“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 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.
CHAPTER VII
REST CURE
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 and scowled 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.”