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.