A cold, clammy feeling crept over Pitt. The yellow Albatros had somehow seemed familiar. It was as though an unremembered ghost from the past had returned to haunt him. But the eerie sensation passed as quickly as it had arrived, and he gave out a deep sigh as the tension faded away, and the welcome comfort of relief gently soothed his mind.

"Well, when do I get my sharpshooter's medal?" said Giordino from the cabin doorway. He was grinning despite a nasty gash in his scalp. The blood streamed down the right side of his face, staining the collar of a loud, flowered print shirt.

"After we land I'll buy you a drink instead," replied Pitt without turning.

Giordino slipped into the co-pilot's seat. "I feel like I've just ridden the roller coaster at the Long Beach Pike."

Pitt could not help grinning. He relaxed, leaning back against the backrest, saying nothing. Then he turned and looked at Giordino, and his eyes squinted. "What happened to you? Were you hit?"

Giordino gave Pitt a mocking, sorrowful look. "Whoever told you that you could loop a PBY?"

"It seemed like the thing to do at the time," said Pitt, a twinkle in his eye.

"Next time, warn the passengers. I bounced around the main cabin like a basketball."

"What did you hit your head on?" Pitt asked quizzically.

"Did you have to ask?"

"Well?"

Giordino suddenly became embarrassed. "If you must know, it was the door handle on the john."

Pitt looked startled for an instant. Then he flung back his head and roared with laughter. The mirth was contagious, and Giordino soon followed. The sound rang through the cockpit and replaced the noise of the engines. Nearly thirty seconds passed before their gaiety quieted, and the seriousness of the present situation returned.

Pitt's mind was clear, but exhaustion was slowly seeping in. The long hours of flight and the strain of the recent combat fell on him heavily and soaked his body like a numbing, damp fog. He thought about the sweet smell of soap in a cold shower and the crispness of clean sheets, and somehow they became vitally important to him. He looked out the cockpit window at Brady Field and recalled that his original destination was the First Attempt, but a dim hunch, or call it a hindsight, made him change his mind.

"Instead of landing in the water and rendezvousing alongside of the First Attempt, I think we'd better set down at Brady Field. I have a foreboding feeling we may have taken a few bullets in our hull."

"Good idea," Giordino replied. "I'm not in the mood for bailing."

The big flying boat made its final approach and lined up on the wreckage strewn runway. It settled on the heat baked asphalt, and the landing gear bumped and emitted an audible screech of rubber that signaled the touchdown.