For the rest of the night, most of the catamaran’s company dozed or slept. The craft was amazingly steady for its size. Although low to the water, she was not particularly “wet.” The raised central platform on which her crew sat or sprawled caught only a feather of spray from time to time. The four natives slept as soundly as if they were on shore.

At dawn the breeze freshened. For three hours the catamaran skipped southward over the long rollers, while everyone kept a sharp lookout for planes. Fiber mats were lashed in place to afford the greatest possible shade. Barry noticed with amazement how cleverly Dora Wilcox had painted their top surfaces to look like wreckage to a passing plane. Only the sail and the greenish wake behind could tell a Jap pilot that there was life on the crazy-looking craft. At first sight of a plane, Barry planned to drop the sail, and trust that the fading wake would not be noticed.

“Every mile that we cover lessens our danger,” he declared, “and every unnecessary hour we spend in enemy waters increases it. I think it’s worth the risk to keep moving—especially in perfect sailing weather like this.”

His companions agreed. There was risk, whichever way they turned, and to know that every hour cut their distance from the continent by eight or nine more miles was a great boost to their morale.

At noon the wind had slackened. The catamaran was making barely five knots, Curly judged. The sky was like a vast, blue furnace, without a speck of cloud. Had it not been for the straw mats, the white members of the company would have been painfully sunburned. The four natives were elected to keep watch for planes, as their eyes and their skins were better able to stand intense sunlight.

The watchers may not have been to blame for failing to see the Jap seaplane in time. He had probably come gliding out of the sun, invisible and silent. The roar of his motor and the snarling of his machine guns, as he suddenly power-dived, were the Americans’ first warning.

Thirty-caliber bullets peppered the catamaran. A few pierced the camouflage matting. Three or four, by some freak, chewed the mast half through at a point four feet above the decking. One struck the leg of Nanu, the steersman. The rest of the little slugs struck the log hulls or missed entirely.

Glenn Crayle, who had remained until now in a shell-shocked stupor, came to life with a howl. A bullet had grazed his shin. He moaned for help, but nobody paid any attention. Barry Blake’s quick, sharp orders averted the panic that otherwise might have cost them all their lives.

“Lie low, everybody. Whatever happens, don’t disturb the mats. Mickey Rourke, crawl outside with your tommy-gun and pretend to be wounded. Send the native women in under cover. That Jap will be back in two shakes to look us over. If he flies low enough to make sure of your hitting him, let him have it.... Otherwise hold your fire.”

Claire Barrows began weeping hysterically.

“We’ll all be k-killed,” she sobbed. “Like rats in a c-cage. I’m g-going to jump overboard and—”

SMACK!

Dora Wilcox slapped her friend hard across the mouth.

“Stop it, Claire, this instant!” she commanded. “A fine example you’re setting Alua and Lehu. For shame!”

As Claire’s sobs quieted, Mickey’s voice reached the others from outside the shelter of mats.

“The Jap is comin’ in low to see what he did to us,” the little sergeant reported. “I’ll play dead till the last second, and then pour it into him. He’s a Nakajima single-engine job, equipped with floats.”

The hum of the Jap’s motor grew louder. Once more his machine guns opened up, but this time his burst was high enough to miss the catamaran’s crew. It finished the mast which fell across the matting, scaring the women but doing no damage.

As the plane roared low overhead, Mickey Rourke’s gun opened up. Its harsh, deadly chatter held the hopes of fourteen souls. It ceased, and the Jap’s engine song rose sharply.

“I hit him!” came Mickey’s whoop. “He’s zoomin’.... He’s goin’ into a stall.... His engine’s smokin’ and he’s goin’ to crash!”

Without waiting for more, the catamaran’s company threw aside the concealing mats. They were just in time to see the Nakajima end her tail-spin in a great splash and a burst of flame, less than two hundred yards away.

The fight was over. Except for a patch of burning oil on the water, and the three wounded persons on the sailing craft, it would have been hard to realize that the thing had not been a nightmare.

“’Twas just as I saw it in me dream,” Mickey Rourke was saying. “The only part I didn’t see was Nanu and Miss Wilcox bein’ wounded—”

“What’s that?” Barry cut in. “You wounded, Dora? Let me see what’s under that cloth!”

The girl shook her head. Her face was pale, but the hand with which she pressed a folded towel to her left arm was perfectly steady.

“See to Nanu first,” she replied. “Hurry—or I’ll do it myself. He’s lost too much blood already. You’ll find clean cloths here in my little chest.”

Barry flung open the cover of the teakwood box she indicated. Inside, packed neatly with a few feminine belongings, were a number of old, clean cloths. Barry snatched out a threadbare pillowcase and a man’s ragged white shirtsleeve. With these, he made his way to Nanu who sat in the stern with his hands clasped around his thigh.

