didn't doubt that they'd try to set it down on the rough surface to
rescue him. He tried to recall whether he'd seen any seaplanes since
arriving in England.

Things were getting hazy in his mind. He gave up trying to move his
limbs. The blood was congealing in his veins. He had a strange feeling
that his flesh was becoming brittle with cold, that he would break into
pieces if he tried to move an arm or leg.

A delightful sensation of helpless lethargy crept over him. This was the
sort of thing he had read happened to people when death was very close
and inevitable. It was Nature's kind way of drugging the perceptions
against the impact of death.

He began to hear a buzzing in his ears, and he decided that was the
beginning of the end. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered. Not even
the war.

The buzzing grew louder and became a distinct annoyance. He tried to
shut it away from his consciousness, but it persisted. He felt himself
being dragged back from the coma into which he had sunk. The buzzing
became a loud drone, then smashed at his ear drums with a shattering
roar.

He came to life again, and fought to blink his salt-encrusted eyelids
open. He recognized that roar of a Spitfire motor. It was zooming over
him, flattening out in a crazy reckless pancake dangerously close to the
surface of the water.

He got one eye open and caught a flashing glimpse of a grinning Irish
face leaning over the side of the plane and shouting something to him.
The plane lifted swiftly and swept away and Stan found himself waving a
numbed hand after it.

The ice in his veins was transformed into tongues of flame that licked
through his body. O'Malley had come, just as he had known the Irishman
would. He would bring a rescue ship back. All Stan had to do was stay
alive a little longer.

He grinned happily as he watched the Spitfire become a dim speck in the
sky and then disappear. He began beating the water with his arms and
legs, and he jeered good-naturedly at the sea that had sought to engulf
him.

The plane was coming back, circling high overhead to spot the floating
pilot for a fishing boat that was putting out from shore. As the small
craft drew near Stan saw two men in oilskins waving to him. He waved
back, and then a strange thing happened. It was as though someone had
struck him on the head with a sledge hammer. He was unconscious when the
boat reached him, and he stayed unconscious for a full twenty-four
hours.