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