FIRING SQUAD
The three Yanks seated themselves on a rough bench in their cell. The two Italian prisoners looked them over without interest, then went back to their own talk, which they were carrying on in whispers. Every once in a while they shot glances at the boys as though fearing they were trying to hear what was being said.
“Suspicious chaps, what?” Allison said, amused.
“Wonder what they were thrown in for?” Stan mused.
“Sure, an’ it matters very little. What happens to Mrs. O’Malley’s boy is what’s worryin’ me,” O’Malley broke in. “Ivery window is fastened as tight as the purse o’ a Scotsman an’ the door is well guarded.”
“They’ll be coming after us very soon,” Stan said. “They’ll question us one at a time.”
“You’d best act as commander,” O’Malley said. “I might plant a fist on the nose o’ one o’ their generals.”
“I say, that’s a fine idea,” Allison agreed. “Stan, you are in command.”
It was natural for them to turn to Stan. He had always been the most level-headed of the three in tight spots. He grinned at them.
“We’ll see who they pick,” he answered. “But we don’t talk.”
A few minutes later the junior officer who spoke English appeared. He shoved past the guard and stood at the barred door. The two Italian prisoners stopped talking at once. The boys did not get up from their bench. They returned the stare of the officer. His eyes moved over them and paused on Stan.
“Are you in command?”
“I am in command,” Stan answered.
“Come with me. The colonel is very reasonable. If you are not pig-headed you may be treated as prisoners of war.”
Stan got to his feet. One of the Italians had risen. He looked at Stan closely. Suddenly Stan turned back to his pals and bent close to them. In a whisper he said:
“Be careful. I just got the idea those Italians may be planted in here to listen to what we say.”
“Come on, you,” the officer snapped.
Stan moved to the iron grating. Pulling a bunch of keys out of the side pocket of his tunic, the guard unlocked the door. Stan stepped out on a narrow walk which led to a row of doors. The officer marched stiffly at his side. At a glance Stan saw that the place was well guarded. Not less than a dozen men with rifles were spotted within sight of the guardhouse and of the buildings grouped around it.
“You will do well to answer all questions truthfully and in detail. Colonel Kittle is a man of action.” The officer gave decided emphasis to the last words.
Stan did not reply. They were entering a big room with wall cabinets and a desk. Chairs ringed the desk on which lay various trophies and gadgets such as might have decorated the room of any flight lieutenant. Stan spotted a piece out of a Hurricane fighter. There was an American Colt forty-five automatic and a Russian helmet.
Behind the desk sat the tall officer with the saber scar across his cheek. Stan sized him up as a Prussian military man of the old school. Now that he had a good chance to look at the colonel he saw that the man was hollow-eyed, his skin was drawn tightly over his cheekbones, and his short, cropped hair was streaked with gray. Stan snapped a salute, not knowing exactly why he did it.
The colonel returned the salute and waved a bony hand toward a chair. Stan seated himself. The officer went on regarding him intently. The junior officer seated himself beside Stan and waited. Finally the colonel spoke in German. The young officer frowned, then began translating.
“The colonel wishes to compliment you. The Americans have done very well in Africa.”
“Thanks,” Stan answered warily.
“He sees no reason why you should not be classed as a prisoner of war.” The young officer’s lip curled. He turned to the colonel and waited.
The colonel spoke for some little time. When he stopped talking the young lieutenant faced Stan.
“We wish to know the approximate number of fighter and bomber craft based upon Africa. It would be helpful if you could add information regarding additional troops moved in to assist in the action against Italy.”
Stan smiled. “My compliments to the colonel. Tell him I am not at liberty to give such information.”
The officer scowled. He translated and the colonel smiled back at Stan.
“That will be all,” the young officer snapped. It was plain the young officer did not like the way his commander was handling matters.
Stan was marched back to his cell. The young officer hurried away. When he was out of hearing, Stan spoke in low tones to his pals. He now noticed that the Italians seemed interested and were trying to listen.
