Stan felt the Nardi hit bottom. The thought flashed through his mind that they were in shallow water. At a moment like this, cold, unwavering control of mind and body was necessary. One moment of panic meant death. Stan gritted his teeth and heaved hard. His waist pulled free and suddenly he was floating upward. His lungs were bursting with fire and his hands smarted, but he stroked hard and a few seconds later he burst out of the water, blowing and flailing. The first thing he saw was the PT boat. It was circling the spot where the Nardi had disappeared. Its skipper waved to Stan and shouted.
“Keep afloat! We’ll toss you a line!”
“Thanks!” Stan shouted back.
The line came out as the boat moved closer. Stan grabbed it. Two sailors hauled him aboard. He was met by a grinning young lieutenant, junior grade.
“I sure appreciate the lift,” Stan said and grinned.
The skipper stared at him. “A Yank!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get the Eity plane?”
“It was loaned to me by Italian friends,” Stan replied. “I have important papers which need to be dried,” he added.
“And some dry clothes,” the skipper said. “Come below.”
They went below and the lieutenant introduced himself. “I’m Lieutenant Del Ewing.”
“I’m Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Army Air Corps,” Stan said. “I have been a guest of the Italians for more weeks than are good for anyone.”
“They outfitted you when they gave up?”
“They did. A lot of them are German haters and will help us all they can.” Stan spoke soberly. He was thinking of Lorenzo lying on the floor with a smile on his lips, and of General Bolero, who probably had been shot by now. “A lot of them have real courage,” he added.
Del Ewing nodded. “I’ve seen some of it,” he said.
“Now about these papers.” Stan took the package out of his dripping shirt. The gummed wrapper fell off, exposing an oiled cloth envelope. That was lucky. The maps and papers were dry.
Del Ewing was digging into his sea chest, laying out dry clothing and an oilskin coat. He spoke over his shoulder:
“I can’t land you until tomorrow. This is a mission that can’t be dropped. My radio is shot and I’m here to stay until that destroyer out beyond turns in. If I quit my sector, a sub or a torpedo boat might slide in and plant a tin fish in her side.”
“The papers are vitally important to both Army and Navy,” Stan said. “But tomorrow will do.”
After fitting Stan out with dry clothing, the skipper went on deck and the PT boat got under way to resume her patrol work. Stan soon began to wonder if the little boat had not joined battle with a German craft. She was hitting a nerve-shattering, plank-busting speed that tossed Stan all over the little room. He turned to the navigator and discovered that the kid was having trouble keeping from being sick all over his charts. He gave Stan a green-lipped smile.
“The skipper is pushing her a bit fast, isn’t he?” Stan asked as he lurched into a seat beside the navigator.
“Just planing speed, sir,” the boy answered.
“Seems to me like a cross between a submarine and an airplane,” Stan said. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself.
Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clinging to the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs of water hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching bucker while somebody dumped buckets of water into his face. The whole ship was vibrating from the powerful thrusts of the Packard engines in the stern. The deck bristled with light cannon, torpedo tubes, and machine guns. Up there in that wild smother of foam and noise there was no chance to talk, but Stan watched a while.
The PT boat ducked and wove in and out between the destroyers and the shore. Shells burst around her, churning up the sea, but the gunners were unable to guess where the flighty PT would be at any given moment, so they never hit very close to her. Stan hoped they would spot a sub or an enemy patrol boat, but nothing showed up except other PT boats.
Stan started to go below. He did not even want to think about food, but he did feel like resting. The skipper came forward and offered to show him a bunk, but before they went down he said:
“You must undo your oilskin up topside; I mean, up here on the deck.”
“But I’ll get soaked,” Stan protested.
“No matter, if you remain vertical for any length of time below decks you’re done for.” He grinned at Stan.
Stan went below and made it into his bunk after the third try. He lay there with the bunk falling away from him, then slapping him hard in the face as it came back at him. He closed his eyes and utter exhaustion finally put him to sleep. His dreams were filled with writhing sea monsters, every one of them rushing through the water at express-train speed.
In the morning the skipper informed him that they were heading for Malta, which was now the headquarters of the Allied invasion forces.
“We got the radio going and asked permission. When we mentioned papers from General Bolero, they called us right in.” Del Ewing grinned broadly. “We’re in luck getting away from this game of tag.”
Stan was standing beside him on the deck and the boat was knifing along half out of the water. Suddenly Ewing bellowed:
“Hard a port!”
The helmsman spun the wheel and Stan clung to the railing with the breath knocked out of him. He saw a black object swish past.
“Wandering mine!” Del Ewing bellowed. “Probably one of our own!”
Stan drew a deep breath and grinned at the skipper. “I’ll take mine in a plane!” he shouted.
“I would, too, only I can’t pass the physical examination for aviator. They tell me I wouldn’t be able to stand the strain!” Ewing laughed heartily.
Stan wiped salt water out of his eyes and shook his head. He had seen many rough-riding vehicles of war, such as tanks and jeeps, but the PT boat had them all bested. Any craft that was such a rough-riding brute that half of its seasoned crew got sick was no place for him, he assured himself.
Toward eleven o ’clock Malta came into view, and they put into port through a mass of ships and flatboats and barges. A sprinkling of warcraft, including one British warship, filled the channel they were following. But that did not bother the skipper. He sent his boat in at planing speed which necessitated a lot of ducking and dodging.
Pulling alongside a dock, the PT boat was made fast. Stan climbed over the side and set his feet firmly on the ground. He was glad to be off the deck of the speedy craft. The skipper grinned at him.
“I’ll get you a ride to headquarters. Your legs don’t seem to be up to walking that far.”
“Thanks,” Stan said. “I’d be picked up by the M.P.’s for being drunk if I tried to walk.”
The skipper secured a jeep for Stan from a Navy supply outfit. They shook hands and the jeep roared away at top speed. Stan leaned back and took the jolts. They seemed like caresses after the skipper’s PT boat.
News of the package he was carrying had come in ahead of Stan. A lieutenant was waiting for him.
“This way, sir,” he said and hurried away with Stan almost running to keep up.
They entered a room where a dozen officers sat around a big table. Stan’s guide halted and saluted.
“Lieutenant Wilson, sir.”
A grizzled general looked up from a map. Stan stepped forward and handed over the package. The general took it and ripped it open at once. Stan stood waiting to be dismissed. He started to back away. The general lifted a hand.
“Don’t leave, Wilson. These papers are vitally important.” He stopped talking and spread out the contents of the package. The other officers were leaning forward. “These are most important, most valuable,” the general said. He shoved the papers over to a colonel.