Then they broke over the top of the ridge and went careening down a steep slope. Five minutes later they had reached cover in an avenue of trees. But the Italians did not halt for repairs. They wanted to put as many miles as possible between them and the Yank air army before their gas ran out.

An hour later the truck limped into another airfield which had not been attacked. It was tucked away in a circle of hills with wooded slopes reaching down to a little valley. Here they found they had overtaken General Bolero. He was out on the field rushing about, shouting orders and apparently getting ready to take off again. His staff was trailing him about, with their bundles and brief cases and files.

Stan and his pals were rushed into a small barracks room. The junior officer who spoke English had charge of them, backed by a dozen guards.

“We will supply you with clothing,” he said, casting his eye over their ragged uniforms.

The clothing turned out to be blue shirts and bright green dungaree overalls. O’Malley glared at the officer. Stan grinned as he slipped into his outfit.

“It would save you a lot of trouble if you just turned us loose,” he suggested.

“You will not escape. You will be sent to Italy.” The officer matched O’Malley’s glare. “Sicily can never be taken. Our infallible leader Mussolini has said Sicily can never be taken.” He waved his hands excitedly. “Your forces will be driven into the sea.”

“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.