Three weeks had passed, three weeks for the constantly active Marine
aviators, flying over mountain and jungle, supplying the leathernecks on
foot with food and ammunition, guiding them through an impassable
country in their futile search for Sandino and his rebel band.
With the dawn, came orders to scout over jungle regions in search of
lost parties or else departures on long observation, map-drawing
flights.
Returning to the field, with no other desire than to flop upon a cot and
sleep, the pilots were informed to refuel and take off again, perhaps to
drop medical supplies or food at some temporary base, hundreds of miles
away and to return before daybreak.
The long, constant grind, the terrible hours spent in the air and the
days that passed without sleep, had worn most of the airmen and their
observers down to almost human skeletons. They stumbled around, silent,
nerve-wracked, mostly in a dull stupor, haggard looking with large,
black circles under their glassy, tired eyes. There was little time to
eat, much less to shave, and some of the boys had gone the full three
weeks without shaving or washing off the grime and dirt from their hands
and faces.
War to them was a business and their purpose as part of the government’s
great machine of action was to obey silently until their legs gave way
from under them or else their brains snapped under the terrific strain.
No one complained and there was no discord, no more than there has ever
been known to be in the long history of the Marine Corps on land, sea or
in the air. It was a man’s game they were playing and each man played
his hand to the last card without a question, though it seemed as if the
deck had been stacked against them.
Personal grievances, hurts or questions of safety never entered the
minds of any of those men from the major, commanding the squadron, down
to the rawest of the ground men. They were a part of a grand and
glorious fighting organization, the oldest in the service of their
country and their unit would not be the first to besmirch the colorful
traditions of the service through placing personal safety above duty.
Long before dawn, Panama had been sent out alone to search the jungle
for a company of men missing for more than a week. Hours had passed and
no sign of the absent Marines came to light.
The sergeant, before turning in, made one last attempt. He put the stick
forward and the nose of the plane went downward, flying only a few
hundred feet from the ground.
Haggard and with a chalk white, grim complexion, he straightened out the
ship, intently studying the lay of the land, his eyes eagerly searching
every nook and corner beneath for a sign of human life.
As he went a little farther north, flying between two dangerous crags
that imperiled the safety of the plane, his eyes became fixed upon
something just a little to the west. His taut features softened in an
expression that was intermingled with both hope and anxiety.
There, along the shore of a winding river, just at the edge of a jungle,
a group of Marines rested, most of them lying exhausted, flat upon the
ground. On a panel spread near by, facing upward, was the code signal of
the Marines, “V—V,” meaning: “Have Casualties.”
The muscles of Panama’s jaw again grew taut as he searched the ground
below for a safe place to land.
What had been a snappy, spick-and-span, clear-eyed company of men a
little more than a week previous, leaving the barracks at Managua on a
surveying expedition, was now reduced to twelve, ghost-like Marines,
bearded, haggard, fever sick and near starvation, their faces, legs and
arms bearing huge, red-infected welts from insect bites and their
clothing bedraggled and torn to shreds from traveling through the
treacherous jungle bushes.
The heat was terrific and the sun beat unmercifully down upon the
helpless surviving victims who rested under poorly improvised shelters,
long since giving up all hope of being rescued, silently awaiting the
grim specter of Death like true Marines, completely resigned to their
fate.
One of the men looked up to the sky with wide, glassy eyes that fell
upon Panama’s plane. His parched lips parted in a half-hearted smile and
his long, thin hand lifted feebly. “It’s—it’s a plane!” he managed to
say.
The eyes of the other helpless men followed the direction of the first
man’s finger that pointed upward.
“It’s a Marine plane!” another announced. “Look, he’s circling us—he’s
going to land!”
A few of the poor unfortunates struggled to rise to their feet,
following the progress of the ship with their eyes. Those that were
successful crawled along to the water’s edge, stumbling across the
stream to a semi-flat piece of ground on the opposite side where they
were certain the plane would land.
