The three Yanks were rushed out upon the parade ground at the Italian base. Two squads of shouting Italian soldiers escorted them. They burst upon a scene of confusion and excitement. Stan looked across the grounds toward the runways. Suddenly he burst out laughing and poked Allison in the ribs.
"Look! His Nibs is deserting us!"
General Bolero was leading his staff toward a parked plane. For a big fat man he was making fast time. His cape floated out behind him and he had lost his jaunty cap. His officers were loaded down with brief cases, files, and bundles of papers. The general was a full ten paces ahead of them.
"I'd call that a rout," Allison shouted.
"I think our outfits must be closing in. We'll have to do some stalling," Stan shouted.
O'Malley was already stalling. Four men were pushing him along, and he was beginningto show signs of temper. Stan tried to get close enough to shout a warning to him. He did not want O'Malley to start a riot at that moment.
The Italians were evacuating the base in every sort of machine they had. Cars roared across the field, men pedaled by on bicycles, trucks lumbered past, and a whippet tank snorted as it rolled past dragging a field gun. Men on foot rushed in every direction.
Stan stumbled and went down, managing to trip two soldiers. Instantly a dozen Italians were upon him, tugging at him, waving their rifles and shouting. O'Malley took this as a signal to go into action. He swung hard on the chin of an officer standing beside him. The surprised officer went down like a felled beef. With a yell O'Malley waded in, swinging at soldiers as they piled in on him. Many bloody noses and black eyes developed in a hurry, but O'Malley was swarmed under by the weight of sheer numbers. He went down yelling like a Comanche Indian and swinging like Joe Louis.
Stan struggled to his feet and held up his hands. He realized the uselessness of fighting against such odds. The melee O'Malley had caused had drawn almost a company of Italiansto the spot. Allison had managed to stay on his feet, but he had suffered from rough handling along with Stan and O'Malley. His uniform, which was wet and sagging, had been torn in a dozen places.
"Go quietly!" an Italian officer bellowed. He had just arrived on the scene. "Go quietly or you will be sorry!"
"We're going, call off your dogs!" Stan shouted.
The officer shouted orders in Italian and soon restored a semblance of order. Allison called across to Stan.
"Have a look above, and you'll see what all the excitement is about."
Stan looked into the sky and caught his breath. The paratroopers were coming. Low over the hilly country a fleet of transports and gliders swept in from the sea. They swept along in perfect formation like giant birds seeking a tree to light upon. Above them fighter planes wove in and out, while on either side fighter-bombers roared along. It was a beautiful sight.
Suddenly the Yank air soldiers began to pile out. The sky blossomed with colored parachutesuntil the blue was thickly dotted with them like a field crowded with spring flowers. They came floating down with machine guns and supply hassocks dangling from their chutes. On a slope above the field a glider nosed in. It slid to a halt and a jeep bounded out of its fat, rounded snout. Another glider slid in and a tank rolled out of it almost before it had slid to a halt. The slope above them was already swarming with Yanks, and machine guns were rattling.
Stan looked around desperately. They were being rushed toward a big truck. He made one last attempt to slow down their retreat. Shaking off the men who held him, he ducked his head and hit the line of soldiers like a blocking back clearing a path for a ball carrier. Two Italians went down, one under a straight, stiff arm and the other from a solid body-block. Then a soldier clipped Stan across the head with the butt of his rifle. Stan went down on his face and lay still.
O'Malley had started his fight again, but this time the Italians were not wasting precious minutes. O'Malley got a rap such as the one that had felled Stan. Allison went down undera pile of soldiers. Two minutes later the three Yanks, out cold, were dumped into the truck and it was rumbling away along a paved road.
A few minutes later Stan groaned and opened his eyes. The truck was so packed with soldiers that he was forced to sit up, even though he had been out limp and cold. His head throbbed and felt twice its normal size. Turning it a little he could look out over the side of the truck. They were rolling along a winding road, climbing in low gear. Looking back Stan saw the battlefield they had just left.
The Yank airborne troops had swarmed onto the airfield. Already two big Yank planes had landed and men were spilling out to take over the field. With a groan Stan looked up. Twisting his head caused pains to shoot up and down his neck. He saw that the paratroopers were still coming in. A field of white chutes filled the air, while behind them dropped the varicolored chutes carrying equipment and ammunition. Gliders were casting off their toggle hooks and swooping earthward. Equipped with tommy-guns, folding rifles, mortars, folding bicycles, bazookas and light artillery, the air soldiers swarmed down.
Suddenly excited shouts from the Italians in the truck made Stan look up again. A fighter-bomber was roaring down toward the truck. Stan saw that there were three trucks in the group and that they were closely bunched, an ideal target for the diving Yank. Grimly he watched the hundred-pound egg slide free as the bomber lifted and zoomed upward. The deadly missile seemed to hang in the air for a moment, though it grew bigger and bigger every second. It appeared to be aimed straight at the last truck in line, which was their transport. Stan looked about for Allison and O'Malley.
His pals were standing against the side of the truck, wedged in by soldiers. They both looked weak and shaken. O'Malley was almost without clothes. Then the bomb hit. It landed in a bank just behind the truck. A great upheaval of earth and rocks lifted into the air and showered over the truck. One rear tire exploded with a bang and the truck began to wobble and jolt as it swayed along.
Then they broke over the top of the ridge and went careening down a steep slope. Five minutes later they had reached cover in an avenue of trees. But the Italians did not halt for repairs.They wanted to put as many miles as possible between them and the Yank air army before their gas ran out.
An hour later the truck limped into another airfield which had not been attacked. It was tucked away in a circle of hills with wooded slopes reaching down to a little valley. Here they found they had overtaken General Bolero. He was out on the field rushing about, shouting orders and apparently getting ready to take off again. His staff was trailing him about, with their bundles and brief cases and files.
Stan and his pals were rushed into a small barracks room. The junior officer who spoke English had charge of them, backed by a dozen guards.
