A month following Lefty’s accident during his first solo flight, the
Major General in command of the United States Marine forces, called a
hurried meeting of his staff late one evening.
The Chief of Staff, a pompous brigadier general, who possessed an
exceptional knowledge of tropical countries due to long years of service
spent below the equator, and the Chief of Aviation, a methodical,
middle-aged Lieutenant Colonel, responded to the Major General’s summons
as did a representative from the Navy Department.
These four men, gathered together behind closed doors in typical
Washington fashion, met to discuss an urgent problem that was inciting
the wrath of American citizens throughout the country, already placing
both the Department of State and the Secretary of the Navy in a
self-conscious embarrassing position.
Far away in the little Republic of Nicaragua, a young and dangerous
rebel had become displeased over the results of a recent election.
This man, in the guise of a patriot and self-appointed deliverer,
traveled among the ignorant peasantry, calling men to revolt against a
mythical hand that was supposed to be oppressing these people.
In time, he had gathered a fairly good-sized army which, mysteriously
enough, soon became clothed and armed, declaring open war upon the
recognized republic and its administrative heads.
For a time, the soldiers of the republic waged a losing battle against
the rebel horde, whose forces were continually supplied from some
mysterious source with funds, food supplies and weapons of war.
It soon became apparent that the men fighting under the leadership of
the usurper, Sandino, were far more interested in confiscating American
property and threatening the lives of the Northern Republic’s citizens
with interests in Nicaragua, than they were in lifting the supposed iron
hand of an unseen tyrant.
The helpless president of the little republic, divided in two through a
vicious civil war, appealed to the State Department in Washington for
aid, reminding us of a document known as the Monroe Doctrine, contending
that the rebel forces were being financed by some foreign power. It also
became apparent that Sandino was not a deliverer of his people, but a
paid dupe of some great commercial and industrial group who had promised
him a free ruling hand and financial aid in return for the delivery of
the little nation.
Both the President and the Secretary of State informed the minister at
Nicaragua to attempt to end the civil war and secure a guarantee of
protection for American lives and property through diplomatic
intercourse, but these arrangements soon proved futile. Sandino no
longer attempted to hide the fact that his purpose was directed solely
at American commercial intervention and the concessions granted to
citizens of the United States by the Republic of Nicaragua.
After great deliberation and undue suffering by American citizens
through Sandino’s practice of vicious banditry, the President ordered
the Marines to Nicaragua merely to repel the constant pilfering of
American property and to guard the safety of our citizens.
No sooner had the Marines landed at Managua, the capital of the little
nation, merely in the roles of governmental police, than Sandino
officially declared war upon them, killing three of their number in a
surprise attack.
Back in the States, as word reached the public of the brutal murdering
of American Marines, both the press and the people demanded that
Washington either recall her sea soldiers or declare open war upon
Sandino and his rebels, sending reenforcements immediately.
With the official report of more casualties in the Marine ranks and the
further threatening attacks upon Americans that imperiled our industrial
possessions, reenforcements were sent south and open warfare was
declared upon the Sandino bandits.
When the Chief of Staff, the representative from the Navy Department and
the Chief of Marine Aviation gathered in the office of the Major
General, the Commander of the Marines explained the object of the
meeting.
“Colonel, I have here a memorandum from the Secretary of the Navy,” he
said, handing the Chief of Aviation a communication typed on official
stationery. “The Secretary states that the President of Nicaragua has
made an urgent request for a squadron of airplanes.”
The Lieutenant Colonel gazed down upon the official communication handed
to him by the Major General as a sober shadow cast itself over his face.
“What is the opinion of the Marine Commander?” the Chief of Aviation
asked. “Is he in accord with the President’s request?”
“The President’s appeal meets with the approval of the Commanding
Officer of the Second Brigade, now stationed in that country, who
further advises that a squadron of planes would be a decisive help in
combating the outlaws.”
The representative from the Navy Department turned and faced the
Lieutenant Colonel, interrupting with the explanation: “It is almost
impossible to suppress Sandino and his bandits with land forces due to
the nature of the country.”
“So I have been informed,” the Chief of Aviation replied. “It is a hilly
and dangerous country, certain death to any invader unfamiliar with the
lay of the land.”
The Major General rested back in his chair. A tired, care-worn look
plainly overshadowed his face. Due to the trying events of the past few
weeks, he had aged considerably. In his heart, he wished the whole
unpleasant mess would suddenly come to an end.
“Have you a squadron prepared to depart immediately?” he asked the
Lieutenant Colonel.
“Yes, sir. Observation Squadron Ten is available at once.”
The Major General smiled complacently as his mind recollected some of
the past glorious deeds of the pride of the Marine air forces,
Observation Squadron Ten. He raised himself in his chair, once more
alive with active interest.
“The Flying Devils—that outfit can go anywhere! What will be their
route, Colonel?”
The Air Chief rose, crossed the room to a case and returned with a large
map, spreading it out upon the table so that all might view the course
of his finger.
The men, attentive to detail, moved forward in their chairs as the
Lieutenant Colonel pointed to a spot on the map.
