“Think I’ll wing back with you, Sock,” I said slowly. “No use sticking
here. Go back as far as my field, anyway.”
Sock nodded.
“All right, Mac,” he returned. “Go out and have the boys get at your
ship. Grab a look at the field. You can see all of it in five minutes.
In a month it’ll be historical.”
I grinned, went out. My ship was on the deadline. Sock’s was there, too.
I got the sergeant in charge, told him I was flying out with Sock. He
was in such good humor that I guessed Sock had hinted about the general
abandonment of the provincial fields. They started fueling my bus.
It was too hot to walk. I didn’t know any of the pilots at the field. So
I sat down on a gas can, in the shade of one of the hangars. And while I
was thinking about Marcosson I heard the drums. They were distant. They
rolled something like thunder. Far away thunder. It was the first time
I’d heard them.
I went out on the deadline. The ground crews were sweating over the two
ships. Sock came out from the barracks with his kit. He listened, smiled
grimly.
“Hear ’em, Mac?” he muttered. “Some damned family branch of the Moros.
Most of ’em stick down on Sulu. Not many drums like that in the
Islands—not now. They were talking all last night.”
I swore softly. I could imagine what that dull booming had done to
Marcosson’s nerves. They must have taken him back a lot of years. Well,
he’d seen it all coming. He’d felt it coming, back in the smoke room of
the transport, months ago.
The ground crews were finishing up fueling. I stared across the small
field. The C. O. was coming out. He wore his uniform—no flying overalls.
He walked with his head down. The heat, even with the sun getting down,
was sizzling.
I got up as he approached, smiled. If he heard the distant drums, he
gave no sign of it.
“It’ll be all right to get into a bit of civilization, eh, Captain?” I
suggested. “Even a few months down here are pretty tough.”
He smiled. It was a peculiar smile. His eyes were narrowed, seemed to be
staring beyond me. Sock came up. Marcosson spoke.
“I’ve seen the post officers.” The C. O.’s voice was steady. “Lieutenant
Fenwick will take charge as soon as we get into the air. I’m ready,
Lieutenant.”
Sock started to say something, changed his mind. A corporal came over
with the ’chute packs. All three of us got into them.
“Running lights and flares checked, sir.” The corporal addressed
Marcosson. “Your Irving has just been rerolled.”
The C. O. nodded. In hot countries the Irving ’chute packs have to be
unfolded and rolled again more often than in cold climates. The corporal
was evidently unaware that Marcosson was being relieved.