There they gathered in a small group, with eyes still raised heavenward,
silently following the course of the plane and waiting for it to land.
Panama realized that if he was to even attempt to save these men, he
would have to take a chance and make a landing on the uncertain ground
below, or else leave them to die helpless victims of exposure. He
nervily shot the nose of his ship toward the ground, narrowly escaping
some rough tree tops that might have crippled his wings.
Once the wheels of his landing gear touched earth, he knew he was safe,
and with a feeling of just pride over his accomplishment, he released
the stick and taxied along for a few feet, coming to a stop and finding
himself surrounded by the small group of eager, grateful men.
He rose and reached into the rear cockpit, bringing forth a large bundle
which he clumsily opened, displaying a good quantity of food, cold tea,
chocolate bars and cigarettes.
“Here you are, boys!” he shouted gayly. “The Flying Restaurant! Come and
get it!”
The men didn’t have to be invited a second time. It had been many days
since any of them had tasted food or enjoyed the fragrant aroma of a
lighted cigarette.
“Who’s in command?” Panama asked a man standing by the fuselage,
munching upon a piece of milk chocolate.
“Lieutenant Baker, but he’s too sick to get up.”
Williams cast a sweeping glance over the group, searching for the really
bad cases as he explained that his orders were to return the men to the
base, one at a time, and asking them to choose among themselves who
would be the first to go.
With the announcement came an insistent chorus of replies, “Take the
lieutenant back first!”
A little to the left of the plane, the pitiful, wan shell of a man
lifted his head with every bit of effort he possessed, shaking his
finger in a manner of objection.
“No—no—not me—I’m all right. Take one of the others!”
“But you’re all in, sir!” one of the boys protested.
“Who says so?” the lieutenant demanded to know, without any attempt to
conceal his indignation. “I’m still in command here! Sergeant, take
Shorty in first. His foot needs dressing.”
Shorty, a kindly little fellow seated on the ground, unable to walk
because of a dangerously infected foot, protested vehemently over the
lieutenant’s orders, insisting that he was in better physical condition
than any man among the group of survivors.
“Why, you can’t even stand up on your feet!” Baker answered with a tinge
of derision in his voice.
“I can stand on one foot!” insisted the plucky little Marine, “and
that’s more’n you can do!”
A faint hit of color came to the lieutenant’s pallid cheeks as he
struggled to, lift his head again. “How dare you resort to insolence in
the presence of your superior?”
“But I don’t want to go!” Shorty bewailed futilely. “Let him take you in
first and then he can come back for me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Baker called out, angrily. “I’m boss here
and you’ll take orders!”
“Well, I think I’m entitled to say when, where and how I’m to be
rescued,” speculated the obdurate little fellow, “and I ain’t going back
now!”
“When I get you back there, I’ll have you court-martialed on nine
different counts!” Baker threatened.
Shorty smiled and winked to Panama, who was standing up in the cockpit,
completely obfuscated over the stubbornness of two hungry, sick men,
arguing as to who should be saved first.
“You’re going to have me court-martialed? Now I know I ain’t going
back!”
The situation was highly amusing to everyone, especially Williams. The
bantering back and forth was refreshing after the trying week these men
had undergone and the sleepless nights Panama had struggled through. The
flying sergeant realized that this argument was sapping the little
remaining strength the lieutenant still possessed so he jumped out of
the cockpit and without a word, picked Shorty up in his arms and placed
the protesting, struggling Marine in the plane, much to the satisfaction
of Baker and the others.
“I’ll be back for another one in the morning,” he promised. “You’ll find
plenty in this sack to eat, smoke and keep you warm until I return.”
“Hope you like the ride, Shorty,” one of the boys called out. “Don’t
stand up on your one good foot or you’ll rock the boat!”
“I’ll punch you in the nose the minute you get back to Managua,” the
little Marine threatened, “and you can court-martial me for that and
make it ten counts!”