A week previous to the time of this writing, a company of Marines, under the command of Lieutenant Walter Ranson, were ordered up into the mountains on a reconnoitering expedition.
For four days and nights, they had searched through every pathway and crevice in the great mountain region for a sign of Sandino and his rebel horde, but their efforts were without success.
The post commandant at Managua, acting upon the advice of the Federal Government military authorities of Nicaragua, sent a message to Ranson to return to the Marine base.
It was the belief of the American commander and the Nicaraguans that Sandino had fled over the mountain paths, escaping north to Mexico.
Relieved of his unpleasant task and a chance to escape the hardships and terrific heat, both for himself and his command, Ranson issued orders to break camp and start back, down the mountain to Managua, a good three days’ hike from where they were encamped.
The following morning they arrived at a corral just a few miles from Ocotal, a small mountain town known to be inhabited by people whose sympathy fell with the lot of the usurping bandits.
Due to a terrific rising heat wave and a desire to escape the possibility of having to spend a night in the rebel stronghold, the lieutenant halted the company and prepared to temporarily billet his men in the deserted corral.
The place was surrounded by a low, thirty-inch wall of adobe, topped with palings. An old, iron gate, hanging off its hinges, was just in the center, behind which stood a nipa shack with a slanting roof of palm leaves. An overturned oxcart rested just to the right of the shack, half buried in mud caused by recent, heavy mountain rains.
After the lieutenant and his men had commandeered the corral, making fires, setting up their pup tents and fixing a place behind the house for the horses and pack mules, he sent for his top sergeant, and together they walked to the gateway, surveying the lay of the land.
“Sergeant, we’d be pinned in this place like rats in a trap,” Ranson speculated, “if Sandino or any of his men should suddenly turn up with a surprise attack.”
The bulky top kick, the same hard breathing, puffy Marine who, with a small company some weeks before, were the first to see the arrival of the flying squadron, looked over the situation with the trained eye of a seasoned campaigner.
He nodded his head in a grave manner and turned to his superior: “Yes, sir. We are right at the foot of them mountains, an easy target for an attack from that angle. Just ahead is the jungle that no white man could ever pass through alive. To the right is the road into town. If we retreated in that direction, we’d be bait for snipers on house tops and the charging greasers at our heels from the mountains.”
“Yes, and if we stay here long enough to be inspected by any of the post commandant’s aides, we’ll be court-martialed for billeting the men in such a hole,” the lieutenant added good-naturedly. “No fresh water within five miles of here and the surroundings are reeking with typhoid and malaria!”
“Well, if you ask me, sir,” the top kick drawled, “I prefer this hole to travelin’ with them damn horses, machine guns and mules in this heat!”
The lieutenant lighted a cigarette and nodded his head in affirmation. “I think you’re right, Cosgrove, in fact, I’m inclined to feel that way myself. Our water ought to last us another two days and, by that time, we should pass through some village where we can refill the canteens. The food is still plentiful and there is enough ammunition to cause plenty of damage if we have to use it.”
“With your permission, sir, I’m gonna put a machine gun right in front of this gate, loaded with a fresh magazine just in case,” the sergeant announced, “and I think we should double the guard, bein’ that we’re so near Ocotal!”
“Put the machine gun wherever you want to but doubling the guard isn’t necessary. If you ask me, I think we have been ordered back to Managua because the show is over!”
“You mean, they—they’ve got Sandino?” Cosgrove asked eagerly.
“No—well, that is, I don’t know about capturing him,” Ranson explained, “I think he got cold feet and beat it out of the country!”
“Well,” the sergeant admitted, “that won’t make me sore. We’ve been down here goin’ on three months and we ain’t had sight nor smell of them blasted greaser bandits, but this hide-and-seek game through mountain paths, searchin’ for somethin’ what just ain’t—I’m about licked from it all!”
Ranson smiled and turned toward the shack. “Pick your guard and see that the men are comfortable. The sun is getting pretty bad. If the horses and pack mules have been watered, let the boys turn in for a couple of hours.”
The two men saluted and parted, each going in the opposite direction.
Over in front of the last pup tent in the first line, two Marines were toying with a pair of dice. One of them, a tall, lanky, sun-tanned soldier of the sea, turned to the other, a short, stocky, freckled-faced, sandy-haired man, who, at that particular moment, was occupied in exterminating a score of crawling, red ants.
“This usta be a man’s army but it ain’t nothin’ now but a lot of hikin’ boy scouts!”
“What ya beefin’ about now?” the little fellow demanded, looking up at his companion.
“I suppose you still believe there ain’t no Sandino?”
“Believe it, hell, man, I know it!”
“Aw, you make me tired! Don’t you know it cost the government a lotta dough to keep us down here? What d’ya suppose Congress would vote to continue this here war if there ain’t no guy like Sandino?”
“Continue what war?” the tall Marine asked in a derisive tone.
“This war we’re fightin’ now!”
“Who’s fightin’ who and when?”
