They skimmed over a row of trees and headed for an open field surrounded by woods. The Fiat gave up the ghost halfway across the field. She just settled down and hit the earth in a cloud of smoke and dust. Twisting and turning she plowed her way toward the far tree line. Finally she whirled around and piled up. The dust and smoke was so thick the three Yanks could see nothing. Pawing and struggling they fought their way out of the mass of wreckage. They heard men shouting all around them. Bursting out of the smoke and dust, they found themselves surrounded by fifty or more German soldiers.
For a moment the Germans were as surprised as the three Yanks. They had expected to rescue a crew of Italian fliers. The men before them were dressed in the garb of Italian civilians. An officer bellowed an order and the Germans charged in.
There was no place to run, except out on the open field, and that would have been suicide because a half dozen of the Germans were armed with tommy-guns. The Yanks just stood waiting for the Germans to reach them. The officer in command of the rescue group, a tall fellow with a saber scar on his cheek, halted before them and regarded them critically. Slowly a sarcastic smile formed on his lips. He spoke to them sharply in Italian.
Stan answered in English. "We are officers of the United States Army."
The officer looked blank but another officer who had come up broke in, speaking clipped but perfect English.
"American fliers dressed as Italian civilians." He raised his eyebrows. "We can thank your fighters for shooting you down. Your spy system is very dumb, indeed. Your fighter planes should have known better."
"We were Italian prisoners of war. Our uniforms were ruined. As a matter of courtesy the Italians furnished us what clothing they had." Stan spoke stiffly. "We demand the rights of prisoners of war."
"We will decide what rights you have, but I believe you will be shot as spies." The officer turned to his superior and spoke in rapid German.
Allison had said nothing at all. O'Malley just glared at his captors, his big hands balled into fists. Stan moved close to him.
"Keep your shirt on. We're in a tight spot," he said in a low voice.