By this time Larry Gray had scrambled up on the bridge beside March who quickly explained what had happened. Stan and Mac joined them, wondering at the sound of machine-gun fire.
“I’m an American flier!” Scoot shouted back. “Crashed here this afternoon.”
“Turn on the searchlight!” Larry ordered, and in a moment the powerful beam found the lone figure on the rocky beach.
“Only one man,” March said. “And it sure looks like a Navy uniform, slightly mussed up. He must be okay, Skipper.”
“Can’t ever be sure,” Larry said. “There may be a pack of Japs back behind those trees. It may be a swiped uniform, anyway.”
“But he looks white and tall,” March said.
“Yes, he does,” Larry agreed. “But if he’s an American—wait, he’s calling.”
“I know you can’t take any chances on a trap,” the voice came to them over the water. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it—to the letter.”
“All right,” Larry called back. “We’re sure you must be American, all right, but we won’t take a chance. Take your clothes off and swim out to us. We’ll keep the light on you and you’re covered at every minute with a machine gun.”
On shore Scoot gulped at the idea of the machine gun pointing at him every minute. But he agreed, knowing that in a similar situation he would be just as cautious about any possible Jap trick. He quickly stripped to his underwear, leaving his clothes on the rocks at his feet. Then, arms in the air so the men on the sub would see that he carried nothing, he waded into the water, always in the bright spot of the searchlight. When the water came up to his chest he bent forward and started swimming, being careful to raise both arms well out of the water at each stroke. But he had to keep his head down and his eyes averted because of the bright glare of the light.