“For him,” he said slowly, “it’s perfect!”
* * * * *
In the third month after I’d gone out to Iriga, rumors commenced to
drift in. We were in the middle of the hot season. Bailey flew down from
Manila. Marcosson was having a tough time at Salcedo. Half of his ground
crew men were sick. Two lieutenants had been killed in spins. They were
cracking up too many ships. Hell’s Angel was keeping out of the air
himself and sending others up to map out the country. He was drinking.
Staff was considering pulling him out.
“And by the time they decide half the Squadron will be dead,” Bailey
stated. “It seems that Colonel Brace has sent Sock Casey down to
investigate, under cover, of course.”
I groaned. Sock Casey, a hot-tempered kid flyer, going down to
investigate Marcosson! I could imagine the way he’d go about it. And I
could figure the way Marcosson would receive him. After Bailey had taken
off for his wing back to Manila, I looked up Cap Tully.
“Sock Casey’s down at Salcedo,” I stated. “I’d like to see him. Never
set a ship down on that field. I can make it in three hours. Stay
overnight—fly up tomorrow. If the captain will permit me—”
“Go to it, Mac,” Tully interrupted. “Why any one should want to go down
there to see a guy—that’s beyond me. But go ahead—give Captain Marcosson
Captain Tully’s respects. Tell him I’d fly down myself, only I hate his
guts! Tell him—”
Tully stopped. He shrugged his shoulders. It was the first time I’d
heard him let loose on Marcosson. Another one who hated the man.
“I told him to go to hell, once.” Tully’s voice was grim. “I’ve got a
hunch he’s there right now. So never mind giving him my regards.”
I saluted, and headed for my coop in the fairly new barracks. Packing a
kit, I went out and had my pet two-seater rolled out. Heat waves sizzled
off the cleared field. I was soaked in perspiration by the time I got in
the front cockpit. The leather was hot; my Irving ’chute pack made
things a lot worse. I wore the lightest helmet possible and rolled down
the collar of my washed-white khaki shirt.
There would be a water crossing into Samar, but it wasn’t much of one.
It was about two o’clock when I took off. The air was bumpy; I got four
thousand feet and flew my roller map course to the southeast. There was
a drift wind from the west, and a pretty strong one. The country below
was rugged. In spots it was cultivated. In most places it was not.
I sat back in the cockpit, listened to the roar of the engine—and
thought about Captain Marcosson. I wondered why he’d talked to me that
afternoon, in the smoking room of the _Thomas_. Talked to me of the
past. It was my guess that he saw the end coming. Of course, there were
ways out. But with his record in the Army he would have had to take his
transfer to the Islands or resign. And Hell’s Angel wasn’t the resigning
breed. He was sticking to the finish, which, as I saw it, wasn’t far
off.
“He’ll smash into Sock sure as hell!” I muttered beneath the roar of the
exhausts. “If the heat’s got him....”
I swore grimly and kept my eyes on the instrument board. Air speed
ninety-two. Altitude forty-five hundred. Engine cool enough, with the
gas feed right and oil pressure steady. I’d be down there soon
enough—see things for myself. Cap Tully thought Marcosson was sitting in
hell. So did I. But Sock Casey was young and hot-headed. Maybe I could
have a talk with him.
The air the prop flung back was warm, even at our altitude. The rubber
on my goggles was hot where it pressed against my skin. I thought of
Marcosson’s left eye goggle scar, of his broken nose. I thought of his
war record. And the damned heat was licking him. He’d known it would.
I’d guessed it would. Hot blood in his veins. French, Italian. Killer
blood.
And Sock Casey down there investigating. Things would break fast, I
could guess that. Maybe I’d be too late. Sock didn’t understand. He
didn’t know what I knew. I should have talked to the kid, back on the
transport. Or in Manila. But I hadn’t. I’d do it in a few hours. There
were too many humans hating Marcosson. It was bad enough for him to have
the heat to lick.
* * * * *
I missed the field by about ten miles, but twenty minutes later I
learned I’d missed it. Circling in a mild bank, I headed northward
again. She was no cinch to pick up. I almost missed her the second time.
The coast line saved me. I picked up the native town, spotted the field,
a few miles to the northeast.
She was small. Her sock was hanging limp from a tall bamboo pole. Jungle
rimmed the oblong cleared stretch. The hangars were on the north side,
and from the air it looked as though the first typhoon would lift them
higher than the world’s ship record. They were canvas, staked down.
I circled the field three times and made a fair landing by skimming
growth so that I’d have all the room there was to roll along. Even at
that I had only about ten feet left when the P. T. stopped. Cutting the
switch, I climbed over the side. No use trying to taxi around until I
got ground crew men holding a wing tip. And I was tired.
The first person I saw was Sock. He came up at a trot, his browned face
as fat as ever, his blue eyes wide. I stared at him. His lips were
puffed; there was red trailing down his chin.
“Hello, Mac!” he greeted. “What in hell are you—” He stopped, and I saw
that he knew what I was looking at. “It’s all right, Mac,” he stated
grimly. “Just the C. O.’s way of enforcing fool orders. That is—the way
he thinks he’ll enforce ’em.”
I swore harshly. Marcosson striking his inferior officer. Striking the
man sent down by Colonel Brace. A sweet mess.
“How is he?” I muttered foolishly.
Sock wiped his lips savagely with the back of a sunburned hand.
“Great!” he returned, with fine sarcasm. “He’s got a yellow streak two
feet wide.”
The ground crew men were coming up. Sock changed the subject. He gave
orders for the care of the P. T.
“How come you wing down on us?” he asked.
“Pleasure trip,” I stated.
Sock laughed. It was a bitter laugh. We moved back toward what looked
like some temporary barracks.
“A fine place for pleasure this is!” Sock muttered. “Marcosson’s
finished, Mac. He’s crazy as hell.”