"Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They certainly didn't fill this crate up." Allison's mocking grin appeared at the corners of his mouth.
"How much? Don't be holdin' out secrets on us," O'Malley growled.
"It's only a wild guess, but I'd say about forty minutes."
O'Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the ship around to a south by west course. "Sure, an' we're gettin' out o' here," he said.
Allison slipped into the copilot's seat while Stan sat on a folding stool behind him. O'Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out of the old ship. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.
Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near enough to be identified.
"Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o'clock, Commander," he shouted.
O'Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. "Sure, an' there is," he said. "It's an escort we've been needin'. Likely the boys will know the way home."
"Certainly they will," Allison said. "And they'll know a Fiat BR 20, also. This crate looks like a bomber."
"We better duck and go downstairs for a bit of hedge-hopping," Stan advised. The Airacobras had spotted the lone bomber and were peeling off like hounds scenting a buck.