Within a half hour after “To the Colors” had been sounded and the men
and officers at the flying base at Managua had retired to mess, the
motor of a plane was heard over the field.
Major Harding, in command of the Tenth Squadron, had left the officers’
mess earlier than was his custom, to stroll alone before retiring. At
the sound of the familiar purr of a pursuit plane, he raised his eyes in
time to see Sergeant Williams’ plane circle the field and make a
three-point landing just as a group of ground men ran forward to meet
the ship taxiing toward them.
As the plane came to a stop, two ground men ran to the rear cockpit and
carried out Lieutenant Baker, the last of the lost company of Marines
that had been rescued, one by one, by Panama.
Tired from his long ordeal, dirty, greasy and covered with grime,
Williams crawled out of his cockpit, weary of limb but mentally alive,
proud of his daring accomplishment.
He meandered toward the barracks only to be met by the major who smiled
generously upon the successful pilot.
After the two men had exchanged formal salutes, Harding placed his hand
upon the shoulder of the noncom, in no way attempting to conceal his
fondness for the man.
“You’ve earned a good rest, sergeant. I want to thank you for what you
have done, but don’t let me keep you from your sleep.”
Panama smiled gratefully and pointed to the two ground men carrying
Baker off on a make-shift stretcher in the direction of the field
hospital. “That’s the last of them going in now!”
“I don’t think you’re any too sorry, are you, Williams?”
“No, sir!” Panama replied truthfully and then turning, pointed out the
bullet holes in the side of the fuselage and the struts that were lashed
with sapling. “Do you see what I had to do?”
“That was fine work,” the major announced with pride. “I am going to
recommend you for a medal for bringing in those wounded men!”
Panama grinned sheepishly, making a sincere effort to pass off Harding’s
promise and compliment lightly. They shook hands and saluted, the major
continuing his stroll, leaving the sergeant standing alone.
As he unbuttoned his windjammer and pulled off the Gasborne helmet,
Panama’s eyes caught sight of Steve Graham (recently made a corporal),
carrying a bucket of water.
“Bring that over here,” he shouted jovially, and the once ostentatious
would-be flyer complied without making any comment. He merely stood by
and lighted a cigarette as Panama reached for the dipper and drank
several refreshing cups full of water, pouring the remainder left in the
bucket over his head.
“Any letters for me?” he inquired of Graham as he stood, dripping wet,
wiping the water out of his eyes.
Steve shook his head impatiently. “I told you every day for the past
week—‘no!’ Look’s like you got the air.”
Still in a good humor, though inwardly disappointed over Elinor’s
failure to answer his recent letters, he reached down and picking up the
empty bucket, slammed it over the astonished corporal’s head, emitting a
loud roar of laughter and walking off toward the line of tents, leaving
Steve struggling to release the bucket.
As Panama approached the company street where the tent was located that
he and Lefty occupied, he heard the voices of several Marine flyers
lifted in harmony. He smiled contentedly, for this was home to him. The
grim, khaki-colored tents, standing like rows of silent ghosts; the
songs of the Marine Corps brutally sung by dish-pan quartets, then a
sudden foul oath emitted by an occupant of one of the tents, voices
raised in argument over a card game or some other trivial matter; that
was the only world he had known since the day he ran away from home to
become one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers of the sea. It was his life, his love
and his work and he was never so contented as when returning from an
expedition during a campaign, knowing that his day’s labor had been well
done.
He rambled along, through the narrow little street with rows of tents on
each side, humming a popular song, dog-tired and ready to fall into a
welcome and waiting cot.
Inside of the last tent on the street, Lefty was nervously pacing back
and forth, disgruntled and uncertain. He walked to the entrance and
closed the canvas flaps, then turned and went to his cot, pulling out a
dirty work shirt from a bundle and shining his shoes with it. He was an
amazing sight, attired in the blue and scarlet dress uniform of the
Marines at that hour of the night, campaigning in an open field in the
midst of impending hostilities.
Just as Panama arrived a few feet away from the entrance to the tent, he
heard hurried footsteps from behind, and turning, recognized Steve,
breathlessly running toward him.
“Hey, Romeo,” the corporal shouted, wait a minute. “I got some news for
you.”
Panama stopped and waited for Graham, grinning good-naturedly and
certain that the boy had followed him to pull some prank as a means of
getting even for his putting the bucket over his head.
“How’d you get the pail off your dome?” Williams greeted Graham by
asking a little derisively.