“The old boy with the scar is commander. He’s a Prussian officer of the old school and does not think much of the Nazi methods. He seems to have convinced himself that we are really officers and told the truth about our clothes.”
“I’ll get more dope,” Allison said. “I can understand their talk.”
A few minutes later the young officer returned and took Allison to the office. O’Malley and Stan sat waiting for his return. The Italians sat with their backs against the wall in silence. Fifteen minutes passed and then Allison returned. The boys went into a huddle.
“The colonel is not in favor of using the third degree on us. He says he has reports on us from the Italians and knows we are prisoners of war. He said all this in German. The young lieutenant seems to be in with the Gestapo. I gathered that they hate each other.” Allison paused and grinned. “The old boy told him off plenty, but the kid is stubborn. He’s going over the head of the colonel, so we may have trouble.”
“Sure, an’ I’ll bet the colonel can get tough, just the same,” O’Malley cut in.
“Yes, he’s as hard as nails but he has the old rules well trained into him. He’ll do whatever the big shots order. Guess who the big boy in Italy is.”
“Couldn’t make a stab,” Stan said.
“Rommel himself. He’s to keep us from breaching the continent. Remember how Herr Goebbels has been shouting that the Allies could never break into the European fortress? Well Rommel is going to see that we don’t crack through.” Allison laughed softly.
“Sure, an’ we’ll give ’em the same pastin’ we gave him in Africa,” O’Malley growled.
An hour passed and O’Malley was not called in. Supper of bread and thin soup arrived and with it came the Gestapo officer. He seated himself on a stool outside the bars and talked while the boys ate. O’Malley looked at the food, then turned to the officer.
“’Tis not fit for a hog, this food.”
“That’s why you are getting it,” the officer said and laughed loudly.
“We are entitled to decent rations,” Stan said.
“What does it matter about the rations? I have just talked by radio to headquarters. Unless you give us the information we want, you will be shot. I have the order with me.” He leered at the boys triumphantly.
“Pleasant sort of folks, you Nazis,” Allison drawled.
“I will attend to the execution myself, tomorrow morning. You will have tonight to think things over.” He got to his feet and kicked aside the stool.
Stan finished his tin of soup and stood up. He walked to the barred door. The guard swung around and made a menacing motion with his rifle. Stan grinned at him and stepped back. He was convinced the Gestapo officer had told the guards to shoot on the least provocation, he could read it in the man’s eyes.
“Be careful,” he said as he seated himself again. “The guards have been told to get rid of us if they can find any excuse.”
“I’d as soon be shot by a guard as a firing squad,” Allison said.
“We might get the fellow up near the bars and get his keys,” Stan said.
“Good idea,” O’Malley agreed. “But how?”
“We’ll get over near the door and start to whisper with our backs to him. See if we can tease him up close,” Stan suggested.
They moved over near the grating and began whispering. The guard stood watching them. He was a full ten feet from the door and did not move. His expressionless, beefy face showed not a flicker of interest. Finally the boys gave it up.
“He has about as much curiosity as a turtle,” Stan said sourly.
“Sure, an’ they may put on a guard with a brain,” O’Malley said hopefully.
They sat down and tried to think up another scheme. At midnight the guard was changed and they tried their trick on the new man. He was less interested than the first one. He turned his back on them and let them whisper. The boys gave it up and sat down to wait.
They dozed off after a time. O’Malley stretched out on the floor and went to sleep. Stan and Allison remained on the bench, leaning back against the wall. The clatter of trucks and shouting of soldiers wakened them. Daylight was breaking and the camp seemed to be getting set for some sort of action. Presently the young officer appeared. He glared at the three Yanks.
“Are you ready to talk?” he demanded.
“No,” Stan answered. The others shook their heads.
“In that case I will waste no time. You will be shot within the hour.” He turned to the Italian prisoners and spoke in German to one of them. His words were harsh and his attitude showed he had no respect for the men.
One of the prisoners answered in German. His words were angry and he was defiant. Suddenly Allison stepped forward.
