e would
get over that base.

Stan watched them sail down, one after another. As the last parachute
blossomed out, Allison and O'Malley crowded forward. Stan had swung due
south, and was holding that course.

"Suppose you see what you can do with the radio," Stan said.

Allison laughed. "There isn't any radio and there isn't a gun aboard
this ship, except our two pistols."

"Fine," Stan said and opened the old Fiat up a bit more. "In that case
we better get in before dark."

"You better be after rememberin' that I'm commander o' this outfit,"
O'Malley broke in.

"All right, Commander, the ship is yours." Stan eased over a bit. With a
grin O'Malley squeezed into the pilot's seat.

"Now you can be after givin' the orders," he said. "Where in blazes are
we?"

"We're over Italy," Stan said. "I think the town we just flew over was
Cosenza, up the coast from Reggio."

"Do you be after thinkin' that's water ahead?" O'Malley asked.

They looked ahead and saw a strip of water and a long beach. Stan
frowned. "Must be the Gulf of Taranto. I guess I'm a bit mixed up."

"I say, old man, we better swing around and head southwest," Allison
said.

"We could fly to Africa," O'Malley remarked.

"Not on our gas supply. The Italians must be short of gas. They
certainly didn't fill this crate up." Allison's mocking grin appeared at
the corners of his mouth.

"How much? Don't be holdin' out secrets on us," O'Malley growled.

"It's only a wild guess, but I'd say about forty minutes."

O'Malley gave a startled yelp and spun the ship around to a south by
west course. "Sure, an' we're gettin' out o' here," he said.

Allison slipped into the copilot's seat while Stan sat on a folding
stool behind him. O'Malley gave all his attention to nursing speed out
of the old ship. He got her air-speed indicator up to two hundred and
fifty miles per hour, but the indicator needle was bent, so there was no
sure way of knowing how fast they were going. They left the expanse of
water behind and headed over a rugged country. Stan felt certain they
were flying down the toe of the Italian boot.

Everything was going fine when Stan spotted fighter planes above them
and to the west. He did not say anything until the craft were near
enough to be identified.

"Nine Airacobras off your port wing at two o'clock, Commander," he
shouted.

O'Malley craned his neck and squinted, then he began to grin. "Sure, an'
there is," he said. "It's an escort