“That’s what I’ve come running to tell you,” Steve announced. “Somebody
pulled it off for me and who do you think it was?”
“Sandino?”
“No, Elinor Martin!”
Panama gazed at Graham with questioning and doubtful eyes, believing
this to be some kind of practical joke.
“Honest, it was Elinor,” the boy reiterated. “She came in to-day with
nine other nurses and two doctors. I told her you had just landed and
she’s waiting over at the field hospital for you now!”
The sergeant, noting the ring of truth in the other man’s voice and the
look of sincerity plainly visible upon his face, threw his arms about
Steve and shouted for joy, forgetting all about his much-needed rest and
the fatiguing work of the past two days.
“Cut it out!” Graham demanded, breaking loose with much difficulty from
Panama’s embrace. “Save that for your nursie.”
Williams thanked Steve again and again, telling him to run back to the
field hospital and explain to Elinor that he would be along in a few
moments. As the boy started back, he threw the tent flaps apart and
boisterously entered.
As his eyes fell upon Lefty decked out in full dress uniform, he stopped
cold in surprise, believing the boy to be either drunk or part loco.
“Where do you think you’re goin’, all dolled up like Mrs. Astor’s pet
horse?”
“What do you mean?” Lefty asked without looking up.
“The dress uniform, here in Nicaragua, during a campaign! What’s the
idea?”
“I’m going out!”
“Where?”
“Just out!”
“In that get-up?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Nothing—only, well, it ain’t being done!”
“Then I’ll be different!” the boy announced in the same crisp fashion.
“Got a date?” Panama persisted in questioning, merely because Lefty’s
strange attitude was worrying him.
“I’m going to town!”
“Got permission?”
“Don’t need any! I’m going, that’s enough. If anybody don’t like it,
they can lump it!”
“Oh, yes sez you!”
“Oh, yes sez I!”
Panama made no attempt to continue the debate, primarily because he
believed it was useless to argue with a man in such a set frame of mind,
then, there was Elinor, waiting for him, probably as impatient to see
him as he was to get there.
“What do you think, kid,” he began, hoping to pull the boy out of the
dumps, never for the moment realizing that what he was about to say
would only make Lefty feel all the worse, “Elinor’s here! Can you
imagine it? She’s over at the field hospital waiting for me! Sent Steve
to tell me to shake a leg. Me for a wash! Whereinell’s that basin gone?”
Phelps remained silent though he walked over to a small box near his cot
and picked up the basin, handing it to Panama.
“Maybe I ain’t got much of a face,” the happy sergeant speculated as he
poured some water from a bucket into the basin, “but I stand a better
chance gettin’ by if it’s clean!”
Lefty sat down on the edge of his cot only to have to get up again to
hand Panama (now dripping wet and blind from soap suds) the towel. Once
dry, the sergeant tore out of his greasy flying togs, into a clean
blouse and fatigue trousers, halted now through his usual difficulty in
tying his black tie.
“Be a good guy, Lef,” he asked, “and tie this darn thing for me, will
ya?”
As Lefty silently complied by rising and facing his loquacious friend,
Williams continued to ramble on, “Say, did you know she was down here?”
Lefty nodded in affirmation, proceeding with his task.
“Didja see her yet?”
“Yeah!”
“Did she ask about me?” Panama now inquired with eagerness.
“For gosh sakes alive, will you hold still?” Lefty barked impatiently,
“how am I going to tie this gadget if you keep on yapping?”
Williams remained silent after that, a trifle hurt over Lefty’s apparent
indifference insofar as his romance was concerned. When the boy had
finally tied a knot, Panama sheepishly dug down into the pocket of his
trousers and brought forth a small diamond ring, holding it in the palm
of his outstretched hand in full view.
“I’ve been trying for six months to get up enough courage to give this
to Elinor. Somehow, I always get tongue-tied just at the very moment I
feel set to pop the question.”
Lefty walked away impatiently to the farthest end of the tent and
sprawled out on a box, picking up an old magazine. “Ain’t that too bad?”
he said, mockingly.
“Yeah—but I’m goin’ to put it on her little finger to-night or bust,
sure!”
“Aw, shut up, will you?”
Panama was completely taken back by Lefty’s antagonistic attitude and
for a moment, he gazed at the boy with a puzzled expression, finally
asking, “Whatinell’s the matter with you, anyway?”
“Nothing!”
“Somethin’ is eatin’ you—what is it?”
