"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 begin