“Well,” the freckled-faced man replied defensively, “we’re ready for a scrap, ain’t we?”
“Sure we are, but there ain’t nobody to fight with. Don’t you see, we’ve been climbin’ up and down mountains for three months and we ain’t seen no sign of any guy that even looks like Sandino!”
The little fellow was becoming impatient over his tent mate’s dogged belief in the non-existence of the much heralded Nicaraguan bandit chief.
“Lissen here, lame brain, Congress voted to send us here, didn’t they?”
“Sure, but that was a plot!”
“What d’ya mean, a plot?”
“I can’t explain it,” the lanky Marine began. “You got to know politics and that’s somethin’ what a guy like you ain’t had no learnin’ about, see?”
“Who ain’t had no learnin’ in politics?” the other man demanded to know as his cheeks flushed with unsuppressed anger. “My old man’s uncle married a dame what was the first cousin of a guy whose mother did the washin’ for an alderman back in New York!”
“Well, that’s different,” the big fellow admitted. “Now then, do you know what strategy is?”
“Sure!” replied the sandy-haired man. “He was first baseman with the Chicago Cubs two years ago!”
“Oh, Lord, how can you make ’em so dumb!” the lanky Marine cried in disgust. “Now lissen, when you don’t know somethin’, say so and I’ll tell you! Strategy is, well—er—if you wanted to punch me in the nose an’ you let go right now, that would be suicide, ’cause I’d he prepared and break your back——”
“Who would?” yelled the little fellow in a hurt fashion.
“Aw, dry up, we’re only makin’ believe. Now, then, that would be silly for you to hit me when I wuz lookin’. A smart guy would say, ‘Alex, let me see if I can tie your hands so’s you can’t get loose.’ If I let him, he’d sock me when I was tied up and couldn’t protect meself. That, stupid, is strategy!”
The other fellow looked up at the tall man with a grave expression of doubt overshadowing his speckled face.
“Aw, you’re full of boloney!”
“Who is?”
“You are. You mean to say that when you tie a guy’s hands and sock him in the nose, that’s strategy?”
“Yeah! Anything you do sneaky like and plan out so’s it’s heads you win, tails the other bloke loses, that’s what you call strategy!”
“Well, what’s that got to do with sendin’ us down here if there ain’t no Sandino?”
The big fellow breathed deeply with impatience as he mopped off large beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Don’t you see? The Democrats is tryin’ to take over the government so they had their bunch, what is in Congress, vote to send us way down here so’s the Republicans won’t have no one to protect them in case of a revolution or somethin’!”
The freckled-faced soldier jumped to his feet and grabbed for his hat. “Oh, boy! I ain’t hangin’ around you no more!”
“What’s the matter now?”
“Nothin’, only you’re so clean loco, you’ll be wakin’ up some night and cuttin’ people’s throats, an’ I ain’t stickin’ around till that happens!”
The little fellow took his belongings and hurried down, past the line of tents, leaving his friend looking after him in a surprised manner and yelling for him to come back.
At that moment, countless dark, moving figures appeared just over the ridge of the mountain that looked down upon the corral.
A sharp, familiar crack, like the report of a rifle was heard and the little Marine, who had just moved out of his pup tent, fell in a heap, lying motionless in the center of the path between the rows of tents.
In a flash, every man was out of his tent and on his feet as a second, then a third report from above was heard and two more Marines fell to the ground in a heap.
It was Sandino and two hundred of his followers on top of that mountain, burning with vicious desires to exterminate Uncle Sam’s sea soldiers below.
They had been informed by some inhabitants of Ocotal of the Marines’ location and the fact that the corral was a perfect target for an attack from the mountains.
Losing no time, they made their way through the town and over the hill country, arriving at the mountain top unbeknown to the soldiers lying peacefully below.
As the Marine bugle blew “To Arms” and the men fell in line in front of the shank, burning with excitement, the tall, lanky soldier crawled along the ground to where his friend lay, picking the limp form of the man up in his arms and carrying him at the risk of his own life to a place of safety behind the house.
He placed his buddy on a pile of hay, certain that he would be comfortable until proper aid could be sent, and as he started to leave, the little fellow opened his eyes and looked up at him. “Don’t let ’em kid you, big boy,” he said hoarsely. “There is a Sandino an’ that ain’t no foolin’!”
A look of extreme pain crossed his face as he struggled to breath freely, then he half rose, only to fall back, lifeless, with eyes open and glassy, staring up at the heavens above.
For three days Sandino and his men, who outnumbered the Marines more than two to one, continued their siege upon the corral, causing numerous casualties within the ranks of the devil dogs but unable to advance farther than the foot of the mountains.
The leathernecks, under the wily Ranson, fought desperately to ward off the approach of the bandits with an unfailing courage that was admired by even their enemies.
On the third day, Lieutenant Ranson crawled along the barricade, stopping to inform each man to save on ammunition as supplies were running low.
The sputtering of machine guns ceased and the Marines, with rifles, drew back their guns to wait until the enemy closed in before again opening fire.
