"Yes, sir, I can make room for the lieutenant and his gear." Turn-
ing the phone over to the WAVE, he asked with a reassuring grin,
"Feel better, Lieutenant?"

I was so limp with relief that I scarcely noticed the tall spare
man in civilian clothes who had just come up to the counter.
"That's Lindbergh," said Craig in a low voice. "Do you suppose
he's going over too?"

Half an hour later we trooped out across the faintly lighted field
to the C-54 which stood waiting. Lindbergh, dressed now in the
olive-drab uniform of a Naval Technician, preceded us up the
steps. There were ten of us in all. With the exception of three
leather-cushioned chairs, there were only bucket seats. Craig and
I settled ourselves in two of these uninviting hollows and began
fumbling clumsily with the seat belts. Seeing that we were having
trouble, Lindbergh came over and with a friendly smile asked if
he could give us a hand. After deftly adjusting our belts, he re-
turned to one of the cushioned seats across the way.

Doors slammed, the engines began to roar and, a few seconds
later, we were off. We mounted swiftly into the star-filled sky
and, peering out, watched the dark Maryland hills drop away. We
dozed despite the discomfort of our bent-over positions and didn't
come to again until the steward roused us several hours later with
coffee and sandwiches. Afterward he brought out army cots and
motioned to us to set them up if we wanted to stretch out. As soon
as we got the cots unfolded and the pegs set in place, he turned out
the lights.

Craig was dead to the world in a few minutes but I couldn't get
back to sleep. To the accompaniment of the humming motors, the
events of the past weeks began to pass in review: that quiet April
afternoon at Western Sea Frontier Headquarters in San Francisco

-14-