“We’ll hope he made a safe landing,” said the Commander. “We have to go in about a hundred miles. The Marines go ashore at dawn. We must furnish them a protecting screen. You boys have done a fine job. Now get some chow and rest. We’ll need you again soon. It’s going to be a long pull for you, but this is war.” The moon had come out just in time for Ted’s landing. He sank beneath the sea, lost his grip on the rubber raft, then came up for air. The moon was still out. His raft was some ten yards away. After disengaging himself from his chute, he swam to the raft, then worked himself into it with great care. This accomplished, he paddled to his chute, squeezed the water out of it as best he could, then deposited it on one end of the raft. He took off his clothing. The air was warm. He was not uncomfortable. After wringing out his clothes he put them all on again except his heavy flying jacket. He was warm enough without wearing the jacket. Then, with feet on the chute and head on the inflated edge of the raft, he sprawled out in absolute repose. “Nothing I can do right now,” he assured himself. “Might get a little sleep.” He recalled the words of his father. “You may have to bail out and land on the sea,” his father had said. “If you happen to find yourself in a fix like that,” his father had rambled on, “you may feel like praying that there will be no violent storms, that God may send birds to light on your raft so you can catch and eat them, that He’ll send fish, not sharks—all that sort of thing. “Well, if you feel that way about it,” his father had paused, “it won’t do you any harm. But for my part, I’d rather pray for wisdom and skill, for the good sense to relax and take it easy, to save my strength and my skill for catching fish and birds and preparing them for food. I’m convinced that there is a power within us or about us that does give us both skill and wisdom if we only ask for them.” “A power within us or about us,” Ted repeated slowly, “that gives us skill and wisdom.” At that, rocked by small waves, he fell asleep. Kentucky never needed much rest when he was in a fighting mood. Two hours of sleep, a stack of pancakes, three cups of black coffee, and he was ready to lead his fighters out over the island that lay like a dark, gray shadow rising out of the sea in the first flush of dawn. One by one the planes left the carrier. Fighters, scout planes, dive bombers, torpedo planes—all thundered away toward their target. Leading them all, Kentucky felt important and very happy. “Hot diggity!” he exclaimed to the morning air. “This is what I call life! And here’s where we pay the Japs a little on account for Pearl Harbor.” He was thinking of little Joe Kreider, his pal from Kentucky. He’s gone, Kentucky thought soberly. Japs got him in that sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Gone, but not forgotten. He gave his motor a fresh burst of gas.