A film of oil appeared on the water. “Give it to her!” Kentucky shouted into his phone. “We’ve struck oil. Let’s make it a gusher!”
Just then a dive bomber came screaming down to lay its egg squarely on the destroyer’s deck.
“That got her!” Kentucky exulted, as the craft exploded. “Come on now. Gas is low. Let’s beat it back home for chow.”
It was such a day as a flier would never forget.
As they sped away, Marines from barges and small boats were swarming ashore. The stepping stone to Mindanao was now all but won.
“Jeepers!” Kentucky exclaimed into his mike. “I wish Jack and Stew—yes, and Ted too—could have been in on this. Wonder where Ted is right now? We’ll have to take a look.”
Ted was not faring badly. The balmy breezes had dried out his clothes, and dawn had come, but there was no sign of their task force.
“Gone in for the kill and then the landing,” he thought. “And I’m out of it. Worse luck!”
“But then,” he reflected. “Things might be worse.” He had done his bit. He had helped block the attack of those enemy torpedo bombers, and he had shot down two of them—he was quite sure of that.
He munched a chocolate bar for a time. Then he examined the fishline packed in his emergency kit. “Think I’ll try it out,” he murmured. Taking a strip of pork rind from a small bottle, he fastened it on his hook. Then, paying out the line little by little, he watched the white spot as it sank.