Toward eleven o ’clock Malta came into view, and they put into port through a mass of ships and flatboats and barges. A sprinkling of warcraft, including one British warship, filled the channel they were following. But that did not bother the skipper. He sent his boat in at planing speed which necessitated a lot of ducking and dodging.
Pulling alongside a dock, the PT boat was made fast. Stan climbed over the side and set his feet firmly on the ground. He was glad to be off the deck of the speedy craft. The skipper grinned at him.
“I’ll get you a ride to headquarters. Your legs don’t seem to be up to walking that far.”
“Thanks,” Stan said. “I’d be picked up by the M.P.’s for being drunk if I tried to walk.”
The skipper secured a jeep for Stan from a Navy supply outfit. They shook hands and the jeep roared away at top speed. Stan leaned back and took the jolts. They seemed like caresses after the skipper’s PT boat.
News of the package he was carrying had come in ahead of Stan. A lieutenant was waiting for him.
“This way, sir,” he said and hurried away with Stan almost running to keep up.
They entered a room where a dozen officers sat around a big table. Stan’s guide halted and saluted.
“Lieutenant Wilson, sir.”
A grizzled general looked up from a map. Stan stepped forward and handed over the package. The general took it and ripped it open at once. Stan stood waiting to be dismissed. He started to back away. The general lifted a hand.