“I’m doing foine,” O’Malley said. “Hear them signals coming in? That’s the boys on Malta giving us the old signal. We’ll ride right in.”
They changed course, heading north. Stan began to frown. It did not seem right to be heading in that direction. Suddenly they sighted a field through the rain. O’Malley dived for the field and Stan followed with Allison close behind. They hit the runway in a drenching rain and rolled in wing to wing.
Suddenly they were confronted by four trucks. The trucks rolled out and halted across their paths, pulling in close before them so that the Lightnings could not turn around. Stan stared at the trucks. They certainly were not Yank or British. Then he saw squads of grinning Italian soldiers poking machine guns over the sides of the trucks. Ground men began swarming out. Everyone was smiling.
“You sure let them call you in,” Stan shouted to O’Malley.
“’Twas a dirty trick, them using our signals to call us in here,” O’Malley fumed.
“Malta is just across the strait, I’ll bet,” Allison said. “I’ve heard that the Italians use this trick, but I never thought they’d fool the Irish.” There was a mocking note in Allison’s voice. “We may as well climb down like good little boys. They have us covered with a hundred machine guns.”
“I’m getting out very carefully,” Stan said. O’Malley said nothing at all, but he climbed out and joined Stan and Allison.
A group of Italian officers crowded around them. All were smiling and bowing as though welcoming the Yanks. O’Malley scowled at them, but Stan grinned back and Allison lifted a hand.
One of the Italian officers stepped forward. He spoke good English.
“You are prisoners of war, gentlemen. Come with us.” He waved a hand toward the dim outline of a building.