An inshore wind whipped at his clothing, twisting him dizzily as he dangled there in mid-air, and he had a brief, crazy hope that it might carry him in to land before he went down. But that wild hope died at once when he realized the shore was miles away.
There was nothing for it but to take his wetting and hope the R.A.F. life jacket was as good as it was supposed to be. He stared downward at the choppy surface that seemed to sweep upward to meet him, gritting his teeth to drive fear away. This was a chance every channel flier took… and sometimes they were rescued.
He handled the chute controls skillfully, easing himself down with the wind while he fought to loosen the buckles that held the straps tightly about him. If he went into the water with that chute dragging him down there wouldn’t be any chance of eventual rescue.
As his numbed fingers tore at the buckles he wondered what it felt like to drown. The sea was close now. A bleak gray expanse of waves that reached hungry arms upward to receive another human sacrifice. One buckle came free, then another. He ripped himself out of the harness and plummeted down the last ten feet, his body driving deep into the icy cold water.
He came to the surface sputtering and beating the water madly, then remembered the life jacket he wore, and let its buoyancy support him while he took stock of the situation.
It looked hopeless. He was a single tiny speck floating on a vast expanse of sea where every surface craft was subject to attack and more intent on making port than searching for downed fliers. The sky overhead was clear of planes now. He wondered if anyone had seen him bailing out. He had reported he was short of gas. If either Allison or O’Malley made it back safely, he had a hunch they wouldn’t rest until they returned to search the sea for him or the wreckage of his plane.
That was his only hope. Any other rescue would be purely accidental. The icy fingers of the water were eating into his flesh. The heavy flying togs were becoming water-soaked, dragging him down. He didn’t know how long he could hold out. He tried to swim toward the dimly distant shore line, but the waves battered him back and the numbing cold stole away his strength.
He forced himself to relax, let the life jacket support him. It might be hours before rescue came. It looked hopeless, but a man never gave up hope while life remained in his body. If he could keep his head above water, keep from swallowing too much of the salt sea, he could last a few hours at least.
And he clung to the belief that Allison or O’Malley would return to look for him. Though he didn’t know just what either of them could do if they did spot him from the sky. If one of them could get hold of a seaplane he didn’t doubt that they’d try to set it down on the rough surface to rescue him. He tried to recall whether he’d seen any seaplanes since arriving in England.
Things were getting hazy in his mind. He gave up trying to move his limbs. The blood was congealing in his veins. He had a strange feeling that his flesh was becoming brittle with cold, that he would break into pieces if he tried to move an arm or leg.
A delightful sensation of helpless lethargy crept over him. This was the sort of thing he had read happened to people when death was very close and inevitable. It was Nature’s kind way of drugging the perceptions against the impact of death.
He began to hear a buzzing in his ears, and he decided that was the beginning of the end. It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. Not even the war.
The buzzing grew louder and became a distinct annoyance. He tried to shut it away from his consciousness, but it persisted. He felt himself being dragged back from the coma into which he had sunk. The buzzing became a loud drone, then smashed at his ear drums with a shattering roar.
He came to life again, and fought to blink his salt-encrusted eyelids open. He recognized that roar of a Spitfire motor. It was zooming over him, flattening out in a crazy reckless pancake dangerously close to the surface of the water.
He got one eye open and caught a flashing glimpse of a grinning Irish face leaning over the side of the plane and shouting something to him. The plane lifted swiftly and swept away and Stan found himself waving a numbed hand after it.
The ice in his veins was transformed into tongues of flame that licked through his body. O’Malley had come, just as he had known the Irishman would. He would bring a rescue ship back. All Stan had to do was stay alive a little longer.
He grinned happily as he watched the Spitfire become a dim speck in the sky and then disappear. He began beating the water with his arms and legs, and he jeered good-naturedly at the sea that had sought to engulf him.
The plane was coming back, circling high overhead to spot the floating pilot for a fishing boat that was putting out from shore. As the small craft drew near Stan saw two men in oilskins waving to him. He waved back, and then a strange thing happened. It was as though someone had struck him on the head with a sledge hammer. He was unconscious when the boat reached him, and he stayed unconscious for a full twenty-four hours.
He woke up in a strange new world that was utterly different from anything he had known before. A clean, white, antiseptic world with narrow beds and pretty girls in white uniforms. He was tucked in one of those beds, and one of the pretty girls in a white uniform was bending over him solicitously.
“Where am I?” he demanded.
“This is a hospital. You are very sick,” the nurse said soothingly.
“Hospital!” Stan sputtered. “I’m not staying in any hospital. I was never in a hospital in my life!” He got to his feet as orderlies and a head nurse came running.
“Lie down or I will report you,” the head nurse said severely. “You are sick.”
“How long do you think it takes me to get over a bath?” Stan shot at the nurse.
“You’ll be here two weeks,” the head nurse informed him.
Stan had visions of Allison sending out for another man to fill the trio on Red Flight. He wrapped the blanket tighter around him.
“Get my clothes,” he ordered.
“Get an officer,” the head nurse snapped to an orderly.
Stan knew it was time for action. He swept the blanket ends off the floor and dived down the hall with the nurses running after him. A doctor came out of a room, looked at Stan, then ducked back quickly. Stan bounded down a wide stairway and out through a pair of open doors. People stared at him as he rushed up the street in his bare feet looking for a cab.
On a corner he bumped into two bobbies. They closed in on both sides of him.
“Easy, my man,” one of them said. “Easy, now. We’ll see you safe back to your bed.”
“Fine,” Stan answered. “Get me over to Merry Flying Field as quick as you can.”
The bobbies looked at Stan then exchanged glances. He looked perfectly healthy and very powerful, though he was a bit pale and had a wild look in his eye. They nodded their heads.
“I’m from Red Flight over at Merry Field. Get me there and the Flight Lieutenant will vouch for me,” Stan urged as he looked down the street and saw an ambulance rocking around a corner.
The bobbies were satisfied that this young giant was crazy and they had better humor him. They shoved him through the curious crowd that had formed on the corner. Within a few minutes he was seated in a cab bowling across the city.
Allison was lounging at a table drinking tea with O’Malley when two bobbies and a disheveled man wrapped in a wool blanket marched into the mess. They both leaped to their feet and rushed across the room.
“Stan, old chap!” Allison shouted.
“By the scalp of St. Patrick!” O’Malley boomed. “An’ I thought you would drown sure before the boat got to you.”