"We will supply you with clothing," he said, casting his eye over their ragged uniforms.
The clothing turned out to be blue shirts and bright green dungaree overalls. O'Malley glared at the officer. Stan grinned as he slipped into his outfit.
"It would save you a lot of trouble if you just turned us loose," he suggested.
"You will not escape. You will be sent toItaly." The officer matched O'Malley's glare. "Sicily can never be taken. Our infallible leader Mussolini has said Sicily can never be taken." He waved his hands excitedly. "Your forces will be driven into the sea."
"I'll bet you a bottle of your finest wine that half of the island is already taken," Stan answered.
"I say, why don't you kick the Germans out and help us along?" Allison asked. He felt he might touch a sore spot in mentioning the Germans.
The shot hit home. A flush spread over the face of the officer. "The Nazi dogs," he snapped. "We will deal with them after we have used them to help us."
"Sure, an' they'll treat you like they did the Poles," O'Malley said. "An' it will serve you right well, you spalpeens."
"We'd like to stop over here and rest a bit," Stan cut in. "We realize you treated us roughly because we made you a lot of trouble. We'll give you our parole. There'll be no more rough stuff."
"You talkin' fer me?" O'Malley growled.
"I am," Stan said and gave O'Malley a hard look. "We'll see that you're a nice, well-behaved boy."
"Agreed," Allison said, catching Stan's idea that he was playing for time. Even if they gave their parole it would not prevent their being captured by the Yanks.
The officer smiled knowingly. "You would like to stay here. You think your air troops will take over this field. No, we will not be so foolish. You leave for Italy in one hour." He turned and marched out, after giving orders to the guards.
"That's that," Stan said. "But we still have a chance. He didn't accept our parole."
"They ought to be usin' their men to fight an' not be after keepin' a whole company here as guards," O'Malley grumbled.
"After the show you put on, they need a company," Stan snapped. "If we'd been good boys, they might have left us with a couple of guards."
"Who started the fuss?" O'Malley demanded.
"I stumbled, but that was just to slow downthe procession," Stan answered. "I'll admit it was a mistake."
"We'd better be doing some heavy thinking," Allison warned. "If we don't we'll spend the rest of this campaign in a prison camp."
There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of guards who stood around with rifles at ready until the plane started down the runway.
Stan was squeezed in between O'Malley and Allison. The space inside the bomber was very limited, for it was not intended as a passenger plane. Besides the pilot and copilot, two men armed with pistols sat in the cramped quarters. The Italians had very thoughtfully provided their prisoners with parachutes. One of the guards spoke English and was not unwilling to talk. Stan singled him out at once.
"I have been in America," the guard said in a friendly fashion.
"What city?" Stan asked.
"New York. I stay one year."
"Didn't you like it?" Stan asked with a grin.
"Sure, it was much good. I come back for my brother and then there is war. I must stay." The soldier shook his head sadly.
"After the war you'll be going back?" Stan asked.
"Sure. It is a fine place to live, New York. I make plenty money, got friends." The soldier smiled. "I will see you then."
Stan laughed. "You sure will." His eyes were on the back of the pilot's neck. If O'Malley reached out he could touch the man flying the plane. Stan bent forward, at the same time signaling O'Malley with his knee in short and long taps. O'Malley finally woke up and answered the Morse SOS. As Stan talked to the soldier he also telegraphed to O'Malley and later to Allison.
What Stan suggested was that they get control of the two pistols. The friendly soldier was bending closer. Stan would offer to show him some pictures from America that he had in his wallet. He would get the man off guard and when he had a chance would grab his pistol and push him over into the cramped back partof the ship. O'Malley and Allison would have to get the other pistol.
"I think I have some pictures you may recognize," Stan said. He fished out a wallet which the Italians had not taken from him. Opening it he pulled out several snapshots of planes he had piloted at one time or another, but he held them so that the soldier had to bend forward. The guard leaned over almost against Stan.
Like a flash Stan's hand shot out and he had the pistol. He lunged forward at the same instant, planting his head in the guard's chest. The soldier went over his stool and landed in a cramped position in the narrow waist of the plane.
O'Malley had leaped the instant Stan's hand shot out. Allison did a good imitation of an American tackle. The second guard lost his gun but put up a tussle. Stan wedged past the struggling men and jammed the pistol barrel into the neck of the pilot.
"We'll take over now," he snapped.
The pilot cringed forward while the copilot turned about. Stan circled his neck with an arm and cinched down tight. Before the copilotcould wiggle free, O'Malley was up forward with the other pistol. The copilot lifted his hands. His face was white and he seemed scared.
"Drag him back and tuck him away with the guards," Stan ordered.
O'Malley and Allison dragged the copilot back and crowded him into the narrow rear compartment with the others. Allison stood guard over them, while O'Malley and Stan took over from the pilot. The pilot was not afraid of the Yanks. He did signals of distress with his wings and put the ship into a dive before Stan laid him out with a rap over the head. Sliding into the seat Stan began to fight the old Fiat to get her out of a spin.
She was going down, twisting and shuddering in every rivet and stay. O'Malley finally climbed up front and grabbed the free set of controls. They heaved her out of her spin just in time. Their wings fanned the tops of a grove of trees and they had to lay over to miss the spire of a church.
"I can handle her now," Stan called across. "I'll go up a bit and then you get back there and have the Italians bail out. We won't needany prisoners. If they kick about it, tell them we'll be setting this ship down on a Malta air strip. That ought to make them bail out." Stan grinned at O'Malley.
"Sure, an' it ought to," O'Malley agreed. "No Fiat iver got to land on Malta under her own power. We'll be shot to kindlin' wood."
"Maybe we won't go to Malta, but that's where we're headed until they bail out," Stan laughed.
O'Malley went back and within a few minutes the Italian crew was unloading. O'Malley had convinced them the plane was headed for Malta and they wanted none of the reception they knew an Italian plane would get over that base.
