there were any up-drafts, the Thunderbolt paid no attention to them. She sliced on through and Stan had to nose her down to keep her from falling like a rock.

The sea came up to meet him and he began judging the spot where he would take his bath in the icy water. Suddenly he heard the roar of plane motors and looked up and back. A Fort was nosing down toward him. Stan squinted to see if he could catch the markings. He could not make them out, but he knew the ship was a bomber returning from Huls.

There was no time for further looking. The Thunderbolt hit and hit hard, as though she had slammed into a stone wall. She slewed around, jerked and bobbed, slamming Stan back against his shock pad. He palmed the hatch cover open and kicked loose from his belt and chute harness. In a moment he was leaping into the water and the Thunderbolt was swirling down into the sea. She lifted one wing as she slid from sight, as though saluting him.

"Tough luck, old girl," Stan said. He got a mouthful of salt water and began sputtering.

The Fort was low over the sea now and Stan saw that it was shot up a bit. Then he saw the name painted on its fuselage. It was The Monkey's Paw, the Fort Allison had taken over for the raid. He waved, and the Fort dipped her wings. She went roaring on toward the thin black line which was the coast.

That meant rescue unless the high waves battered him and pulled him under before a boat located him. He was struggling to stay afloat on the rough sea when a Spitfire began circling overhead. The Spit dropped down lower and lower. It wove back and forth and finally it dived toward him. Stan waved some more.

The Spit stayed with Stan until an orange-snouted speedboat appeared over the foam-rimmed horizon. The boat came roaring toward him, guided by the Spit. Stan grinned eagerly. Nice teamwork. Allison had radioed, the Spitfire pilot had picked up the message, and he had been rescued.

The speedboat pulled alongside and strong hands caught hold of Stan.

"Up you come, me hearty," a seaman shouted.

Stan was so chilled he had to hang on to the arm of the sailor to keep his knees from buckling.

"A bit chilly, eh?" a young officer asked. "Come along. We'll wrap you in a newfangled blanket your Uncle Sam just furnished us."

"It wasn't exactly a Turkish bath," Stan admitted.

"I'll radio in for an ambulance," the officer said as he helped Stan wiggle out of his soggy clothes and into the electrically heated blanket.

"No ambulance," Stan said. "I'll catch a ride over to my base with someone."

"The ambulance is the fastest way," the officer said.

"They'd take me to a hospital, and that's the last place I want to see. Just dry my outfit if you can."

"Glad to, old fellow, and we'll have a spot of hot tea ready for you in a jiffy." The officer turned away.

Stan drank hot tea and toasted himself inside the blanket until they were near the port where they were to put in. By that time his clothing had been dried by one of the machinist mate's men in the engine room.

Getting dressed Stan went on deck. They were edging in beside a pier. Stan was the first over the side. He shook hands with the British officer and waved to the crew, then he headed for a row of cars parked along the street near the wharf. Picking out a car with a uniformed girl at the wheel he walked over to it.

"Hi, Yank," the girl greeted him. "You look a bit wrinkled."

"I just had my daily bath in the channel." Stan grinned at the girl. "My butler forgot to pack my bathing suit so I went in as is. How about a lift?"

"This is Sir Eaton Pelham's car. I'm afraid it isn't available." She smiled sweetly when she said it.

Stan glanced at the other cars. There were no other drivers about. He looked back at the girl.

"Sir Eaton a kindhearted man?" he asked.

"Very," she assured him. "He carries a pocketful of cracker crumbs for the pigeons."

At that moment Sir Eaton Pelham appeared. He was a burly Englishman, wrapped snugly in the folds of a greatcoat. His ruddy face beamed and he nodded to Stan.

"Jolly nice weather for one day," he said as he opened the door of the car.

"Very," Stan answered. "How about a lift?"

Sir Eaton looked at Stan closely for the first time. "I say, a Yank flier. What could you be doing here?"

"I was just fished out of the channel by one of His Majesty's patrol boats and want to get back to base."

"Hop in, old man. Where is base?"

"Take me to Diss," Stan said as he climbed in.

"Right-o." Sir Eaton did not ask any more questions. He spoke about the country they whirled through, but never mentioned the war at all. When Stan got down at Diss, Sir Eaton waved his thanks aside. "Good hunting, my boy," he said. Turning to his driver he said, "Whitehall, London. We'll have to hit it a bit fast to be on time for my meeting."

Stan stood staring at the car as it whirled away. "Whitehall," he muttered. "Pelham." Suddenly he began to laugh. He had hitched a ride with one of Winston Churchill's right-hand men. And he had taken the honorable assistant secretary many miles out of his way.

Hailing a jeep Stan hooked a ride to the camp. He walked into operations and up to the desk. A major looked up and then started.

"Wilson!" he exclaimed. "We had you marked down as lost. Sim Jones reported you short of gas."

"I hitchhiked back. Caught a ride with one of Churchill's secretaries," Stan said dryly.

The major looked at him sharply, then shoved a pad across the desk. "Just put that in writing," he said.

Stan made his report, then headed for his hut to change into an unwrinkled uniform. There was no one in the hut, but his things and the belongings of O'Malley had been neatly stacked. Stan scowled.

"They gather a man's stuff up in a hurry around here," he muttered.

He put his own things back and did the same with O'Malley's. There would be no rush about making O'Malley out a dead man. Getting into his uniform he headed for the mess. He was suddenly very hungry.

Walking into the little dining room he halted and his mouth dropped open. At a table, with four youngsters listening open-mouthed to his talk, sat O'Malley. He looked up and for a moment held a big piece of steak poised on his fork. Then he shoved the steak into his mouth and waved a big hand.

Stan crossed the room and seated himself. There was no warm greeting. O'Malley swallowed his steak and grinned at his pal.

"Ye're a bit late, but in time for the pie course."

"I took a bath on the way back," Stan said.

"That spalpeen—"

"Now, now," Stan cut in. "No names named."

"I said a spalpeen let you down," O'Malley growled.

"And what happened to you?"

O'Malley grinned. "Me? Oh, I had the boys tuck an extra sixty gallons o' gas aboard. The colonel said we was to handle fixing the tanks, so I fixed mine like that."

"You dropped out of sight at Huls in a hurry," Stan said.

"I ran out of ammunition, and havin' a spot of extra gas, I did a bit o' sight-seein'," O'Malley explained. "An' did I get an eyeful!"

The four youngsters sighed and got to their feet. It was time for them to shove off.

"See you when I got time to tell you how I chased a Nazi birdman right down on a British landing strip," O'Malley called after them.

"You've been stringing the kids along," Stan said.

"I gave them only a bird's-eye view o' the life o' the great O'Malley." The Irishman leaned back and surveyed the platter where the steak had been. "Now jest a wee bit of apple pie an' I'll have the edge taken off me hunger."

He ordered a whole pie. Stan ordered a steak and coffee. As soon as the orders were placed before them, O'Malley leaned forward.

"Sure, an' I saw the strangest sight today," he began. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it."

"What was it?"

"I was flittin' along over the tops o' trees an' the spires o' kirks when I zoom out over a wooded