"I'll bet you a bottle of your finest wine that half of the island is already taken," Stan answered.
"I say, why don't you kick the Germans out and help us along?" Allison asked. He felt he might touch a sore spot in mentioning the Germans.
The shot hit home. A flush spread over the face of the officer. "The Nazi dogs," he snapped. "We will deal with them after we have used them to help us."
"Sure, an' they'll treat you like they did the Poles," O'Malley said. "An' it will serve you right well, you spalpeens."
"We'd like to stop over here and rest a bit," Stan cut in. "We realize you treated us roughly because we made you a lot of trouble. We'll give you our parole. There'll be no more rough stuff."
"You talkin' fer me?" O'Malley growled.
"I am," Stan said and gave O'Malley a hard look. "We'll see that you're a nice, well-behaved boy."
"Agreed," Allison said, catching Stan's idea that he was playing for time. Even if they gave their parole it would not prevent their being captured by the Yanks.
The officer smiled knowingly. "You would like to stay here. You think your air troops will take over this field. No, we will not be so foolish. You leave for Italy in one hour." He turned and marched out, after giving orders to the guards.
"That's that," Stan said. "But we still have a chance. He didn't accept our parole."