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 to Italy.” 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 down the 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 part of 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 copilot could 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.
