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.
The three Yanks were willing to move in out of the rain. They were drenched to the skin. Before they had reached the place where they were to be questioned the rain had ceased falling, and the sun had burst through the clouds. O'Malley was completely disgusted.
"Sure, an' I calls that a dirty trick. The weather is against us as well as iverything else."