Near the gate, Ranson met the top sergeant and the two saluted in a hasty, grim fashion.
“If our man got through Okay,” the officer announced, “we should be seeing a sign of planes before long.”
“If he got through,” Cosgrove speculated, “he’s done somethin’ more than a miracle!”
Just then, the sergeant’s face grew tense and white with the muscles of his jaw contorting in pain as he toppled over, across the feet of the lieutenant.
The muscles of his jaw contorted in pain as he toppled over.The muscles of his jaw contorted in pain as he toppled over.
The muscles of his jaw contorted in pain as he toppled over.
The muscles of his jaw contorted in pain as he toppled over.
The officer picked the man’s head up and rested it on his knee, noting a trickling stream of red matter just below the temple. Quick to think, he broke open the first aid package that the stricken man carried on his belt and removed the tape, hastily bandaging the wound and helping the sergeant back to his feet.
“They’ve only grazed your head,” he announced. “Now snap into it and pay ’em back, Cosgrove!”
The top kick removed his automatic from the holster, took careful aim and fired, hitting a rebel who had been crawling toward the barricade on all fours with a vicious-looking knife locked between his teeth.
The lieutenant slapped the sergeant upon the back approvingly as the other man smiled.
“That’s the way to pay your debts! Now knock off another one for good measure!”
A corporal with a solemn face, covered with grime, crawled up between the two men and addressing the lieutenant, announced: “The brush is full of greasers, sir, and we’re nearly out of ammunition!”
Hanson turned to Cosgrove with an unconcealed look of deep concern upon his face. “Pass the word to cease firing until I give the order!”
The sergeant turned about and crawled along the inside of the barricade, stopping to announce the commander’s edict as he passed on his way.
Over in the rebel lines, Sandino passed the word to his officers to split the men up, ordering them to crawl under the protection of the brushes to the rear and sides of the corral, thus completely encircling the Marines within.
Ranson and the corporal watched this guerrilla movement with intense interest and as an overanxious Marine next to them lifted his rifle into position, the officer knocked it from his hand, warning: “Wait until I give the order!”
Suddenly the bandits opened fire as they moved toward the corral in a stealthy, circular fashion, causing a fair amount of casualties within the ranks of the Americans.
The Marines waited without fear for word from their commander, though some of them were high strung and nervous as they watched their buddies topple over from the bandit onslaught, helpless to seek revenge upon the approaching rebels.
As the dark-skinned natives swooped down toward the corral, unmolested, inflicting great sufferings upon the heads of the Marines, the lieutenant waited doggedly until they were near enough, then he lifted his voice and shouted: “Ready! Aim! Fire!”
The soldiers responded with enthusiasm, some throwing hand grenades while others returned to their rifles and machine guns, spitting deadly fire in the direction of the enemy.
This was a last, desperate stand for the Marines. Though they suffered a heavy toll, they went on fighting doggedly, determined that if complete extermination was to be their lot, they would first cause an equal amount of suffering within the ranks of the enemy.
Cosgrove crawled over beside the lieutenant and pointed down the line of men fighting for life and love of country. “Some of the machine guns are jammed, sir,” he announced, “and more than half of the boys are out of ammunition already!”
The handwriting of an unfortunate Fate was plainly visible to every man behind the barricade as the voice of their commander was heard, shouting: “Fixed bayonets!”
One of the bandits had crawled over the ground to the barricade unmolested. Beaching the gate, he began to beat upon the barricade with his machete until he succeeded in making a hole through the old wood.
On the other side of the wall, a Marine, with fixed bayonet, waited patiently as his lips curled in a grim, death-like smile of revenge.
As soon as the hole in the wall became large enough, the soldier half rose upon his haunches and with deadly precision, plunged his bayonet through the abdomen of the bandit.
At that point in the fearful encounter, the Marines and rebels came in close contact, with the soldiers of the sea desperately warding off their stronger adversaries with bayonets, fighting bullets and machetes, exposing their persons to certain death from the fire of Sandino’s machine gun snipers on the mountain top.
Suddenly the harsh drone of huge motors deafened the ears of the opposing men of war. A Marine, wounded and parched from thirst, gazed up and saw the planes of the “Fighting Tenth” swoop over the top of the mountain. He raised himself on his elbow with extreme difficulty and called to the soldier nearest him: “Look, look—they’ve come at last!”
The other Marine lifted his eyes, following the direction of his wounded buddy’s upraised hand. In a moment, every khaki-clad man within the protection of the corral wall gazed heavenward, each secretly offering a crude prayer to a Divine and protecting Providence.
Major Harding, in the first ship, studied the lay of the land and, with an upraised arm, signaled to the other planes to turn the noses of their ships toward the earth, flying low and prepared to open fire at his command to do so.
The observers leveled their machine guns, loaded the magazines and took careful aim as the squadron of ships swooped down over the corral like a great drove of locusts.
