By that time everyone on the island was down by the dock.
There were men, women, and children in that boat, seventy-six of them in all, and they were a sorry sight.
“Ours was the Mary Sachs,” one seaman explained. “She were a coastwise steamer bound for Baltimore. We had these ladies an’ children with us as passengers.”
“It were a sub to be sure,” another took up the story. “They torpedoed us without warning.”
“Yes,” a woman broke in shrilly, “and they had an airplane with them. The plane swooped down and machine-gunned our lifeboats. Look at Sally here.” She held up a child whose face was white as a sheet. “Both her legs are broken.”
“We had a doctor with us. Thank God for that,” said another woman. “He fixed her up good as he could.”
Betty swallowed hard as she put out her hands for the child. Then, with sturdy tread she led the battered and half frozen band to the hotel where a great fire of driftwood roared up the chimney.
All that afternoon the WACs and, in truth, every other person on the island, worked with the ship’s doctor making their new-found friends comfortable.
Cots and beds were improvised. Every available blanket or quilt was pressed into service. Great kettles of beef, beans, and soup boiled constantly on the hotel’s range. It was only toward night that Betty felt free to creep away to the log cabin for an hour of rest.
Little Patsy went with her, but did not remain long. Soon she was out wandering among the rocks, keeping an eye out for bad Gremlins.