ning to feel a bit sick himself.

Deciding he needed fresh air, he made his way up on the deck. Clinging
to the rail, he set his teeth while spray lashed his face and tubs of
water hurtled at him. Stan was reminded of riding a pitching bucker
while somebody dumped buckets of water into his face. The whole ship was
vibrating from the powerful thrusts of the Packard engines in the stern.
The deck bristled with light cannon, torpedo tubes, and machine guns.
Up there in that wild smother of foam and noise there was no chance to
talk, but Stan watched a while.

The PT boat ducked and wove in and out between the destroyers and the
shore. Shells burst around her, churning up the sea, but the gunners
were unable to guess where the flighty PT would be at any given moment,
so they never hit very close to her. Stan hoped they would spot a sub or
an enemy patrol boat, but nothing showed up except other PT boats.

Stan started to go below. He did not even want to think about food, but
he did feel like resting. The skipper came forward and offered to show
him a bunk, but before they went down he said:

"You must undo your oilskin up topside; I mean, up here on the deck."

"But I'll get soaked," Stan protested.

"No matter, if you remain vertical for any length of time below decks
you're done for." He grinned at Stan.

Stan went below and made it into his bunk after the third try. He lay
there with the bunk falling away from him, then slapping him hard in the
face as it came back at him. He closed his eyes and utter exhaustion
finally put him to sleep. His dreams were filled with writhing sea
monsters, every one of them rushing through the water at express-train
speed.

In the morning the skipper informed him that they were heading for
Malta, which was now the headquarters of the Allied invasion forces.

"We got the radio going and asked permission. When we mentioned papers
from General Bolero, they called us right in." Del Ewing grinned
broadly. "We're in luck getting away from this game of tag."

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.