The commander of the flying fleet again raised his arm as a signal to begin firing, and the muzzles of every water-cooled Browning opened up and spit deadly fire into the broken ranks of the terror-stricken bandit troops, causing untold casualties.
From the peak of his mountain lookout, Sandino watched the attack from the air upon his disorganized army and his men retreating in a disorderly fashion, scattering in all directions. A grave, panicky expression darkened his face. He turned about and ran to his horse, mounting the animal, prepared to ride off to some protective covering as a wounded officer from his own ranks ran toward him.
The rebel usurper looked back at the man whose face was distorted with terror and pain. He drew up his horse and, in his native tongue, ordered the officer to return to the scene of battle.
Unheeding, the fleeing soldier continued to run away from the certain death below, truly obsessed with an idea that was not unlike the one borne by his own commander.
Sandino lifted his hand and whipped out a blue-steel automatic pistol, leveled it and fired, uttering a blasphemous oath at the officer as he fell forward. In a moment, the ambitious, would-be dictator of Nicaragua was riding swiftly away to peace and protection from war in the air.
As a final gesture, Major Harding signaled to his followers in the other planes to drop the bombs, making certain that the extermination of the retreating bandits would be complete.
The huge messengers of hate were released by the pilots and they went crashing earthward, distributing immediate death and misery.
Steve pushed the stick forward and dove his plane nearer to earth, breaking formation from the other ships that were now gaining altitude.
Just ahead, crossing a swamp, was a small band of Sandinisto survivors. Lefty caught the pilot’s objective in leaving the formation of planes and with a peculiar cold, subdued calm, opened fire upon the helpless, retreating rebels, wreaking death and havoc.
One of the retreating bandit officers turned about, picked up a gun left behind on the ground and leveled the butt of it to his shoulder, taking careful aim and firing.
Just then, Steve swooped down to a position that was only a few feet from the ground, leaving himself a perfect target for the final gesture from the retreating bandit leader.
They left themselves perfect targets for the final gesture from the retreating bandits.They left themselves perfect targets for the final gesture from the retreating bandits.
They left themselves perfect targets for the final gesture from the retreating bandits.
They left themselves perfect targets for the final gesture from the retreating bandits.
The muscles of his face contracted with pain. He let his hand fall from the stick and his whole body slumped forward in the cockpit.
Lefty whirled the machine gun around and riddled the last of the rebels with a barrage of bullets, then grabbing the joy stick in the rear cockpit, fought desperately to level the plane but it was too late. Suddenly everything went black before him. He heard a terrific crash and felt himself being lifted from his seat and flying through space. In another moment, he was oblivious to everything else as his motionless body lay in the center of a swamp, covered with mud and dirt.
With the corral clear once more of the trespasser, two of the planes flew low and dropped out food supplies and quantities of ammunition to the surviving Marines below who waved back in gratitude.
The major signaled to the pilots to regain formation and as the ships fell into their original position, the anxious eyes of the commander caught a vacant space in the line-up.
He looked to the pilot of the plane on the other side of him and held up two fingers questioningly, signifying in the hand signaling parlance of the air, “Where is the missing plane?”
The skipper of the other ship shrugged his shoulders, indicating his lack of knowledge of the absent airplane’s whereabouts.
Panama watched the gas gauge that indicated their fuel was running low. He touched the shoulder of the commander in front of him and pointed to the gauge. Harding gazed at his watch and, after slight deliberation, gave the signal to swing the planes toward Managua.
In less than an hour, they were flying over the field of the Marine base, then circling in formation before landing.
When the ships had taxied into position and the motors again became silent, Harding jumped from the cockpit as Panama and the other pilots and observers gathered about him.
“Did anyone see what happened to Graham and Phelps?” he asked with an uncertain ring of anxiety in his voice.
The men of his command shook their heads in grim ignorance of the missing Marines’ whereabouts.
“Last I saw of them,” one of the pilots explained, “they were chasing a gang of greasers down a gulley!”
“Our gas was too low to make a search,” Harding announced, “but somebody’s got to go back now. Who’ll volunteer?”
No sooner had the major asked for a searching party than every man in the squadron, except Panama, stepped forward.
As Williams walked off silently toward the line of tents, the commander selected two pilots and two observers to fly back and search for the missing airmen and their plane. The others moved away in different directions, wrapped in an overshadowing gloom that grips the hearts of all fighting aviators when any of their number are absent without reason.
Elinor had been watching the return of the squadron and searching the group for a sight of Lefty. When she saw the commander call the other men into a hurried conference that ended by two planes again taking off and flying back in the direction from which they had just come, her heart beat faster as a cold, foreboding feeling of uneasiness took possession of her mind and body.
She ran toward one of the pilots and stopped him as a pathetic look of anxiety darkened her face.
“Where’s Lefty Phelps?” she asked.
“That’s what we’d all like to know,” the man replied grimly without looking at the girl, “He and Graham disappeared during the fracas. The skipper just sent a couple of ships back to search for them.”