Stan watched them sail down, one after another. As the last parachute blossomed out, Allison and O'Malley crowded forward. Stan had swung due south, and was holding that course.
"Suppose you see what you can do with the radio," Stan said.
Allison laughed. "There isn't any radio and there isn't a gun aboard this ship, except our two pistols."
"Fine," Stan said and opened the old Fiat upa bit more. "In that case we better get in before dark."
"You better be after rememberin' that I'm commander o' this outfit," O'Malley broke in.
"All right, Commander, the ship is yours." Stan eased over a bit. With a grin O'Malley squeezed into the pilot's seat.
"Now you can be after givin' the orders," he said. "Where in blazes are we?"
"We're over Italy," Stan said. "I think the town we just flew over was Cosenza, up the coast from Reggio."
"Do you be after thinkin' that's water ahead?" O'Malley asked.
They looked ahead and saw a strip of water and a long beach. Stan frowned. "Must be the Gulf of Taranto. I guess I'm a bit mixed up."
"I say, old man, we better swing around and head southwest," Allison said.
"We could fly to Africa," O'Malley remarked.
"Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They certainly didn't fill this crate up." Allison's mocking grin appeared at the corners of his mouth.
"How much? Don't be holdin' out secrets on us," O'Malley growled.
"It's only a wild guess, but I'd say about forty minutes."
O'Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the ship around to a south by west course. "Sure, an' we're gettin' out o' here," he said.
Allison slipped into the copilot's seat while Stan sat on a folding stool behind him. O'Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out of the old ship. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.
Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near enough to be identified.
"Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o'clock, Commander," he shouted.
O'Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. "Sure, an' there is," he said."It's an escort we've been needin'. Likely the boys will know the way home."
"Certainly they will," Allison said. "And they'll know a Fiat BR 20, also. This crate looks like a bomber."
"We better duck and go downstairs for a bit of hedge-hopping," Stan advised. The Airacobras had spotted the lone bomber and were peeling off like hounds scenting a buck.
O'Malley did not need any suggestions as to what to do. He nosed the Fiat over and sent her down the chute in a screaming dive that threatened to pull the wings off her. Stan glanced at his chute harness to make sure everything was in order. He figured O'Malley would fold up the Fiat like an old accordion when he started to pull her out of the dive.
The Airacobras rapidly overtook the bomber, even though she was power-diving far beyond her limit of stability. Stan saw one of the boys flash in on their tail.
"Kite her!" he bellowed. "Stinger on your tail!"
O'Malley and Allison both hauled back and the Fiat wobbled and staggered as she started to lift. Stan could hear her joints giving way,then she bounced. Lead whistled below them, while the Airacobra roared down the trail of its own bullets.
"Close," Allison muttered.
Stan squinted up and back. Two more fighters were lining up. It seemed plain that they were surprised at the antics of the Fiat. They had never seen one do stunts like that before. The two came raking in, blasting from longer range. Stan felt the lead rip through the Fiat's wings and body. One bullet plunked through close to his head, ripping a big hole, another exploded back in the tail compartment and half of the peninsula could be seen through the hole.
"Sure, an' they need shootin' practice!" O'Malley bellowed as he slipped off on one wing, did a stall, and laid over for another dive. They were now close to the treetops. Another Airacobra dived in and when it zoomed away, they were minus one wing tip and their port engine was stuttering. But they were down among the treetops and O'Malley was hedge-hopping like a wild man. They missed an ancient castle set on a cliff. How O'Malley managed it he himself did not know. One wing lifted and the turrets of the old castle slippedunder. Down they went into a little valley, fanning the treetops. One motor was dead and the other was not putting out much power.
Suddenly they realized that they were being covered by flak fired from a field ahead of them. The barrage was fierce and concentrated. It sent the Yank fighters kiting up to a safer level. The boys felt sure of their kill anyway. The Fiat had started to billow smoke out of the tail compartment where an incendiary shell had lodged.
"I'd rather bail out than land in this thing!" Allison shouted.
O'Malley shook his head and grinned. "Not one chance, she won't lift a foot. Here goes for a belly landing!"
They skimmed over a row of trees and headed for an open field surrounded by woods. The Fiat gave up the ghost halfway across the field. She just settled down and hit the earth in a cloud of smoke and dust. Twisting and turning she plowed her way toward the far tree line. Finally she whirled around and piled up. The dust and smoke was so thick the three Yanks could see nothing. Pawing and struggling they fought their way out of the mass of wreckage.They heard men shouting all around them. Bursting out of the smoke and dust, they found themselves surrounded by fifty or more German soldiers.
For a moment the Germans were as surprised as the three Yanks. They had expected to rescue a crew of Italian fliers. The men before them were dressed in the garb of Italian civilians. An officer bellowed an order and the Germans charged in.
There was no place to run, except out on the open field, and that would have been suicide because a half dozen of the Germans were armed with tommy-guns. The Yanks just stood waiting for the Germans to reach them. The officer in command of the rescue group, a tall fellow with a saber scar on his cheek, halted before them and regarded them critically. Slowly a sarcastic smile formed on his lips. He spoke to them sharply in Italian.
Stan answered in English. "We are officers of the United States Army."
The officer looked blank but another officer who had come up broke in, speaking clipped but perfect English.
"American fliers dressed as Italian civilians."He raised his eyebrows. "We can thank your fighters for shooting you down. Your spy system is very dumb, indeed. Your fighter planes should have known better."
"We were Italian prisoners of war. Our uniforms were ruined. As a matter of courtesy the Italians furnished us what clothing they had." Stan spoke stiffly. "We demand the rights of prisoners of war."
"We will decide what rights you have, but I believe you will be shot as spies." The officer turned to his superior and spoke in rapid German.
Allison had said nothing at all. O'Malley just glared at his captors, his big hands balled into fists. Stan moved close to him.
"Keep your shirt on. We're in a tight spot," he said in a low voice.
"Quiet, you!" bellowed the officer. "Do not talk to each other."
The ranking officer shouted a command and three German soldiers with machine guns closed in behind the boys.
