After fitting Stan out with dry clothing, the skipper went on deck and the PT boat got under way to resume her patrol work. Stan soon began to wonder if the little boat had not joined battle with a German craft. She was hitting a nerve-shattering, plank-busting speed that tossed Stan all over the little room. He turned to the navigator and discovered that the kid was having trouble keeping from being sick all over his charts. He gave Stan a green-lipped smile.
“The skipper is pushing her a bit fast, isn’t he?” Stan asked as he lurched into a seat beside the navigator.
“Just planing speed, sir,” the boy answered.
“Seems to me like a cross between a submarine and an airplane,” Stan said. He was beginning to feel a bit sick himself.
Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clinging to the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs of water hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching bucker while somebody dumped buckets of water into his face. The whole ship was vibrating from the powerful thrusts of the Packard engines in the stern. The deck bristled with light cannon, torpedo tubes, and machine guns. Up there in that wild smother of foam and noise there was no chance to talk, but Stan watched a while.
The PT boat ducked and wove in and out between the destroyers and the shore. Shells burst around her, churning up the sea, but the gunners were unable to guess where the flighty PT would be at any given moment, so they never hit very close to her. Stan hoped they would spot a sub or an enemy patrol boat, but nothing showed up except other PT boats.
Stan started to go below. He did not even want to think about food, but he did feel like resting. The skipper came forward and offered to show him a bunk, but before they went down he said:
“You must undo your oilskin up topside; I mean, up here on the deck.”
“But I’ll get soaked,” Stan protested.
“No matter, if you remain vertical for any length of time below decks you’re done for.” He grinned at Stan.