The cabin was dark, half full of water, and almost upside down. It took a few seconds for Red to get his bearings. As his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he made out the pale blur of Don Winslow’s face.
The young commander was clinging weakly to a seat, his eyes closed. As Red Pennington reached him, he stirred and mumbled vaguely, but did not release his grip on the seat. A bloody gash on his temple explained his half-conscious condition.
“Must have struck his head, just before the plane turned over!” the stout lieutenant groaned. “Come on, Don, old man! Leggo that seat, and lemme take you out. Leggo, I say! This plane is sinkin’ lower every minute!”
Don Winslow’s fingers were locked as if in a death grip. By main force Red pried them loose and dragged his friend down toward the submerged door.
“If only he doesn’t breathe in a couple lungfuls of water!” the worried lieutenant muttered, “but I’ve got to take that chance.”
The shock of cold water closing over his head seemed to rouse Don’s fighting instincts. Halfway through the doorway, he clutched at the jamb and got a grip. Red, also under water, struggled until he thought his lungs would burst.
Just in time, Don’s muscles relaxed. With his last strength Red Pennington dragged him free and up to the surface. Then, all at once, strong hands were hauling the two half-drowned officers into a boat.
The next thing Don Winslow knew, he was back in his own berth aboard the Gatoon, with Michael Splendor, Red, and the ship’s doctor crowding the little stateroom. His head still ached from the wallop he’d got inside the plane’s cabin, but the bandage which the doctor had just applied felt cool and comfortable.
“Say, Doc,” he grinned, trying to sit up, “who was it that beaned me this time?”