She looked up with terror-stricken eyes and caught sight of Panama not far from where she was standing. Without further adieu, she ran off in the sergeant’s direction, reaching his side a moment later, completely out of breath.
“Where’s Lefty, Panama?” she panted, “What’s happened to him?”
The sergeant made no attempt to even look at the frightened girl but continued on his way, quickening his steps. She ran along at his side, struggling to keep up with him and trying to regain her breath at the same time.
“Panama!” she pleaded once more, “what has happened to Lefty?”
“Out in the swamps with the rest of the snakes, I hope,” he speculated grimly, still avoiding the girl’s anxious eyes.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
He turned his head and looked at her with a piercing sign of resentment upon his face, becoming secretly the more indifferent over his former friend’s fate because of Elinor’s apparent concern for the boy’s welfare.
“Why should I do anything?” he snapped.
His words gave her new spirit and she stepped before him, blocking his path as her words bristled with anger. “So that’s the extent of your friendship, after all he tried to do for you?” she cried. “Panama, you’re the blindest of the blind! Lefty is the sweetest boy in all the world—and I love him!”
“Elinor!” the man protested in an effort to save himself from further wounds directed at his heart.
“Yes, I love him, more than all the world and with all my heart,” she confessed, unmindful of the interruption. “I know that he was meant for me and I for him the very first moment my eyes fell upon his. I’ve been living in despair, torturing myself for months now, believing that he didn’t care for me. Do you know why he shielded himself behind that indifferent attitude?”
“No, and I ain’t much interested!” Panama barked.
“Well, you should be! He pretended that he didn’t love me because he thought that I belonged to you, because he was too fair, too decent to rob another man of something that he valued himself more than life. I’ve never loved you, I’ve never belonged to you! Lefty had as much right to try and win my love as you did!”
“Elinor, please—I don’t want to listen!” the love-torn soldier beseeched vainly.
“You must listen and you will!” she cried with determination. “Oh, Panama, can’t you see it all now? The whole thing was my fault! I shouldn’t have let you care when I knew that I could never love you, but you seemed so fine—so good that I dreaded to hurt you. Upon my honor, I swear that Lefty, never in his life, has made love to me—I made love to him!”
Panama’s eyes grew wide and questioning and his face turned a chalk white at this revelation.
“Elinor—you’re—you’re telling me the truth?”
“I’ve never been more honest in my life,” she insisted. “That boy thinks the sun rises and sets upon you. He would have rather sacrificed his very life than cause you one single moment of pain. Now he’s gone—perhaps dying in the impenetrable swamps of the jungle. Can’t you do something? Don’t you see what it all means to me?”
Unable to turn back the rising emotions within her, the girl gave vent to her feelings, suddenly overcome with tears of abject helplessness and despair.
Panama gazed at her silently for one brief moment, then putting on his helmet, turned about and walked with brisk determination toward his plane.
A week had passed without a single sign of Lefty, Steve or the missing plane.
Every pilot had taken a hand in the search for the lost Marines but each in turn finally gave up the hunt in despair as a hopeless task.
The only man who remained on the blind trail without a single lead was Panama, who, with silent doggedness, flew over the jungle, through swamp lands and across mountain tops night and day, grimly determined to bring back his men dead or alive.
In a malaria-filled swamp, just behind the tall mountain range that looked down upon the corral on the opposite side where the brave company of Marines had met Sandino’s men seven days before, what was once an airplane rested in an upright position with more than two feet of its nose imbedded in the mud.
Shaded by large tropical trees, it was difficult for anyone flying overhead to penetrate through the thick foliage and see below to the swamp, but because of Steve’s weakened condition and Lefty’s refusal to leave his comrade, the men stuck it out, hoping against hope that somehow, some way they would be rescued.
For days, Graham lay upon the remains of the plane’s lower wing with the upper part shading him from the sun, a helpless, dying shadow of what was once a man, tortured inwardly from a severe, untreated wound and outwardly by thousands of mosquitoes and biting ants.
Lefty sat beside him, filthy and red with insect bites, his clothing tom to shreds due to journeys through the bushes in search of food.
“Do you feel any better, Steve?” he asked, as the same time shooing a swarm of mosquitoes away from the stricken boy’s face. “Do you think maybe I could carry you?”
The wounded pilot gazed up at his companion with a grateful look and attempted to smile weakly.
“It ain’t no use, kid! You know, the old back is pretty bad. Why don’t you beat it, though? There is a chance you might make it if you went alone. We’ve been here a whole week. They’ll never find us now.”
Lefty rose with an air of impatience and walked away, extremely hurt over the other man’s suggestion that he quit.
“Aw, don’t be a chump!”
Steve raised himself with much difficulty and rested his entire weight upon his elbow. He lifted the index finger of his other hand and motioned to the boy. “Come here, Lef,” he called, “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Phelps turned back and sat down once more beside the other man, fanning him with his hat and brushing away some flies.
“You know that runnin’ backward stuff?” Steve began. “I’m sorry that I razzed you, kid. Don’t let anybody ever ride you again. Say, it’s hot, ain’t it? I wish I had some water!”
