“If we don’t get off this island in a day or two,” he said gloomily, “we’re almost sure to miss the Big Show.”
“Oh, yes,” Stew breathed. “Say! That’s right!”
“And I’d about as soon be dead as to miss that.” Jack’s gloom deepened. Occasionally during his watch, when he listened in vain for the sound of a rescue plane, the thought of the “Big Show” and the part he wanted to play in it became a definite goal.
Only the night before, the ship’s commander had said to him, “We’ve got a little job to do down south of here. Then, I hope, we’re due to join the big push for the grandest show of all.”
Yes! The “Big Show”! Whispers had gone around the ship. For two whole weeks rumors had been crystallizing into facts. They would join other task forces, a dozen carriers, some big battle wagons, a hundred—perhaps two hundred—fighting ships, scores of transports and cargo ships, as well as many fast PT boats. Then all together, with the greatest fighting force the world had ever known, they would go after Mindanao.
And what was Mindanao? For the fiftieth time Jack got out a map, and flashing his pinpoint light on a spot said:
“There it is, one of the largest of the Philippine Islands.”
“MacArthur said he’d go back, and now we’re going,” Stew said soberly.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Jack demanded bitterly. “Looks as if we’re stuck right here.”
“I’ll be there if I have to swim!” Stew vowed.