“Better wait until tomorrow morning, Sock. He’ll take the orders hard.”
Sock laughed harshly.
“I’m afraid to wait, Mac,” he stated grimly. “Should have started
yesterday. But he’s smashing right up before me. I didn’t know the full
story, all about how Al went out, until I ran into Lieutenant Fellman,
ten days ago. He was with Marcosson and Al on the Panama cross country
flight. He tried to get Al to tell Marcosson to go to hell and not to
take off. But the kid wouldn’t do it. Marcosson was his superior—that
sort of thing. So he went up....”
The lieutenant reached into a pocket of his khaki shirt. Paper crackled.
“Come on in for a wash, Mac.” Sock’s voice was steady enough. “That is,
if there’s any water. I’ll give Marcosson a look at his orders. See you
in a week or so, for a decent chin. We’re pulling in the ships, quitting
the fields. Not worth it—and the country is pretty well mapped. That’s
one thing Marcosson did decently.”
We moved toward the temporary barracks. The air was heavy with jungle
growth, reeked sweetly. Insects hummed. A parrot screamed shrilly. I was
thinking of Marcosson.
“He never had much of a chance, Sock,” I stated. “It was in his blood.”
Sock muttered something I didn’t get. We walked on.
“He just naturally likes to hurt,” Sock muttered. “I should watch him
rot right here—it wouldn’t take long now. But I won’t.”
We reached the barracks. Sock got me some water in a tin basin. It was
odorous, warm. But it helped get some of the kicked-back oil off my
face. Sock disappeared. He came back again in about ten minutes. There
was a puzzled expression on his face.
“We’re getting off in a half hour,” he stated. “Damned if he didn’t take
it easily. Just sort of got white, then smiled. Asked me when I wanted
to start. I told him right away. He nodded, called Lieutenant Fenwick
in, turned things over. Fenwick’s been his adjutant. The boys are
filling up the tanks now.”