“There won’t be any, Captain,” he said. “You’re already broken!”
Rage gripped Marcosson. His whole body stiffened. His hands were at his
sides, fingers spread stiffly. They were shaking. He sucked in his
breath sharply. Sock turned his back on him, moved toward the front
cockpit of the P. T. he was to fly.
There was silence over the field. The drums broke it, rumbling.
Marcosson relaxed. His lips moved a little. I caught the words.
“—already broken—”
He straightened. I moved toward my ship. The engine of Sock’s P. T.
roared; there were test blocks under both planes’ wheels. A hand gripped
my arm. I halted, turned. Marcosson spoke above the roar of the P. T.’s
exhausts.
“I thought his brother was—yellow, Lieutenant! Thought he could get the
kinks out of that engine, in the air. He took her off in a tough climb.
He was green—and I thought he lacked nerve. Tell him that, Lieutenant.
Tell him I know he’s Al Casey’s brother. I’ve known it since I ran into
him on the transport, coming down to this hell. That kid was so damned
cool, so sure of himself. And I was—”
He stopped, his face twisting. Then, suddenly, he smiled. His voice was
calmer.
“Tell him that, Lieutenant—when you see him in Manila. And—happy
landings—”
He turned away, went swiftly toward the two-place P. T. I stared after
him. The ground crew men were pulling the blocks away from the wheels.
Marcosson swung up into the rear cockpit; I saw Sock twist his head, saw
the captain nod.
I got it, then. Marcosson was going out. Sock would never land him in
Manila. Somewhere along the air route—
A gust of wind swept back from the rolling P. T. as I started to run
toward her. She picked up speed; her engine roared. I shouted hoarsely.
No chance of Sock’s hearing me. Turning back, I climbed into my plane.
She was throttled down; I revved her up, signalled the ground crew men
to pull the chocks away from the wheels. We rolled out from the dead
line. Sock’s ship was taking off, climbing.
He took her up in a mild bank. I gave him plenty of air, circled widely
over the field for altitude. My eyes went to the rear cockpit of the
other P. T. I could see Marcosson’s head; it was motionless.
* * * * *
At eight thousand Sock leveled off—set a course for northeast Samar. I
winged in toward the plane. There was nothing I could do, yet I wanted
to do something, to stop Marcosson. I could see him sitting before me in
the smoke room of the _Thomas_, telling me that story. I could see what
a battle he’d had. And now Hell’s Angel was going out. How? Over the
side? With no jerking of the Irving’s rip cord ring?
I swore softly. My eyes went down to the instrument board. When I raised
them again the two ships were flying within twenty-five feet of each
other, Sock’s P. T. on the right. And Marcosson was swinging a leg over
the side of the fuselage!
Sock’s helmeted head was turned slightly to the right. He was staring up
at the white clouds high in the sky. I shouted hoarsely, knowing that he
couldn’t hear. And even so, there was nothing he could do. Marcosson was
stepping overboard.
Sock’s head twisted suddenly. Perhaps he was just taking a look at the
sky behind; perhaps he felt that something was wrong. The captain was on
the upper surface of the P. T.’s lower wing, out of the prop wash when
her pilot saw him.
And Sock acted. A wing of the P. T. flashed upward—the right wing. The
nose of the ship came around. The roar of her engine blended into the
roar of my plane’s engine.
I zoomed. But there wasn’t time. Wing crackled into wing. Struts
snapped. A wire hissed across the cockpit of my ship. I ducked my head,
felt a stabbing pain in my left leg as I cut the switch. Splinters of
the props cut through the twisted and torn wing fabric. Even as I raised
my head I could feel the first motion of the spin into which the tangled
planes were falling.
I shoved the goggles up over the leather of my helmet, snapped the
buckle of my safety belt. The two ships were in a slow spin now; my eyes
went toward the cockpits of the other P. T. And the first thing I saw
was the head and shoulders of Sock Casey. His head hung limply across
the left side of the cockpit fuselage; red streaked across his face. He
was unconscious!
I crawled up from the leather seat. The two ships were tightly tangled,
wings were interlocked. The spin was becoming greater—but it was a flat
spin. A pancake spin. And it would not stay that way long.