“They will fly from Quantico to Pensacola and refuel there,” he
explained as his finger followed the proposed route across the map. “A
member of the Squadron, Sergeant Williams, is temporarily assigned to
that base as a flying instructor. He will rejoin his regular unit and
their next hop will be to Havana, then to Honduras and from there it
will be only one short jump to Managua.”
When the Lieutenant Colonel finished, he looked to the Major General for
a sign of approval. The Commander responded merely with a nod of his
head as the Air Chief rolled up the map and returned it to its case.
“Any suggestions, gentlemen?” the general asked of his aides, waiting a
moment for their response.
“I believe the Lieutenant Colonel’s flight plan answers the Secretary’s
request, guaranteeing the arrival of our air forces in the shortest
possible time,” the Chief of Staff announced. “I have no further
comments.”
As the others rose to leave after announcing their satisfaction with the
proposed plans, the Major General turned to his Air Chief and explained,
“You will notify the commander of the Tenth Squadron and also this
sergeant at Pensacola to join his unit for active duty upon their
arrival at his base.”
The Lieutenant Colonel saluted and left with the others to prepare plans
for the attack upon the Nicaragua bandits from the air.
The following morning, miles away at the Marine instruction base at
Pensacola, Panama Williams was summoned to the quarters of the Post
Commandant and given the official orders received by telegraph that
morning from Washington.
His entire being thrilled with the prospect of real action after so long
a period of peace-time inactivity.
His imagination became alive, visualizing all sorts of adventures he
would encounter, striking a responsive chord in his stout heart.
Sure-footed, with sparkling eyes and cheeks flushed from excitement, he
made his way hurriedly across the field to the base hospital, where, he
tried to make himself believe, he wanted to have the final bandage
removed from his burned hand, but in truth, hoped to have a few minutes
alone with Elinor at that early hour.
Upon his arrival at the dispensary, his secret hopes became justified
for there was Elinor, alone in the large room, rolling bandages in
preparation for a long day of activity just ahead.
“Morning!” Panama shouted jubilantly, “It’s a great day, Elinor!”
The little nurse turned, put down the bandage she had been rolling and
with a welcome smile, crossed to greet the sergeant.
“Hello, Panama,” she said warmly. “What brings you here so early?”
Her words completely took him off guard for a moment and he struggled to
regain his bearings, thinking fast for a probable excuse.
“Why—er—well—er—that is, I wanted you to—er—remove my—my bandage!” he
stuttered.
“But the dispensary doesn’t open until nine o’clock,” she said
indifferently, though secretly amused by the man’s lame excuse. “What’s
your hurry?”
A look of pain crossed the man’s face as he struggled for words that
would convince the girl.
“Why—er—I got a busy day ahead of me,” he lied gracefully. “And unless
you remove the bandage, I can’t use my hand so I——”
“Never mind explaining the rest,” Elinor interrupted. “I guess I
understand.”
She led the way to a small white table near the window as Panama trailed
after her.
Following her lead, he sat down at the opposite side of the table, never
for a moment taking his anxious eyes away from her loveliness that so
enthralled him.
As she bent forward to undo the wrapping, he was tempted to kiss her
beautiful hair but his better judgment prevailed in time just as she
looked up into his eyes, speaking in a mockingly accusing manner: “Lefty
Phelps has been out of the hospital for three days and you are still
coming here for treatment! Your hand has been well for over a week.”
Panama grinned in a guilty fashion and dropped his eyes. Then, in an
effort to vindicate himself, he pointed to a small, red spot between his
thumb and index finger, still slightly bruised.
“There’s a little place here,” he explained as a matter of defense. “It
still hurts!” Elinor smiled, and without making comment, reached for a
small piece of absorbent cotton, dipped it with ointment and proceeded
to place it on the sore spot.
“I suppose they’ll be transferring Lefty out of the flying corps,” she
said, managing to keep her eyes upon her work so that Panama would not
detect any personal gleam of anxiety which might betray her secret
interest in the former football player, an interest that had grown to be
something more than just casual.
The sergeant’s other hand mechanically reached for his blouse pocket and
rested there. “Oh, I don’t know about that?” he replied, endeavoring to
assume a careless attitude, though his answer didn’t fool the girl in
the least. She looked up at him quickly, her woman’s intuition alive to
the fact that he was holding something back from her.
“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.
“Nothin’!”
She tried to smile her prettiest and, with an alluring air of coquetry,
hoped to learn the secret Panama was keeping from her.
“You do mean something,” she persisted. “Panama, you’re keeping
something from me—you know you are!”
“I’m not!” he fabricated, secretly amused. “What would I be keeping from
you?”
“You said that they might not transfer Lefty out of the service!”
Panama was enjoying, for the first time, the thrill of having this girl,
whom he idolized, begging him to unfold to her a secret which he was
keeping all to himself.
“Well, mebbe I did, but what does that mean? I ain’t the Chief of Staff
to be saying what will or won’t happen to some dub that can’t move a
plane from the ground!”
Elinor dropped Panama’s hand and struggled with herself to hold back the
tears that she already felt moistening her eyes.
