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.
“Look them over and let me know what you think of them.” He turned to Stan and smiled.
Stan waited for whatever might be coming. The general fingered his close-cropped mustache and continued to smile. Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke.
“Since receiving a message from the Navy regarding your rescue I have had your service record handed to me. I find it quite interesting. What happened to Lieutenant O’Malley and Lieutenant Allison?”
Stan did not smile. “The last time I saw them they were fighting a ten-to-one battle with a flight of Messerschmitts, a delaying action, so that I could get through with these papers. We were flying Nardi fighters furnished us by the Italians.”
The general’s smile faded. “You think they are lost?”
“I’m going to check with operations,” Stan said. “Both O’Malley and Allison have come back from some tough fights.”
The general reached for a telephone. “I’ll have a check made,” he said.
“Has Colonel Benson been asking about us?” Stan asked and there was a twinkle in his eye.
“I believe it will be best to transfer you to another command. We do not wish to approve your conduct as ferry pilots, but you certainly have rendered a great service.” The general gave his attention to the phone. After fifteen long minutes of waiting and talking he cradled the instrument and shook his head. “No Nardi fighters have been reported flown in by escaped American pilots. A number have come in piloted by Italian officers.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan said. “I would like to have immediate service in a fighter squadron.”
“That will be arranged from my office. Now get into some proper clothing and report to Mess Nine. Hold yourself ready there to report to this office. We have a lot of questions to ask and we’ll be ready to start asking them as soon as you are clothed and fed.”
Stan snapped a salute and about-faced. He marched out of the office, got the location of Mess Nine from an orderly, and headed in that direction.
CHAPTER X
LONE EAGLE
A week passed with Stan lounging around Mess Nine waiting to be assigned to a fighter squadron. During that time he divided his hours between the officers at Intelligence and the board of strategy. He rubbed elbows with generals, British and American and French. During those interviews he got an idea of the great campaign which was being planned. It helped to soften the ache inside him, because he had heard nothing from O’Malley or Allison. It also helped to keep him from getting restless. He knew that a great reserve of air power was being assembled to throw an umbrella of planes over the coming thrust, which was aimed at the heart of Germany, through or across Italy.
The second week was well under way and everyone, except the generals, was beginning to complain and to cast a critical eye at the headquarters of General Dwight D. Eisenhower and General Harold R. L. G. Alexander. Stan knew enough of the plans from his meetings with the officers to know that the blow was coming, and that it would be a swift, savage thrust.
One morning he received a call. It was delivered by an orderly. Stan opened the folded sheet and read an order from headquarters. “Report to Colonel Benson at once for assignment.” Stan stared at the order. Benson had located him and demanded his return. The friendly general who had promised to transfer Stan was now in North Africa. Folding the report, Stan began packing the few things he owned. Colonel Benson’s command had been moved up to a field close to Messina. That was some comfort. It meant action as soon as the main invasion broke.