My eyes went out toward the right wing surfaces of the other ship and I
saw Marcosson. He was crawling slowly over the wing, toward the front
cockpit. His face was white, set. His eyes were on the head and
shoulders of Sock Casey.
I shook my head violently to fight off the first waves of dizziness
caused by the spin. The wing on which Marcosson had been working his way
outward was undamaged. I knew what had happened. Sock hadn’t seen me
wing my plane in so close. He _had_ seen the captain on the right wing.
He had guessed what the man was about to do. His bank to the left had
been made to prevent Marcosson from getting clear. With that wing-tilt
the captain could not have jumped without striking the fuselage of the
plane. And Sock had banked into my ship in one booming air crash.
Wind was shrilling through the broken wires of the two ships now;
shrilling through torn struts, ripped fabric. I stared at Marcosson as
the fingers of my left hand went instinctively to the harness over my
left thigh, gripped the release ring of the ’chute pack. The two ships
were down around five thousand feet already.
Five feet of twisted struts, torn fabric separated me from Sock’s
cockpit seat. But Marcosson was within a few feet of the pilot now. I
saw one hand reach down into the cockpit. With the other he gripped a
strut still intact. And then he was dragging Sock up from the cockpit
seat, pulling him inch by inch out on the wing—the good wing.
The spin was becoming wider. The noses of the two planes were dropping.
Marcosson raised his eyes to mine. He was smiling grimly. He jerked his
head toward the undamaged left wing surface of my plane. Then he started
to drag Sock out along the wing.
There was nothing I could do. Couldn’t reach them through that wreckage.
I got a leg over the side of the fuselage—the left side. The stick had
jammed against my left knee in the crash. I dragged out along the wing,
pulled myself up to my knees. The planes were spinning to the right. I
turned my eyes toward the wing beyond the wreckage.
Two figures shot out into space. Arms were gripped around Sock’s body. I
thought I caught a glimpse of Marcosson’s right hand on Sock’s ’chute
harness.
I released my grip on a wing strut. The spin hurled me clear. I counted
five—jerked the rip cord ring. The pilot ’chute crackled. The bigger
spread of silk snapped as the small spread, sprung from the pack, pulled
it out. The harness tightened about my body. My head came around with a
snap. And then I was drifting downward, gently.
I shook the tears from my eyes, stared off to the right. A figure was
dangling inertly beneath a spread of white silk. Sock’s figure. My eyes
went downward. Something was streaking toward the tropical growth below.
My eyes followed it for a second—then I turned them away.
Perhaps ten seconds later there came the _boom-crash_ of the tangled
planes. I slipped my ’chute toward Sock’s. We were within five hundred
feet of the earth. He raised a hand weakly, tried to wave to me. I
stared downward.
Both ’chutes were drifting clear of the jungle strip. The wind was
carrying us down toward primitively irrigated fields. I got a glimpse of
several natives staring up at us. The two ’chutes were drifting within
fifty feet of each other. I drew up my legs, prepared to break the shock
of the seventeen-foot-a-second drop. There would be little wind drag.
I struck, fell forward, pulled down on the shroud lines of the
collapsing ’chute silk. Getting loose from the harness, I limped toward
Sock.
He was trying to sit up. I got a handkerchief around the dent in his
head made by a strut splinter. He spoke thickly.
“Marcosson—pulled my rip cord in the dive. I was conscious—couldn’t
move. He let go—did he—”
I shook my head slowly. “Didn’t pull his own rip cord, Sock,” I said
hoarsely. “He took the plunge into the jungle strip.”
Sock Casey closed his eyes. We weren’t far from the field. They’d heard
the crash—it wouldn’t be long before they’d reach us. As for
Marcosson—the jungle growth was thick; in places impenetrable. A
five-thousand-foot plunge!
“He—didn’t want to go back—that way, Sock,” I muttered. “He wasn’t—that
breed.”
Sock nodded weakly. I stared at the natives, stripped to the waist,
coming cautiously toward us. I told Sock what Marcosson had wanted me to
tell him, about his brother.
“He pulled me out,” Sock said slowly, after a little silence.
“Maybe—there was something in that name—Hell’s Angel.”