“I say, old man,” he addressed the officer. “I’ve changed my mind. There is some information I could give the colonel.”
“Come along then,” the officer snapped. He shot a few words at the Italians as he motioned for the guard to open the door.
Stan grabbed Allison’s arm. “You can’t do it, fellow,” he said.
Allison turned on him. “You may want to die and become a hero, but I’d rather be a live war prisoner. I say, get your hands off me.”
Stan started to pull Allison back. With a quick movement Allison planted a fist on Stan’s jaw. It was a hard right cross and set Stan back on his heels.
The officer laughed loudly. “Now you are acting quite as you should, you swine.”
“Let me get a crack at him,” O’Malley howled. “The traitor!”
He was blocked by the bayonet of the guard. Allison walked out of the cell. He paused and looked back. There was a mocking leer on his lips.
“Good-by, saps,” he said.
Stan slumped down on the bench. O’Malley marched up and down fuming and ranting. Twenty minutes passed and a soldier came to the cell. He escorted the Italians out of the room. Stan got to his feet and walked to the door. He was attracted by marching feet on the gravel outside.
Looking out he saw a squad of men with rifles. The squad leader halted them and faced them toward a wall. Their rifle butts hit the gravel and they stood rigid, with their backs to the cell door. Stan noticed that mortar had been knocked from the surface of the wall. He could see many splattered places and many bullet holes in that wall. Turning around he looked at O’Malley, who had seated himself.
“The reception committee has arrived,” he said calmly.
O’Malley got to his feet and walked to the door. In silence they stood looking out at their executioners. The squad leader was looking their way. He seemed eager to get at the business he had to perform.
Two officers appeared and halted before the squad leader. He saluted and the three talked briefly. The officers turned toward the guardhouse. They spoke to the guard and he produced his keys. The door was opened and one of the officers spoke in broken English.
“Come now.”
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.
The firing squad suddenly came to life. They shouldered their rifles, about-faced, and marched away. Stan and O’Malley walked over to the group.
The general ceased shouting and looked at the two Yank airmen. He puffed out his cheeks and said:
“A thousand apologies, gentlemen. I am ashamed. Italy is shamed. This could not be.” He faced the colonel. “These are my prisoners, Colonel. I am taking them with me.”
Colonel Kittle saluted and nodded. The Gestapo officer whirled and raced away.
“We will go quickly,” the general said to the boys, “before the suckling pig receives more orders from his superiors.” He bowed deeply to the colonel and faced about.
“I have given our promise to go with him,” Allison said. “It was the only way to save your necks.”
They marched away beside the general. Beyond the buildings they came to a big car with an army driver. General Bolero himself opened the door, and the boys seated themselves in the rear seat. The general climbed in the front seat with his driver. He sat very stiffly but every once in a while he sputtered like the fuse on a firecracker.
The car rolled up a shady road, past many guards, and on into a wide highway. Stan turned to Allison.
“How did you work it?” he asked.
“I heard one of those Italian prisoners say he demanded to see General Bolero. The officer told him Bolero was in Colonel Kittle’s office. I thought there might be a slim chance if I could get to the general, so I pretended to be ready to turn traitor.” Allison chuckled. “You should have seen the general,” he lowered his voice, “when I told him we were to be shot as spies.”
“He’s a good egg, but for how long did you give our parole?” Stan asked. He was worried because a military parole is something a soldier does not break.
“Thirty days,” Allison replied. “It was the best deal I could make.”
“Thirty days!” Stan repeated. “Italy will be captured by that time and we’ll miss the show.”
Allison grinned. “You know, I got the idea the general figured Italy would be out of the war by then.”
“’Tis the first time I iver promised to stay in jail,” O’Malley said sadly. “But after lookin’ down the barrels o’ them Nazi rifles, I’m not kickin’ on the bargain.”
“Yes, we’d have missed all of the show if Allison hadn’t outsmarted that Gestapo officer,” Stan agreed.