"March!" the younger officer snapped.
They marched toward the woods. The officer moved stiffly ahead. The boys realized thatescape from two squads of Italians would have been much easier than escape from the three Germans. They seemed eager to use their deadly tommy-guns.
"I understand German, you know," Allison murmured as he bumped against Stan. Stan moved closer to his pal and Allison went on.
"The commander is very angry because they were forced to open up on our fighters. Now the location of their guns is known. He is also eager to learn something about the strength of our air forces attacking Sicily and heading for Italy. He hinted we would be baited on by a promise of being treated as prisoners of war if we talked."
"We won't talk," Stan muttered. "Anyway, we don't know anything."
Entering the woods they found themselves in a cleverly hidden camp. The boys were lodged in a barracks room with barred windows. Two other prisoners, both Italians, were in the room. A guard stood at the door, while several others paced up and down outside.
"Looks snug and tight," Stan said.
"Sure, an' we'll soon find out," O'Malley growled.
"We'll go into a huddle and cook up something," Stan said. "We're not in the hands of Italians now, and I don't feel up to facing a firing squad."
The three Yanks seated themselves on a rough bench in their cell. The two Italian prisoners looked them over without interest, then went back to their own talk, which they were carrying on in whispers. Every once in a while they shot glances at the boys as though fearing they were trying to hear what was being said.
"Suspicious chaps, what?" Allison said, amused.
"Wonder what they were thrown in for?" Stan mused.
"Sure, an' it matters very little. What happens to Mrs. O'Malley's boy is what's worryin' me," O'Malley broke in. "Ivery window is fastened as tight as the purse o' a Scotsman an' the door is well guarded."
"They'll be coming after us very soon," Stan said. "They'll question us one at a time."
"You'd best act as commander," O'Malley said. "I might plant a fist on the nose o' one o' their generals."
"I say, that's a fine idea," Allison agreed. "Stan, you are in command."
It was natural for them to turn to Stan. He had always been the most level-headed of the three in tight spots. He grinned at them.
"We'll see who they pick," he answered. "But we don't talk."
A few minutes later the junior officer who spoke English appeared. He shoved past the guard and stood at the barred door. The two Italian prisoners stopped talking at once. The boys did not get up from their bench. They returned the stare of the officer. His eyes moved over them and paused on Stan.
"Are you in command?"
"I am in command," Stan answered.
"Come with me. The colonel is very reasonable. If you are not pig-headed you may be treated as prisoners of war."
Stan got to his feet. One of the Italians had risen. He looked at Stan closely. Suddenly Stan turned back to his pals and bent close to them. In a whisper he said:
"Be careful. I just got the idea those Italians may be planted in here to listen to what we say."
"Come on, you," the officer snapped.
Stan moved to the iron grating. Pulling a bunch of keys out of the side pocket of his tunic, the guard unlocked the door. Stan stepped out on a narrow walk which led to a row of doors. The officer marched stiffly at his side. At a glance Stan saw that the place was well guarded. Not less than a dozen men with rifles were spotted within sight of the guardhouse and of the buildings grouped around it.
"You will do well to answer all questions truthfully and in detail. Colonel Kittle is a man of action." The officer gave decided emphasis to the last words.
Stan did not reply. They were entering a big room with wall cabinets and a desk. Chairs ringed the desk on which lay various trophies and gadgets such as might have decorated the room of any flight lieutenant. Stan spotted a piece out of a Hurricane fighter. There was an American Colt forty-five automatic and a Russian helmet.
Behind the desk sat the tall officer with thesaber scar across his cheek. Stan sized him up as a Prussian military man of the old school. Now that he had a good chance to look at the colonel he saw that the man was hollow-eyed, his skin was drawn tightly over his cheekbones, and his short, cropped hair was streaked with gray. Stan snapped a salute, not knowing exactly why he did it.
The colonel returned the salute and waved a bony hand toward a chair. Stan seated himself. The officer went on regarding him intently. The junior officer seated himself beside Stan and waited. Finally the colonel spoke in German. The young officer frowned, then began translating.
"The colonel wishes to compliment you. The Americans have done very well in Africa."
"Thanks," Stan answered warily.
"He sees no reason why you should not be classed as a prisoner of war." The young officer's lip curled. He turned to the colonel and waited.
The colonel spoke for some little time. When he stopped talking the young lieutenant faced Stan.
"We wish to know the approximate numberof fighter and bomber craft based upon Africa. It would be helpful if you could add information regarding additional troops moved in to assist in the action against Italy."
Stan smiled. "My compliments to the colonel. Tell him I am not at liberty to give such information."
The officer scowled. He translated and the colonel smiled back at Stan.
"That will be all," the young officer snapped. It was plain the young officer did not like the way his commander was handling matters.
Stan was marched back to his cell. The young officer hurried away. When he was out of hearing, Stan spoke in low tones to his pals. He now noticed that the Italians seemed interested and were trying to listen.
"The old boy with the scar is commander. He's a Prussian officer of the old school and does not think much of the Nazi methods. He seems to have convinced himself that we are really officers and told the truth about our clothes."
"I'll get more dope," Allison said. "I can understand their talk."
A few minutes later the young officer returnedand took Allison to the office. O'Malley and Stan sat waiting for his return. The Italians sat with their backs against the wall in silence. Fifteen minutes passed and then Allison returned. The boys went into a huddle.
"The colonel is not in favor of using the third degree on us. He says he has reports on us from the Italians and knows we are prisoners of war. He said all this in German. The young lieutenant seems to be in with the Gestapo. I gathered that they hate each other." Allison paused and grinned. "The old boy told him off plenty, but the kid is stubborn. He's going over the head of the colonel, so we may have trouble."
"Sure, an' I'll bet the colonel can get tough, just the same," O'Malley cut in.
"Yes, he's as hard as nails but he has the old rules well trained into him. He'll do whatever the big shots order. Guess who the big boy in Italy is."
