Rutherford Montgomery - A Yankee Flier in Italy

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.