Lefty reached for the canteen and held it up to the boy’s mouth but it was empty.
“There’s a pool over behind them trees,” Steve said, “I can hear it tricklin’ sometimes. Maybe the water ain’t bad there.”
Lefty picked up his helmet and raised himself to his feet. In a moment, he had disappeared behind the bushes, leaving the wounded man a helpless victim once more to the biting ants that again began to crawl over his hands and face.
The mechanic found the pool, but like the other small outlets of water about them, this one too was stagnant with filth and slime.
Without hesitation, he waded into the mud, bending over and looking at the bad water, then brushing away the scum from the top and filling his helmet to the brim.
Once more beside his friend, Phelps proceeded to bathe the boy’s head in the lukewarm water as Graham opened his eyes and pleaded for a drink.
“You can’t have that stuff, Steve; it’s filthy.”
“I don’t care,” the boy begged. “Please gimme some!”
Feebly, the wounded man forced Lefty to relent and allow him to sip the stagnant liquid from the helmet.
Completely resigned to the hopeless Fate that had enveloped them, Phelps lifted the helmet to his lips, deciding to quench his own parched thirst, irrespective of whatever the consequences might be.
Steve caught this action on the other man’s part just in time to knock the helmet from Lefty’s hand, spilling the remains on the ground before them.
“No, you don’t!” he warned. “That stuff can’t hurt me any more, but you——”
He fell off into a coma without finishing his sentence. Lefty gazed down upon him and picked up his helmet, slowly fanning the boy as he once more went into a deep sleep.
At approximately the same time, Panama’s plane came to a landing at the flying base.
He lifted his goggles and brushed the oil and dirt from his face with a soiled handkerchief, then turning to the ground man standing beside the fuselage, ordered: “Fill her up full this time!”
Major Harding, followed by Elinor and two members of his staff, approached the ship, looking up at Williams and noting the tired, drawn and wan expression plainly visible upon the man’s face.
“Better turn in,” the Major advised. “You need some sleep.”
“I’m afraid this search is becoming hopeless,” the adjutant added, much to the consternation of the determined pilot still seated in the cockpit.
“I’ve got to find them, sir!” Panama pleaded as he addressed the major, “for more reasons than one!”
Harding shook his head slowly as a shadow of despair darkened his face. “I’m afraid there isn’t a chance!”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” Williams asked, “I’d like to take one more crack at it!”
The major accepted his top sergeant’s act of insubordination with an admiring salute and turned away, leaving Elinor alone and trembling, gazing up at the determined man in the plane.
“Oh, Panama, you don’t think it’s too late, do you?”
“Now don’t worry,” he struggled to reassure her. “I haven’t half looked yet!”
“And you won’t give up, will you?”
“Me?” he asked, trying to hide his own anxiety from the girl’s searching eyes. “Say, forget about it, will you?”
Elinor raised her hand and after a moment of hesitance, allowed her fingers to touch the sleeve of the sergeant’s greasy windjammer.
“Panama,” she whispered in profound admiration, “you’re—you’re the finest man in the whole world!”
He smiled grimly as his eyes closed, dreaming in despair of a happiness that he knew could never be his.
“She’s filled to the brim!” the ground man announced, awakening Williams from his brief moment of tranquillity, then yelling as he wound up the motor: “Contact!”
Not daring to look at the girl, Panama gave the ship the gun and in another moment, was taxiing down the broad field, once more embarked upon his futile search for a man who, if he did find him, would be delivered right into the arms of the woman they both loved more than life.
When Steve awoke from his coma, it was late afternoon. He had been lying there, silent and unconscious, for more than twelve hours.
He looked about for Lefty but the boy was nowhere in sight. An army of vicious ants were crawling over his hands and legs, leaving large, ugly and painful red welts in their wake.
The boy’s face became a contorted mass of fear and suffering as he raised himself to his elbow and shouted the name of his companion.
At the sound of Steve’s voice, Lefty, who had been picking wild berries from near-by bushes, came running back to the wrecked plane and bent over beside the boy, brushing away the ants and wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“Help me, help me, Lefty!” Steve cried out dismally, “I can’t stand it—I can’t!”
The mechanic pulled the limp boy to the other side of the wing, placing his own windjammer under Steve’s head as a pillow, leaving himself exposed now to the swarm of crawling ants that were already upon the sleeve of his shirt.
Steve’s eyes seemed to see something in the sky above and with every bit of remaining strength left in his body, pulled at the other man’s arm and shouted: “Lefty, look! There’s the planes—they’ve found us!”
Not without a sharp thrill of excitement, the other man raised his eyes heavenward only to see a swarm of black buzzards flying over their heads.
He turned away with keen disappointment, though attempting to hide his feelings from Steve, whose eyes were still glued upon the birds of ill omen.
“Look, Lefty, can’t you see? They’re circling us—they’re going to land!”