"Couldn't make a stab," Stan said.
"Rommel himself. He's to keep us from breaching the continent. Remember how Herr Goebbels has been shouting that the Allies could never break into the European fortress?Well Rommel is going to see that we don't crack through." Allison laughed softly.
"Sure, an' we'll give 'em the same pastin' we gave him in Africa," O'Malley growled.
An hour passed and O'Malley was not called in. Supper of bread and thin soup arrived and with it came the Gestapo officer. He seated himself on a stool outside the bars and talked while the boys ate. O'Malley looked at the food, then turned to the officer.
"'Tis not fit for a hog, this food."
"That's why you are getting it," the officer said and laughed loudly.
"We are entitled to decent rations," Stan said.
"What does it matter about the rations? I have just talked by radio to headquarters. Unless you give us the information we want, you will be shot. I have the order with me." He leered at the boys triumphantly.
"Pleasant sort of folks, you Nazis," Allison drawled.
"I will attend to the execution myself, tomorrow morning. You will have tonight to think things over." He got to his feet and kicked aside the stool.
Stan finished his tin of soup and stood up. He walked to the barred door. The guard swung around and made a menacing motion with his rifle. Stan grinned at him and stepped back. He was convinced the Gestapo officer had told the guards to shoot on the least provocation, he could read it in the man's eyes.
"Be careful," he said as he seated himself again. "The guards have been told to get rid of us if they can find any excuse."
"I'd as soon be shot by a guard as a firing squad," Allison said.
"We might get the fellow up near the bars and get his keys," Stan said.
"Good idea," O'Malley agreed. "But how?"
"We'll get over near the door and start to whisper with our backs to him. See if we can tease him up close," Stan suggested.
They moved over near the grating and began whispering. The guard stood watching them. He was a full ten feet from the door and did not move. His expressionless, beefy face showed not a flicker of interest. Finally the boys gave it up.
"He has about as much curiosity as a turtle," Stan said sourly.
"Sure, an' they may put on a guard with a brain," O'Malley said hopefully.
They sat down and tried to think up another scheme. At midnight the guard was changed and they tried their trick on the new man. He was less interested than the first one. He turned his back on them and let them whisper. The boys gave it up and sat down to wait.
They dozed off after a time. O'Malley stretched out on the floor and went to sleep. Stan and Allison remained on the bench, leaning back against the wall. The clatter of trucks and shouting of soldiers wakened them. Daylight was breaking and the camp seemed to be getting set for some sort of action. Presently the young officer appeared. He glared at the three Yanks.
"Are you ready to talk?" he demanded.
"No," Stan answered. The others shook their heads.
"In that case I will waste no time. You will be shot within the hour." He turned to the Italian prisoners and spoke in German to one of them. His words were harsh and his attitude showed he had no respect for the men.
One of the prisoners answered in German.His words were angry and he was defiant. Suddenly Allison stepped forward.
"I say, old man," he addressed the officer. "I've changed my mind. There is some information I could give the colonel."
"Come along then," the officer snapped. He shot a few words at the Italians as he motioned for the guard to open the door.
Stan grabbed Allison's arm. "You can't do it, fellow," he said.
Allison turned on him. "You may want to die and become a hero, but I'd rather be a live war prisoner. I say, get your hands off me."
Stan started to pull Allison back. With a quick movement Allison planted a fist on Stan's jaw. It was a hard right cross and set Stan back on his heels.
The officer laughed loudly. "Now you are acting quite as you should, you swine."
"Let me get a crack at him," O'Malley howled. "The traitor!"
He was blocked by the bayonet of the guard. Allison walked out of the cell. He paused and looked back. There was a mocking leer on his lips.
"Good-by, saps," he said.
Stan slumped down on the bench. O'Malley marched up and down fuming and ranting. Twenty minutes passed and a soldier came to the cell. He escorted the Italians out of the room. Stan got to his feet and walked to the door. He was attracted by marching feet on the gravel outside.
Looking out he saw a squad of men with rifles. The squad leader halted them and faced them toward a wall. Their rifle butts hit the gravel and they stood rigid, with their backs to the cell door. Stan noticed that mortar had been knocked from the surface of the wall. He could see many splattered places and many bullet holes in that wall. Turning around he looked at O'Malley, who had seated himself.
"The reception committee has arrived," he said calmly.
O'Malley got to his feet and walked to the door. In silence they stood looking out at their executioners. The squad leader was looking their way. He seemed eager to get at the business he had to perform.
Two officers appeared and halted before the squad leader. He saluted and the three talked briefly. The officers turned toward the guardhouse.They spoke to the guard and he produced his keys. The door was opened and one of the officers spoke in broken English.
"Come now."
Stan and O'Malley walked out of the room. One of the officers produced two strips of cloth and held them out. Stan shook his head.
"No blindfold for me," he said evenly.
"Get them rags away," O'Malley growled. "I'll be lookin' ye in the eye, ye spalpeens."
Walking between the two officers, they marched out across the grounds toward the wall. Reaching it, they faced the men with rifles at rest.
"Get it over with," Stan snapped.
"Sure, an' I'll bet Allison will be sorry he isn't here," O'Malley said gloomily.
The officers moved back and took up positions beside the firing squad. Suddenly a jangle of angry and excited voices broke loose from the direction of the colonel's quarters. A door burst open and a big fat man plunged out upon the parade ground.
"General Bolero!" Stan gasped.
It was General Bolero and he was red-faced with anger. Behind him came Colonel Kittle,the Gestapo officer, the two Italian prisoners, and Allison. The general charged across the grounds and halted before the two officers in charge of the firing squad. He jumped up and down and shouted, waving his arms wildly all the time. Colonel Kittle came up and halted. He snapped an order to the officers.
The Gestapo officer was shouting loudly, but he was no match for the general, who bellowed so loudly that the medals on his chest danced up and down.
The firing squad suddenly came to life. They shouldered their rifles, about-faced, and marched away. Stan and O'Malley walked over to the group.
