“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.”