“He spent six months in Colon, Mac. It was hot. He almost went under.
Drank a lot—and had a Flight to handle. My brother was down there—just
out of Brooks’ Field. He was only a kid. Marcosson hated him. He took
things too easy. The heat didn’t bother Al any. Cross country flight—and
Marcosson sent Al up with a missing engine. Made him take off. Al went
up and the ship—” Sock paused, then went on again, in a low
tone—“stalled two hundred feet off the ground. Came down in a spin—the
beginning of one. Finished Al. They transferred Marcosson a week or so
later. Fever. Damn his rotten—”
Sock broke off, turned away from me. I remembered that the lieutenant
had had a brother in the Air Service. I remembered that he had been
killed in a crash.
“It might not have been done—” I started to talk, then stopped. What was
the use? So many men hated Marcosson.
But Sock heard me. He faced around. There was a grim smile on his face.
“Colonel Brace sent me down to bring Marcosson back to Camp Nichols,
Mac. I’ve got orders in my pocket. I’ve been having a little hell of my
own. Last night I lay on my cot and listened to him rave, in the next
coop. He hears drums all the time. He’s almost licked. Took a P. T. up
yesterday just before sunset. Damn’ near turned over on the come-in. A
couple more air trips....”
Sock swore softly. I stared at him. Suddenly he straightened a bit. His
voice was hard, but controlled.
“I could stick down here a few days, Mac, and ride him out of things.
I’ve got him for a court martial already. Can’t you see how I could
smash him all the way? Well, I won’t. I’m going back now, and show him
the orders. I’ll ride him back to Camp Nichols. We’ll start right away.
Lieutenant Fenwick can take charge of the field. We’ll be half the way
back to Manila by dark, and the riding will be cool. They can take him
out of the air, ship him back to the States. A hop a month for his extra
pay and he’ll still wear wings. It’s too damned good for him, but—I’m no
killer.”