The general ceased shouting and looked at the two Yank airmen. He puffed out his cheeks and said:
"A thousand apologies, gentlemen. I am ashamed. Italy is shamed. This could not be." He faced the colonel. "These are my prisoners, Colonel. I am taking them with me."
Colonel Kittle saluted and nodded. The Gestapo officer whirled and raced away.
"We will go quickly," the general said to the boys, "before the suckling pig receives moreorders from his superiors." He bowed deeply to the colonel and faced about.
"I have given our promise to go with him," Allison said. "It was the only way to save your necks."
They marched away beside the general. Beyond the buildings they came to a big car with an army driver. General Bolero himself opened the door, and the boys seated themselves in the rear seat. The general climbed in the front seat with his driver. He sat very stiffly but every once in a while he sputtered like the fuse on a firecracker.
The car rolled up a shady road, past many guards, and on into a wide highway. Stan turned to Allison.
"How did you work it?" he asked.
"I heard one of those Italian prisoners say he demanded to see General Bolero. The officer told him Bolero was in Colonel Kittle's office. I thought there might be a slim chance if I could get to the general, so I pretended to be ready to turn traitor." Allison chuckled. "You should have seen the general," he lowered his voice, "when I told him we were to be shot as spies."
"He's a good egg, but for how long did you give our parole?" Stan asked. He was worried because a military parole is something a soldier does not break.
"Thirty days," Allison replied. "It was the best deal I could make."
"Thirty days!" Stan repeated. "Italy will be captured by that time and we'll miss the show."
Allison grinned. "You know, I got the idea the general figured Italy would be out of the war by then."
"'Tis the first time I iver promised to stay in jail," O'Malley said sadly. "But after lookin' down the barrels o' them Nazi rifles, I'm not kickin' on the bargain."
"Yes, we'd have missed all of the show if Allison hadn't outsmarted that Gestapo officer," Stan agreed.
General Bolero took his prisoners to a villa a few miles from Naples. Here they had comfortable quarters and good food. They saw little of the general, as he was busy attending to the fortification of the Salerno and Naples water fronts. When they did see him, he always spoke with little respect for his German allies. Stan and Allison liked the general, but O'Malley did not warm up to him. The Irishman had never liked high-ranking officers. To him they were always brass hats.
The days passed slowly. The boys had a small radio and always tuned in the Algiers radio station for news of the Allied attack upon Sicily. The news of the fighting made them squirm, and for hours after listening to a military report of the advance of Patton and Montgomery they paced the floor. O'Malley was especially restless. He marked each day off on the calendar and planned his escape.
On the twenty-seventh day the boys were seated on a shady balcony from which they could look down toward the city of Naples. Directly below the grounds of their villa were the headquarters and general assembly fields of the Germans. They seemed to be present in considerable strength. Stan sat with his feet on a railing. Allison was near the railing. O'Malley was sprawled out in an easy chair.
"Sure, an' it will be no trick at all to get away," he said.
"Before our parole is up the general will make other plans for us, you can bet on that," Stan answered.
"I'll bet we're locked up," Allison added.
"We could sneak out a bit ahead o' time," O'Malley suggested.
"The general has treated us very fine, besides saving our lives. We stay until one minute after midnight of the thirtieth day," Stan said firmly.
"I'm goin' crazy," O'Malley growled, "sittin' around here listenin' to air fights. There won't be a German plane left to tangle with by the time we get back into it." He sat up andscowled down at the German camp. "Besides, these Italians can't make decent pie."
The boys laughed and O'Malley joined in. Behind them a curtain parted and four officers stepped out on the balcony. The general was paying them a visit and he had with him three flying officers of the Italian air force.
The Yanks got to their feet. The general smiled in friendly fashion and waved a hand toward the three fliers.
"I have brought three of my boys, Tony Bolero, Arno Bolero and Lorenzo Bolero. They are all officers of our air corps." He faced the Yanks. "Lieutenant Wilson, Lieutenant O'Malley, and Lieutenant Allison."
The Bolero trio bowed deeply. Stan stepped forward and held out a hand.
"Glad to meet you, Lorenzo," he said.
The fliers shook hands while the general beamed happily upon them.
"Sit down. I have much to say to you men," he said.
They found chairs and pulled them up beside a table. The general seated himself and puffed out his cheeks as he fished a thick envelope from his pocket.
"What I am about to say is most unusual. I have a request to make of you Americans. I wish you to extend your parole." He lifted a hand as O'Malley opened his mouth to say no. "I feel that you should do this after the manner in which you have been treated." He smiled at Stan.
"For how long, sir?" Stan asked.
"I cannot say exactly, but not for very much longer. I am leaving my boys here and they will be with you during the time you stay here." His smile faded and he suddenly looked tired and old. "I ask this for a personal reason. Perhaps I am selfish."
"You saved our lives, sir," Allison said. "I'm giving my parole for a while longer."
"I'll give mine, sir," Stan promised.
They looked at O'Malley. "An' I'm gettin' away if I can," he declared.
The general bowed. "You know, of course, that I must place you in custody of a guard?"
"Sure," O'Malley replied. "Sure, but I'm gettin' itchy feet."
The general nodded. He handed the fat envelope to his eldest son, Lorenzo.
"You will keep this for me. Above all itmust not be given to the Germans." He got to his feet. "Now I must be getting back to headquarters. I trust you have been comfortable, gentlemen?"
"We have, thank you, sir," Allison said.
Gravely the general shook hands with the three Yanks and with each of his sons. At the doorway he paused and they all gave him a snappy salute. After he was gone the Bolero boys were silent. They stood at the balcony looking down on the shady road until his car disappeared inside the German camp. Lorenzo turned to Stan and there was a tight smile on his lips.
"This is a strange war for the Italians," he said.
"It is," Stan agreed.
The brothers shrugged their shoulders and started to chat with the Yanks in smooth English. They had learned the language in Great Britain. O'Malley sat back and said nothing. Stan and Allison carried on the talk. The war was not mentioned again. Allison and the brothers talked about schooldays in England.