“I think you’re just perfectly mean,” she scolded; “talking that way
about Lefty!”
“Yeah?” he questioned, sensing that Elinor’s interest was becoming more
than just an impersonal one. “What’s it to you what I think or say about
that guy?”
The little nurse checked herself in time, and, forcing a smile, looked
up at the hard-boiled sergeant in an assumed attitude of indifference.
“Why—it’s nothing, Panama, nothing,” she hastily explained. “Only—well,
I do feel kind of sorry for the poor kid. He’s been given a few bad
deals and——”
“I guess you’re right, Elinor,” Williams interrupted as his eyes
softened, changing his entire demeanor to one of sympathy and
understanding. “He deserves a decent break and I’m going to help him get
it!”
Her eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed slightly. She felt her heart
beating a trifle faster at the sound of the sergeant’s welcome words of
understanding. “What do you mean?”
He smiled and pointed to the pocket of his regulation blouse from which
protruded the white corner of the order from Washington, handed to him
by the Post Commandant only a half hour previous.
Not quite fully cognizant of Panama’s meaning, Elinor, with a
questioning look, lifted her hand and with hesitance, touched the
sergeant’s blouse pocket, extracting the paper. Nervously she unfolded
the white sheet as her eyes eagerly devoured the contents.
“In compliance with the above reference,” she read hurriedly, passing
over the formal introduction at the top of the page, “upon the arrival
of Observation Squadron Ten, en route to Managua, Nicaragua, you are
hereby ordered to join the Squadron, prepared for active service.
“Three of the new Naval aviation pilots will be selected to accompany
this flight as observers. Your flight orders are continued in force for
this duty. You will select a suitable mechanic to accompany you.
“The travel herein enjoined is necessary in the public service. John
Hibbard, Chief of Staff, U.S.M.C.”
Elinor dropped the paper and with excited and grateful eyes, reached for
Panama’s hands and pressed them to her fondly.
“You will select a suitable mechanic,” she repeated, quoting from the
communication. “Then that means——”
Panama smiled broadly, too thrilled for words over the manner in which
Elinor held his hands in hers. “We’re shoving off to-morrow at daybreak
for that two-by-four comic opera republic.”
“And you’re going to take Lefty with you as your mechanic?” she
questioned, as her eyes danced for joy and her heart beat furiously with
pride and gratitude.
Panama loosened one of his hands from Elinor’s and reached for a plug of
tobacco in his blouse pocket. “Yeah. He don’t know it, but I am.”
“I think that’s immense of you,” she said, with a ring of sincerity in
her voice.
The sergeant indifferently bit off a large chew of tobacco and placed
the remainder of the plug back in his pocket. “Aw, that’s nothin’. He’s
a good kid! You know somethin’, Elinor? He’s got blue blood in his
veins—an’ he’s been to college too! You should hear that guy talk! Baby,
what an awful lot of language he has parked under his bean. When we get
back, I want you to know him better, ’cause I think you’d like each
other!”
At that moment, one of the medical officers looked in and beckoned to
Elinor.
“Miss Martin!”
She turned and, seeing the M.O., rose, replying, “I’ll be right in,
Doctor!”
Panama watched her every movement as she crossed the room to her desk
and picked up some report cards. He did not know how long it would be
before they met again—if ever, and he wanted these last few seconds to
be his to remember always.
She went to the door and, placing her hand on the knob, about to enter
the Medical Officer’s room, then remembered that this was a parting with
a good friend. She turned and came back to the little table which the
sergeant was resting against.
She held out her hand which he took and clasped warmly. “You’re going,
Panama,” she said tenderly, “I almost forgot. Good-by—and—and lots of
luck!”
Williams held her hand, trying for all the world to say something but as
usual, he became inarticulate and unable to find the proper words.
Sensing his embarrassment, Elinor tried to relieve the situation by
fussing with his tie and warning him to take good care of himself,
during which time, the unnerved Panama struggled to bring forth orally
the thoughts that continually were on his mind and kept his heart alive.
Just as he believed he had found his speech, the door opened again and
the Medical Officer reappeared.
“I am waiting, Miss Martin,” he announced curtly, and then slammed the
door, disappearing back into his office.
With a hurried and warm smile, Elinor clasped Panama’s hand again and
ran to the door, opening it and entering, leaving the sergeant to stand
motionless, gazing after her.
When the door had closed again, he picked up his campaign hat and
crossed the room, intending to leave. As he passed Elinor’s desk, his
eyes fell upon the large green blotter where several snapshots of the
nurse smiled up at him.
He turned and looked back to make certain that no one was watching, then
stealthily, he reached over the desk and picked up the pictures, folding
them hurriedly in between the official dispatch, carefully placing them
away in his blouse pocket.
Once more he looked toward the door through which Elinor had passed only
a moment before. His hands touched his lips and he blew her a kiss.
Smiling sheepishly and his cheeks flushed crimson from the embarrassment
of his own actions, he tiptoed out of the room, his hands pressed
against the pocket that held the muchly-prized photographs of the woman
with whom he had left his heart.