The native boy’s wound was a clean puncture. The small-caliber, steel-jacketed bullet had passed through his thigh muscles just above the knee. Fortunately it had missed the larger artery and the blood had already begun to clot. Barry applied a cloth pad to each bullet hole, binding them tightly in place with strips of the old pillowcase. Throughout the operation, Nanu lay quiet. When Barry slapped him on the shoulder and told him, “Everything’s okay!” the boy’s eyes had lost all trace of fright.

Meanwhile, Claire and Hap were dressing Dora’s hurt. A bullet had gouged her forearm, making a painful but not a crippling wound. Claire showed considerable skill in the bandaging. She had brought her nerves fully under control, and was giving sharp orders to Hap.

Barry glanced at the splintered mast and fallen sail. Before much progress could be made, it was evident that the catamaran would have to land for repairs. At present it looked so thoroughly wrecked that the most suspicious Jap patrol pilot would hardly waste bullets on it.

The same thoughts were evidently in Curly Levitt’s mind. Standing up beside his skipper, he pointed to a fairly large island, seven or eight miles to leeward.

“We can go ashore there tonight, Barry,” he said. “With the sail hanging on the stump of the mast as it is now, we’ll drift toward that island at the rate of about one knot per hour. Everybody can keep out of sight under the mats and wreckage. We’ll tie the steering oar in place and let the wind do the rest....”

“No!” Glenn Crayle’s shout interrupted him. “You’re foolish to go any nearer to land. The Japs will bomb us. They’ll shoot us down like dogs. You’ve got paddles, haven’t you? Start using them, then, if you’re not too lazy! I forbid you to head for shore, Blake!”

“He’s crazy as a loon,” Curly muttered. “How are we going to shut him up, Barry?”

The young skipper made his way forward to where Crayle sat binding a handkerchief around his grazed shin. He took a firm grip on the shell-shocked pilot’s shoulder.

“Look there, Crayle,” he said, pointing to a black triangular fin that showed above the oncoming wave. “That shark is hungry. He smells blood. He’ll probably trail this boat till it lands—unless one of us falls overboard. Be quiet and behave yourself, or you’ll be that one!”

Crayle’s mouth fell open. In sudden terror he gazed at the approaching shark.

“No! No!” he moaned, clutching Barry’s arm.

The young skipper freed himself with a grimace of disgust.

“Everybody under the mats!” he ordered. “There’s no telling when the next Jap plane will show up. Once we’re out of sight we can relax and eat a bit of lunch, if the ladies care to break into their supplies now.”

Cocoanuts, bananas, smoked chicken and taro bread had been stored in the catamaran’s hollow hulls—enough to last the entire company for a week. Since it was the first meal the bomber’s crew had tasted for a whole day, they were given extra rations.

Crayle wolfed down his share and reached for more. A sharp word from Barry stopped him, but the young skipper caught a look of animal cunning that replaced the greed in the other’s eyes. From now on, Barry decided, the shock-crazed lieutenant would need to be watched like a wild beast. There was no predicting what mad impulse might seize his twisted brain.

They were finishing their meal when another Jap plane roared overhead. This was a twin-engined Mitsubishi bomber, a land-based type, that appeared to have taken off from the island to leeward. It swooped low to investigate the drifting catamaran.

For a tense thirty seconds Barry’s party waited, and wondered if more bullets would come slashing through their thin fiber mats. Then the engines’ snarl faded to a distant droning. Their camouflage had worked!

Not so pleasant was the thought that they would have to land on a beach patrolled by the enemy. If this island were the site of a Jap air base it would be well guarded. Even the darkness might not be camouflage enough to fool the Nip patrols.

As the afternoon waned, the island’s shore line grew more and more distinct. A second bomber rose from behind the wall of dark green jungle, and three more returned from some patrol or bombing mission. There could be no doubt of the existence of an air base somewhere inland from the beach.

The one encouraging fact was that none of the planes paid any particular attention to the drifting catamaran. Undoubtedly they had all looked it over. If the wreck looked so harmless to the Jap pilots, shore patrols were not likely to bother their heads about it. The real danger would come after Barry’s crew went ashore to cut a new mast.

The sun was low in the west when two squadrons of heavy bombers approached at 20,000 feet. Even before the Jap ack-ack on the island cut loose, Barry’s party recognized them—American Flying Fortresses and Liberators!

Peering up through the cracks in the camouflage, everyone aboard the catamaran raised a wild cheer. For a moment, Barry had all he could do to keep his crew from tossing the fiber mats aside and standing up to wave. His orders were drowned out by the thunder of exploding bombs.

Peering Through the Camouflage They All Cheered