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 more orders from his