At last Lorenzo got to his feet. The others joined him. They all bowed.
"We leave you now but will see you at dinner tonight."
After they had gone, O'Malley burst out, "You sure did get tricked by that ol' brass hat."
"I don't think so," Stan said.
"I say, old man, you better change your mind. If you don't, I'll wager you a dinner we see action before you do." Allison was smiling.
"Sure, an' you talk riddles," O'Malley snorted.
"There's only one place the general can put you for safekeeping right now. He'll have to turn you over to the Germans. This part of the country has been taken over by the Nazi gang." Allison spoke slowly. "The general hates the Nazis. Figure it out for yourself."
"An' suppose he pops up with a regiment o' soldiers to take you to a camp about five minutes before our parole is up?" O'Malley asked.
"He could do that anyway," Stan answered. "We've waited a month. A few more days won't kill us. I have a feeling Allison is right."
"The Italians have thrown Mussolini out, perhaps they will start throwing the Germans out," Allison said.
"They wouldn't have a chance," O'Malley answered.
"I guess you're right about that, but something's up. I'm going to wait and see." Stan walked to the balcony rail and seated himself.
That night at dinner the Bolero brothers were quite gay. And for the next few days they were always around, but always friendly and polite. Stan wondered why they were not at the front. Italy certainly needed every pilot she had. He did not think that the officers had been detailed to watch them.
The parole day came and a guard arrived in the morning. The three Yanks saw a squad of Italian soldiers headed by a young officer halt in the yard below. O'Malley sat on the rail, watching. The young officer came to the balcony alone.
"Which one is Lieutenant O'Malley?" he asked.
O'Malley grinned at him. "Sure, an' that's me. I'm glad you dropped in. Tell General Bolero that I am givin' my parole, though it is against me better judgment."
The officer bowed. "I am pleased," he said."I will report this to the general." He bowed again and turned on his heel.
Stan looked at O'Malley. "I thought you'd get some sense into that shaggy head of yours."
"We'll rot right here," O'Malley said with a scowl. "But the likes o' you has need o' someone to look out for you."
"Thanks," Stan said. "You are very thoughtful."
The three Yanks were sitting on their balcony restlessly watching the activity in the German camp below. They were beginning to wonder if General Bolero ever meant to release them from their promise. His sons still remained at the villa, but they never mentioned the war. Suddenly Lorenzo burst out on the balcony. He halted and lifted both hands excitedly.
"Italy has surrendered!" he announced. "You are free men!"
Before the Yanks could reply, Arno and Tony rushed in. They were very excited.
"This is the hour we have waited for," Tony shouted. "Now we will drive out the Black Shirt Fascisti and the Germans." The younger brothers embraced each other and danced up and down. Lorenzo smilingly watched them. Slowly he turned to the three surprised Yanks."My family—we have fought against the big-talking Mussolini. We belong to the society Free Italy."
"Great!" Allison exclaimed.
O'Malley was already headed for the door.
"Wait!" Lorenzo shouted after him. "I must tell you some things."
O'Malley halted and turned toward the door. "Sure, an' all I want is to get back into this fight."
"I am sure you do," Lorenzo said. "And I am going to help you."
"Good," Stan said.
Lorenzo took a fat package from his pocket. It was the package his father had given him. He held it out to Stan.
"Here are the locations of all German bases in Italy, the positions of batteries, the supply routes used, and all the military maps you will need. This is very important information."
O'Malley was staring at the package. "Sure, an' it's of no use now with Italy out o' the war. We'll be headed for Germany."
Lorenzo shook his head. "I'm afraid it is not so easy as that. Germany has as complete control of Italy as she has of any conqueredcountry. The Germans will be helped by our Black Shirts, who know they will be treated badly if they do not stay in power." He spread his hands wide. "Every officer like my father will be hunted down. We will be hunted. Today we dress as civilians and go north to destroy Nazi rail lines and supply dumps."
Stan took the packet. "Have you any suggestions for our getting out of Italy?"
Lorenzo smiled. "My brothers and I will have no use for our Nardi fighter planes. Perhaps after the war we might be repaid with an Airacobra."
"'Tis a foine set o' brothers ye are," O'Malley cried. "Lead me to those Nardi ships."
"They are in a woods north of the villa. On the hunting acres of the Bolero estate there is a runway the Germans have not found. I will lead you to your planes. But we had best hurry as the Germans are taking over everything." He spread his hands wide and shrugged his shoulders. "You know how efficient the Germans are."
"You will go nowhere," a harsh voice said.
The boys whirled toward the wide doorway leading to the balcony. Four German soldierswith tommy-guns stood glaring at them. A youngster with an officer's insignia on his shirt spoke.
"We have heard what you said. You are spies and will be dealt with quickly."
Lorenzo was in front of Stan. He whispered, "Over the balcony rail. There is a large shrub to land on. Take the path leading from the kennels. Cross the ridge. There is no road to the field."
"You, stop talking!" the German officer shouted.
Stan did not hesitate. He did a backward flip. As he went over the railing he saw flame flash from a machine gun. He caught a glimpse of Lorenzo sagging forward, his hands gripping his stomach.
The next instant he had plunged into a large bush which broke his fall. He lay beside a rock wall in a ditch. Vaguely he knew where the kennels were. Tony had taken him back to see the dogs one evening after dark. From above he could hear the officer bellowing down to the men he had left below. He hoped the Germans had felt so sure of their quarry that they had not surrounded the house.
Reaching a corner he discovered a guard there. The man was looking up, listening to his commander's orders. Stan hit him hard in the back with a knee and slapped a viselike grip around his neck. The man sagged down without a murmur. Stan stripped off the fellows cartridge jacket and grabbed his tommy-gun. He was glad the Germans had equipped their hounds with rapid-fire guns.