He noticed that the other man didn’t respond and, looking closer, realized that what he believed to be planes were merely the hallucinations of a fever-torn mind.
“I—I thought they were ships,” he whispered as he fell back on the disabled wing, closing his eyes with a death-like relaxation that startled the other boy.
“Steve, Steve!” Lefty cried, working to bring his buddy out of the passive submission of physical defeat that had enveloped him, “don’t give up; they’ll find us, sure!”
The sick man’s eyes fluttered open as they each gazed at one another for a brief moment. The realization that the end was hovering near left the two men with a morbid resignation of complacency registered upon their faces.
“Remember what you promised,” Steve said a little above a whisper. “Don’t let ’em get me! You know—the ship—I’d do the same for you!”
Lefty nodded grimly as his face took on an appearance of cold, indifferent immobility. When he looked down again, Steve smiled up at him, gasped and fell back, motionless. He lifted the man’s eyelids, felt his pulse and listened for a sign of life as his ear rested against the other’s heart.
All was over—it was Taps for the pilot and Phelps braced himself for his next ordeal as he covered the dead boy’s face with the windjammer.
What he was about to do, took a great deal of courage, but it was the boy’s last wish and he braced himself for the ordeal with that belief in mind.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and brought forth a match, striking it and touching the flame to the canvas of the wing, just below the boy’s head.
In a moment, the last rites for the dead man had been performed and the remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.
The last rites performed, the remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.The last rites performed, the remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.
The last rites performed, the remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.
The last rites performed, the remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.
As Panama flew over the deserted corral and across the mountain, he saw a thin spiral of smoke rising through the tree tops just ahead.
The expression on his face changed to one of mingled fear and hope as he flew nearer the spot from which the increasing volume of smoke came.
At that moment, the huge flames had just consumed the last of the plane and its silent occupant, dying down now to a small blaze. Lefty, resting upon his knees in silent, terrified meditation, raised his eyes to the skies above just as the purr of an airplane motor reached his ears.
Panama spied the lone man and the burning plane at the same moment that Lefty raised his eyes heavenward.
He studied the ground below, searching for a safe place to land, then nosed toward earth and circled overhead before making a final decision.
Just over the mountain, two companies of the rebel army had returned to the scene of their abject defeat at the hands of the Marines a week before.
Their purpose was to reclaim their dead now that they were certain the Marines had left that particular sector.
As they prepared to descend the steep mountain to the corral below, one of them looked to the west and saw the spiral of smoke and the lone plane with its nose turned earthward.
“Americano weeth bad motor, mebe?” one of the group said in broken English.
The others smiled and, without further ado, turned in their tracks and started up the mountain, prepared to open a surprise attack upon the helpless airman going toward the swamps below.
Panama finally effected a landing in a spot not far from where Lefty was standing, watching the pilot’s descent.
As the ship touched earth, the boy ran forward, his heart filled with mute gratitude, though still unaware as to the identity of his rescuer.
The sergeant jumped out of the cockpit and inspected his landing gear, pushing back his goggles for a better view just as the boy came up alongside of the fuselage.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp crack was heard and Panama fell to the ground, a victim from a bandit’s bullet.
The rebels were now lined up on the ridge of the mountain, prepared to descend and after killing the other Marine, capture the plane.
Lefty swung about just as one of the Sandino followers raised his gun and fired again, hitting the landing gear of the plane and knocking off the hub of the right wheel.
The boy fell to the ground on all fours, unhurt as the rebels again opened fire and the bullets flew wild, missing their mark.
Phelps smiled grimly and crawled over to where the motionless form of Panama lay outstretched, over the cowling.
Master of a tense situation for the first time in his life, Lefty pulled his rescuer down into the cockpit just as the bandits advanced and opened fire again.
Without wasting a single moment, the boy whipped the machine gun of the plane into place, made certain that the magazine was filled and then trained it upon the line of approaching rebels, opening up wide and spitting forth deadly fire in all directions, causing a host of fatalities in the ranks of the bandits as, one by one, they toppled over and fell down the side of the mountain to the swamps below.
Certain that he was free of at least the first line of the advancing bandits, the boy jumped into the forward cockpit, swung the plane about, and facing the few remaining rebels, gave the ship the gun, taxiing forward, and smiting down the terror-stricken men before they had time to run to a protective covering.
Taxiing his ship to a take-off, a look of grim determination appeared upon the boy’s face that finally broke out in a broad smile of triumph as the ship gained altitude.
He turned about and saw that Panama was just coming to, cognizant for the first time that Lefty was piloting the plane.
“I did it!” the proud mechanic boasted over his successful feat in making a perfect take-off, “I got her off the ground this time!”
Panama, despite the excruciating pain caused by the wound the rebels had inflicted, smiled broadly and shouted: “Atta boy!”
During the hour that Lefty proudly piloted the ship across mountains, rivers and an impenetrable jungle, conscious of the pleasant task that rested upon his shoulders, he enjoyed a good ceiling and clear sailing.
