Soon his hand struck the steel side of the hull and helping arms reached down to pull him up on the deck. Two enlisted men and McFee were there, looking him over carefully.
“He’s okay, Skipper!” Mac called up to the bridge. “Not a thing on him and he’s as American as Uncle Sam.” Then to Scoot, “How are you, fellow? Glad we found you. Come on up.”
He led the dripping Scoot to the ladder leading up to the bridge. As he climbed over the edge, Scoot saw a familiar face—and almost fell over backward to the deck again!
“March!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Scoot Bailey!” March cried, rushing forward. He threw his arms around the shivering and wet flier and pounded him on the back. “Scoot, my boy! It’s really you! How on earth—”
But Scoot was shouting and talking, too, laughing and dazed by the many things that had happened to him in the last few hours.
McFee and the enlisted men looked on in amazement at the scene, but Larry Gray was smiling. He remembered the name of Scoot Bailey from the many things March had told him about his closest friend. And he had seen enough strange things happen in the war not to be too startled at anything that happened out in the middle of the ocean.
In a few minutes they had gone below and Scoot was wrapped in a blanket while two men put out in a collapsible boat to bring his clothes from the island. Scoot sat with the others in the tiny ready-room and drank a cup of hot coffee, while they talked and asked questions and answered them.
March Pounded Scoot on the Back