Looking upward he saw, far above in the blue sky, smoke trailers and little, darting planes. O'Malley and Allison were still up there, he could tell by the pattern of the fight. Then he noticed that the five Jerries who had been battling him started up to join the fight. He had a powerful urge to turn back and help his pals, though going back would be a suicide move.

Bending forward he felt the bulky package inside his shirt and his eyes hardened. His job was to go ahead. O'Malley and Allison were sacrificing themselves so that he could go on. If he went back, he would be throwing away the fruits of their courage and daring.

Dimly and like a miniature motion picture, the battle above and behind him was reflected on his rear-vision mirror. There was a lump in Stan's throat as he noticed that two of the planes were coming down, twisting and turning, trailing plumes of smoke. Before the picture faded out he saw one parachute blossom, a tiny white flower against the green of the hills and the blue of the sky.

A little later he spotted the coast and the sea. A line of hilly, high ground slipped under his wings and he headed out toward the beaches.

Suddenly the peaceful sky around him exploded in his face. Coastal batteries had spotted him. He was low, but this time the gunners were looking for low-flying bombers and strafing planes. They laid their flak and their tracers on him in a deadly hail of screaming steel. The Nardi bucked and turned half over as a sh.e.l.l burst under her belly. Ragged, saw-edged pieces of sh.e.l.l casing ripped through the wings. An exploding sh.e.l.l ripped away the whole nose and the prop. Stan felt the Nardi wobble. Her terrific speed hurled her on and out over the water, away from the pattern of sh.e.l.ls. But she was a dead duck and Stan knew it.

His greenhouse was mashed down close above his head. He tried the hatch cover and found it jammed tight. Testing the controls, he found he could still handle the ship in a glide.

Below him he could see two destroyers lying off the sh.o.r.e. They were blasting away at the batteries he had spotted for them. In closer, two PT boats darted back and forth, leaving trailing plumes of white foam behind them.

The Nardi had been flying so low that Stan had no chance to maneuver. He figured she would sink like a rock when she hit the water. Heaving with all of his strength he tried to open the hatch. The cover refused to budge. Green waves were reaching up for him. He smashed at the gla.s.s overhead and was able to push out a pane. Savagely he battered away as the Nardi settled down.

With a twist he laid the ship over, then flattened her, heading straight for one of the PT boats. Now he was smashing with both hands at the panes over his head. The gla.s.s cut his hands and arms, but he did not feel the pain. He had a hole and he needed desperately to enlarge it.

The Nardi nosed gently into the trough of a big wave, then it hit the wave and crumpled up. Green water surged over the c.o.c.kpit into Stan's face. He heaved himself upward and fought to get clear. His parachute was off and he was half out of the c.o.c.kpit, but a great force was sucking him down, down into the cool depths of the sea.

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. .h.i.tting 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 sh.o.r.e. Sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sured himself.

Toward eleven o 'clock Malta came into view, and they put into port through a ma.s.s 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.