The only thing that darkened his sudden touch of glory was his deep concern over Panama’s condition.
“What a terrible, unfair Fate it would be,” he thought, “if anything should happen to old Panama now, after all we have gone through?”
He looked back to make certain that the sergeant was comfortable and cognizant of what was going on around them.
Each time he turned his head, his eyes met those of the wounded man’s who smiled back gamely, pantomiming to the boy to watch his stick and keep the ship leveled.
It was dusk by the time the lone plane circled over the field at Managua. The major and his aides, as well as Elinor and a group of ground men, stood watching the approaching mechanical bird flying toward them.
“That’s Williams’ ship all right,” Harding announced, “and he’s got somebody with him!”
Elinor, consumed with thrilling suspense, listened eagerly to the major’s disclosure. Next to where she stood, an officer was focusing a pair of army binoculars upon the plane now circling the field.
Without as much as an apology, she excitedly grabbed the glasses from the man’s hands and leveled them on the ship, her heart action increasing by leaps and bounds as she joyfully shouted: “It’s Lefty! It’s Lefty and he’s flying the ship!”
The major gazed at the girl with an expression of doubt, accepting the binoculars as she held them out to him and focusing them upward on the plane.
By that time, several other pilots had reached the field and joined the excited group as they watched Lefty pilot the ship with a masterly hand.
Panama looked down at the crowd below, then leaned forward with great exertion and screamed into the pilot’s ear: “They’re all there watching you. Go ahead and show ’em you can do something!”
“But how about you?” the boy yelled back. “You’re badly hurt!”
“Never mind me,” the sergeant laughed hoarsely. “Give ’em a real show!”
With that, Panama took keen delight in unscrewing the joy stick in the rear cockpit, contemptuously raising it above his head and throwing it overboard.
Lefty watched this gallant gesture on the part of the unselfish sergeant and grinned with appreciation, realizing that Williams’ idea in throwing the other stick was to leave no doubt upon the minds of those below as to who deserved the laurels for the successful flight.
The wheel of the landing gear from which the hub had been shot to pieces by the bandit marksman back in the swamps, was slowly revolving upon its loose axle, certain to cause a serious injury to the passengers of the plane if it fell or broke before they landed.
Ignorant of this dangerous problem that faced them, Lefty turned the plane into a stunt, doing a slow loop, followed by an easy roll and then a fast one, creating a beautiful spectacle against the darkening sky.
Major Harding moved nervously from one foot to the other with eyes glued upon the stunting ship above.
“What’s that crazy fool trying to do?” he roared with impatience.
As for Elinor, she was beside herself with anxiety and perplexity, suddenly feeling a trifle easier as she spied the commander’s lips curl in a sly grin.
“And I was the one that said he couldn’t fly!” Harding admitted with enthusiasm.
Lefty then piloted the ship into an Immelman turn, followed by a spin and a dive through the nearest company street as the men below scattered in all directions.
As the ship once more turned its nose upward and again gained altitude, the wheel slipped off the landing gear and fell to the ground, in plain view of the audience of pilots, officers and ground men.
One of the mechanics ran forward and picked up the wheel, holding it high above his head to inform Lefty that his landing gear was damaged. The boy caught sight of the warning gesture and as his expression of triumph once more became overshadowed with gravity, he realized the danger that awaited them, thinking first of Panama’s safety.
Elinor, suddenly transfixed with horror, was another of the audience who saw the wheel fall as did the major who, with a trained presence of mind, ordered the man nearest to him to call out the ambulance.
“I lost a wheel!” the boy shouted back to the sergeant in the rear cockpit who replied by lifting his head and laughing with fiendish merriment.
“You better take the ’chute and jump for it!” Lefty yelled, indicating the parachute. “I’ll stick and attempt to land her safely.”
“Not me,” the hard-boiled top kick called back. “I’m gonna stay right along and see what you’re gonna do!”
They both secretly became a trifle sick at heart and felt a heavy lump in their stomachs as they heard the shrill blast of the ambulance below and, looking out, saw the men in white uniforms hurrying across the field, bearing stretchers.
The boy rose and managed to place some cushions around Panama who scoffed angrily over the unwarranted attention paid to him.
Once more at the controls, he dived down just as the fire crew reached the field and the men left the truck, carrying axes and extinguishers, ready for an immediate and impending emergency.
The ship hit the ground with a thud, taxiing along the field on one wheel in a perfect landing. Finally losing speed, the other end of the axle struck into the earth and the plane spun around in a circle without causing either injury or damage.
When the ship finally came to a sudden stop, the crowd on the field rushed forward and surrounded the two men still seated in the cockpits.
Among the group was the major, whose face plainly showed his pride and happiness over the skillful landing. He confronted the boy with a beaming, warm smile as Lefty jumped out of the ship.
Almost inarticulate in his praise, he wasted no time in freeing the silver wings from above his left breast pocket and pinning them on Lefty, saying: “Take mine, son, until I can get you a pair of your own!”