he said. “It might be spotted from below in the morning, and certainly a German plane would see it before long.”
Tug as he might, however, he could not get it free. Making up his mind that he’d have to free it by the first light of dawn, he felt for the tree trunk, found it, and began to let himself down. His eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now, and he could vaguely see the branches as he stepped down from one to the other. Then the ground loomed up about ten feet below, and he let himself drop. He rolled over once, then brought himself up to a sitting position.
“Now what?” he asked himself. “Just sit here, I guess. If I leave this tree I may get lost and not find it again to get that parachute.”
So he edged his way back a couple of feet until his back rested against the trunk of the tree in which he had fallen. He moved a rock beneath one leg, and then relaxed completely, his head back against the tree. Far off he heard the roaring thud of bombs dropped by American bombers, and he smiled.
“Wish I could locate Tony,” he said to himself. “We went out so close together he can’t be far away. Hm—that reminds me—Tony asked if sometime when we were out alone at night I wouldn’t sing Celeste Aïda for him. Well, I’d do it if he were here now. But it’s been so long since I’ve sung. Haven’t even thought much about singing.”
Hardly realizing what he was doing he began to hum aloud the slow, ascending first notes of the famous tenor aria from the Verdi opera. By the time he reached the third phrase, he was singing the words, and it felt good. It still sounded all right. He kept on, letting his voice out more and more, pulling himself to his feet finally so that he could sing in full voice. Only when he had come to the end, did he realize that he had perhaps done a foolish thing, singing so loudly there in the hills behind the enemy lines.
Then he heard a soft clapping of hands and the word “Bravo!” He jumped and looked into the darkness from which the sound came. “Bravo, Ricardo Donnelli!” the voice said again, and Dick knew who it was as he made out the advancing figure.
“Tony!” he cried. “You startled me!”
“Sorry,” the radioman said, as he came close. “But that’s nothing to what you would have done to any German soldier within half a mile!”