In a moment the side door of the hangar was opened and out stepped a smiling French officer, his hands in the air. His blue uniform was as trim as his tiny mustache, and he walked erect, with dignity and military precision. Just as the other French soldiers came out behind him, three men appeared from the smoke, which now was lifting somewhat, behind Scotti’s group. Dick Donnelly turned from his officer’s side and called to them.
“Take it easy, boys.” he said with a grin. “The heavy machine guns won’t be needed—unless you want a little target practice later just to keep in trim.”
The men, who had quickly assembled a machine gun dropped by parachute from one of the planes, rushed it forward with all possible speed, stopped in their tracks, dropped their heavy burdens, and looked disappointed.
“Aren’t we ever gonna get any fightin’?” grumbled the first man.
“Wasn’t that little business at Casablanca enough for you?” asked Donnelly.
“Sure, but that was three weeks ago!” was the reply.
By this time the French soldiers were lined up alongside the hangar, their hands in the air. There were two other officers, four enlisted men and four men whose overalls showed that they were mechanics.
“We have resisted,” cried the first officer happily. “Did you not see? We fired our guns in resistance against your attack as we have been commanded. But your superior numbairs overcame us. Yes?”
Lieutenant Jerry Scotti grinned and walked forward.
“Sure, I understand,” he said. “You put up a whale of a fight! Lucky nobody was hurt. You can put your hands down now.”