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. 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." "They ought to be using their men to fight an' not be after keeping a whole company here as guards," O'Malley grumbled. "After the show you put on, they need a company," Stan snapped. "If we'd been good boys, they might have left us with a couple of guards." "Who started the fuss?" O'Malley demanded. "I stumbled, but that was just to slow down the procession," Stan answered. "I'll admit it was a mistake." "We'd better be doing some heavy thinking," Allison warned. "If we don't, we'll spend the rest of this campaign in a prison camp." There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of 

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