Stan was standing beside him on the deck and the boat was knifing along half out of the water. Suddenly Ewing bellowed:
"Hard a port!"
The helmsman spun the wheel and Stan clung to the railing with the breath knocked out of him. He saw a black object swish past.
"Wandering mine!" Del Ewing bellowed. "Probably one of our own!"
Stan drew a deep breath and grinned at the skipper. "I'll take mine in a plane!" he shouted.
"I would, too, only I can't pass the physical examination for aviator. They tell me I wouldn't be able to stand the strain!" Ewing laughed heartily.
Stan wiped salt water out of his eyes and shook his head. He had seen many rough-riding vehicles of war, such as tanks and jeeps, but the PT boat had them all bested. Any craft that was such a rough-riding brute that half of its seasoned crew got sick was no place for him, he assured himself.
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."