Leaping forward he reached the back of the house. There he halted. The squad cars were in the back yard, two of them. Four men stood at the back door listening to the shouting above. Stan saw the kennels and set himself to blast a path to freedom.
Suddenly he heard a wild yell from above. It was O'Malley and Stan could tell the Irishman was seeing red. There was a fight in progress up on the balcony. Machine guns chattered savagely. Stan felt suddenly sick to his stomach. The boys were up there mixing it barehanded with four Germans armed with machine guns.
The guards at the door whirled to leap into the house. Stan's submachine gun burst into flame and he swept a pathway of death acrossthe ranks of the Nazis. They went down in a writhing mass, one of them rolling off the steps and crawling away on his hands and knees, leaving a bloody path behind him.
Stan leaped for the back door and plunged into the house. He went through the spacious music room and up the wide stairway leading to the balcony like a charging tank, his submachine gun at his hip, his eyes like cold steel.
Leaping through the doorway he swept the room with his gun. O'Malley and Allison and Tony were crowded back against the wall. O'Malley was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder. A broken chair lay on the floor and beside it lay a dead German. Lorenzo lay on the floor face up. He was dead, but there was a smile of triumph on his lips. Arno had sagged down into a chair. He, too, was bleeding from a head wound.
The three Germans had their backs to the door. The officer was wild with fury. He was shouting wildly.
"If I did not have orders to bring you in so that we can force you to tell who your underground helpers are, I would shoot you all and leave you here to rot!"
"Put up your hands or you'll stay here to rot!" Stan snapped.
The Germans whirled about. As they turned, the two soldiers dropped their guns and elevated their hands. The officer came around with his machine gun firing. Stan opened up and cut him down. The two men began shouting:
"Kamrad! Kamrad!"
Stan backed them up against the wall. Before he had gotten them moved O'Malley and Allison had their tommy-guns. They stripped the ammunition from the soldiers.
"Tie them up," Stan snapped. He turned about and saw that Tony and Arno were kneeling beside their brother.
"We should go now. We cannot help him, but I shall see that he is mentioned in my reports as a hero in the cause of democracy," Stan said softly.
The two brothers straightened and rose to their feet. They stood stiffly and saluted.
"We will show you the flying field," Arno said.
"We better get moving. Both squad cars made off and they'll bring back reinforcements.The drivers didn't happen to be armed or else they thought the place was garrisoned." Stan nodded toward Arno and O'Malley. "Plug those wounds as you go along."
"I will get first aid and medicine from the cabinet in my room. I'll overtake you," Tony said.
They moved down the wide stairway, leaving the German soldiers where they would be rescued. Tony dashed off while the others, led by Arno, hurried out of the house and across the yard to the stables. Racing through the spacious barns they came to the kennels. By the time they had passed these Tony had caught up with them.
Pushing through a hidden gate in a hedge they came to a bridle path over which tall trees draped their branches.
"I say, a beautiful spot," Allison murmured.
"It has the smell of auld Ireland," O'Malley said wistfully.
"We are very fond of it," Tony said.
Arno was ahead, moving rapidly upward. They hurried along and caught up with him. From then on there was no talking; the trailwound upward steeply, covered by a canopy of trees. Reaching the top of the ridge they broke out into a forest. Arno led them to a spot where there was a narrow flight strip. Still they saw no planes.
Crossing the strip they entered a grove of tall trees and there stood three, trim ships. O'Malley yelped with joy. Stan looked at the craft critically. They were Nardi FN 500's, obsolete in speed and fire power, but trim and sturdy ships just the same. Arno smiled.
"We built this secret field so that we could slip in at night without the black-shirted Fascisti knowing where we had gone. We met often to plan the overthrow of Mussolini and his murderers."
"You landed here at night?" Allison asked in amazement.
"Certainly," Arno answered modestly.
"We could use you as a fighter pilot," Stan answered. "When you get through blowing up bridges and trains, you'd better join us. We'll vouch for you."
"We will do that. We like very much to fly," Tony said eagerly.
"You will find the guns on the ship are serviced. The engine is 1200 horsepower, you have two fixed guns firing through the prop and two guns fixed in the wings. You can get three hundred and fifty miles per hour out of those ships," Arno spoke proudly.
"Yet they are not as good as the Messerschmitts or the Focke-Wulf," Tony added. "And I think you will have to fight your way home against the Germans."
"Sure, an' we'll show them a fight," O'Malley said happily.
"You have gas to reach Malta, but not much for fighting. It is best that you run fast for home," Arno advised.
"We'll do just that," Stan said, remembering the package inside his shirt.
Tony and Arno helped them wheel the Nardis out on the flight strip. They were surprised to find another ship tucked away under the trees.
"Father's ship," Arno said with a catch in his voice. "But he has not been able to come for it."
"He'll come," Allison said, but he was not so sure the general was alive. He knew the Germanswould be ruthless in wiping out all anti-Fascist leaders in the territory they controlled.
The boys climbed up and got into the beautifully streamlined cockpits. They slipped into the Italian parachutes and got set. Arno and Tony acted as ground crew and the engines were soon turning over smoothly. Stan checked his dials and made himself familiar with gun controls and equipment; he cracked the throttle and listened to the roaring surge of power. Then he throttled down and leaned out, waving an arm in a signal that he was leading off. O'Malley and Allison answered the signal. They knew it was their job to see that Stan got through with his reports and maps.
Stan kicked the throttle open and the Nardi roared to life, leaping forward with surprising speed. Stan hoiked her tail with an added blast of prop pressure and tested her. She lifted at once. Unburdened by the armor plate carried by a Lightning or an Airacobra for the protection of the pilot and constructed of much lighter materials, she bounced off the ground before half of the short runway had been covered.
Stan leveled off close to the tops of the trees. He wanted to make sure Allison and O'Malleygot away, and so he did not want to stir up the swarm of German fighter planes on the big flying field just a few miles away.
O'Malley came up and then Allison. They dropped into formation beside Stan and he set his course by compass, straight for Sicily.