Stan went below and made it into his bunk after the third try. He lay there with the bunk falling away from him, then slapping him hard in the face as it came back at him. He closed his eyes and utter exhaustion finally put him to sleep. His dreams were filled with writhing sea monsters, every one of them rushing through the water at express-train speed.
In the morning the skipper informed him that they were heading for Malta, which was now the headquarters of the Allied invasion forces.
“We got the radio going and asked permission. When we mentioned papers from General Bolero, they called us right in.” Del Ewing grinned broadly. “We’re in luck getting away from this game of tag.”
Stan was standing beside him on the deck and the boat was knifing along half out of the water. Suddenly Ewing bellowed:
“Hard a port!”
The helmsman spun the wheel and Stan clung to the railing with the breath knocked out of him. He saw a black object swish past.
“Wandering mine!” Del Ewing bellowed. “Probably one of our own!”
Stan drew a deep breath and grinned at the skipper. “I’ll take mine in a plane!” he shouted.
“I would, too, only I can’t pass the physical examination for aviator. They tell me I wouldn’t be able to stand the strain!” Ewing laughed heartily.
Stan wiped salt water out of his eyes and shook his head. He had seen many rough-riding vehicles of war, such as tanks and jeeps, but the PT boat had them all bested. Any craft that was such a rough-riding brute that half of its seasoned crew got sick was no place for him, he assured himself.