The ice in his veins was transformed into tongues of flame that licked through his body. O’Malley had come, just as he had known the Irishman would. He would bring a rescue ship back. All Stan had to do was stay alive a little longer.
He grinned happily as he watched the Spitfire become a dim speck in the sky and then disappear. He began beating the water with his arms and legs, and he jeered good-naturedly at the sea that had sought to engulf him.
The plane was coming back, circling high overhead to spot the floating pilot for a fishing boat that was putting out from shore. As the small craft drew near Stan saw two men in oilskins waving to him. He waved back, and then a strange thing happened. It was as though someone had struck him on the head with a sledge hammer. He was unconscious when the boat reached him, and he stayed unconscious for a full twenty-four hours.
He woke up in a strange new world that was utterly different from anything he had known before. A clean, white, antiseptic world with narrow beds and pretty girls in white uniforms. He was tucked in one of those beds, and one of the pretty girls in a white uniform was bending over him solicitously.
“Where am I?” he demanded.
“This is a hospital. You are very sick,” the nurse said soothingly.
“Hospital!” Stan sputtered. “I’m not staying in any hospital. I was never in a hospital in my life!” He got to his feet as orderlies and a head nurse came running.
“Lie down or I will report you,” the head nurse said severely. “You are sick.”
“How long do you think it takes me to get over a bath?” Stan shot at the nurse.
“You’ll be here two weeks,” the head nurse informed him.