“I said, nothing was the matter!” Lefty snapped, no longer attempting to
hide his growing resentment. He rose, picked up his white cap and walked
to the forward end of the tent, his passage now blocked by Panama who
stepped before him.
“Say, where do you think you’re going, Sheik?”
“Aw, what do you care?” Lefty growled, with an effort to push past the
sergeant.
This attitude was all that Panama needed to make him forget his interest
in the boy as a matter of friendship and once more bring to life the
hard-boiled, bossy top kick.
“Wait a minute, there, bozo,” he commanded. “I know what’s on your mind.
You think you’re goin’ down to that local gin mill and get all
illuminated, but you ain’t! You know that there is an order forbidding
us to mix with the natives. Now, take off that coat and hat. I’m goin’
to give you somethin’ to keep you busy!”
“Not to-night!” Lefty protested.
“Yeah, to-night, right now,” Panama said, pulling out some papers and
handing them to the boy. “Make out these reports for me and stay here!
Savvy?”
Lefty didn’t venture to reply but sat down, holding the reports, mutely
acknowledging the other’s authority as Panama picked up his hat and
started out, returning in a moment and gazing at the boy, mistaking
Phelps’ attitude for one of heartsickness caused by military failure.
His entire demeanor suddenly changed to one of softness and
understanding.
“Listen, kid, forget that crackup,” he said, in a warm manner of
friendship, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I know you want
to fly, and you’ll get your chance. Now, listen. You’re a clean guy.
Don’t go down and get mixed up with a lot of rotten dames, it ain’t
worth it and you’re not foolin’ no one but yourself. Keep decent, that’s
the thing to do! Everything is bound to turn out all right!”
Lefty listened to this advice attentively, though he refrained from
looking up.
Panama waited a moment for some sort of response but there was none
forthcoming.
“Come on, kid, don’t be a sap and ruin all your chances because you
happen to be in the dumps just now!”
This entreaty had no more effect upon the boy than the others. He
continued to sit on the edge of the cot without speaking, gazing at the
floor as he toyed with the papers he was holding in his hands.
“Lefty, you ain’t goin’ down there, are you, kid?” Panama questioned
with deep concern. “What do you say, soldier? You ain’t goin’ to that
filthy joint and get in a jam with a lot of dirty, brown-skinned molls
what ain’t worth it, are you?”
The boy brushed Panama’s hand from off his shoulder, rose and without
offering a reply, dropped his hat on the cot behind him and slowly
unbuttoned his coat, making no attempt to conceal his adversity to this
procedure.
Panama, in turn, was overjoyed over the boy’s easy submission to his
will and began an attempt to lift him out of the dumps by pulling off
his tie and mussing his hair. Lefty held out as long as he could, then
unable to continue his indifference toward the man whom he loved as a
brother, he responded to the sergeant’s rough-house foolery by knocking
off Panama’s hat and pulling his tie.
This was exactly the state of mind Williams had been striving to pull
the boy into and he went for Lefty with all of the playful enthusiasm he
possessed. In a moment, the two men were rolling over the floor, in
typical soldier fashion, laughing lustily as they pulled at each other’s
clothes.
After he had forcibly undressed the boy and once more brought him around
to his usual happy frame of mind, Panama rose, breathing hard, his
cheeks flushed from the friendly encounter and his eyes flashing with
enthusiasm.
“You got me in a fine shape to see my girl,” he said as he began to
straighten out his ruffled uniform and brush back his hair.
Lefty picked up a shoe and threw it at him with Williams just ducking in
time as he picked up his hat and ran out. In a moment he was back again,
watching the boy straighten things up around the tent.
“You ain’t goin’ out, are you, kid?”
“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t?”
“Sure, only I wanted to be positive, that’s all,” Panama explained with
a ring of apology in his voice. “Guys like us, trying to be somebody in
this here flyin’ racket, shouldn’t bother with women anyway.”
“I guess you’re right,” Phelps agreed, though secretly amused.
“Sure I am!” Panama reiterated, and then remembering what he came back
into the tent for, asked somewhat sheepishly, “say, you ain’t got five
bucks till pay day, have you?”
“Sure!” Lefty replied, reaching into his wallet and bringing forth a
bill. “What do you want it for?”
Panama was at first reluctant to reply as Lefty watched him, amusedly,
then at length, after pocketing the money, he managed to say: “Well—er—I
don’t like to meet Elinor when I’m broke. You know how it is with the
dames—they get such a funny idea of a guy when he ain’t got any dough.
Play safe, that’s my motto, kid!”