A week had passed without a single sign of Lefty, Steve or the missing
plane.
Every pilot had taken a hand in the search for the lost Marines but each
in turn finally gave up the hunt in despair as a hopeless task.
The only man who remained on the blind trail without a single lead was
Panama, who, with silent doggedness, flew over the jungle, through swamp
lands and across mountain tops night and day, grimly determined to bring
back his men dead or alive.
In a malaria-filled swamp, just behind the tall mountain range that
looked down upon the corral on the opposite side where the brave company
of Marines had met Sandino’s men seven days before, what was once an
airplane rested in an upright position with more than two feet of its
nose imbedded in the mud.
Shaded by large tropical trees, it was difficult for anyone flying
overhead to penetrate through the thick foliage and see below to the
swamp, but because of Steve’s weakened condition and Lefty’s refusal to
leave his comrade, the men stuck it out, hoping against hope that
somehow, some way they would be rescued.
For days, Graham lay upon the remains of the plane’s lower wing with the
upper part shading him from the sun, a helpless, dying shadow of what
was once a man, tortured inwardly from a severe, untreated wound and
outwardly by thousands of mosquitoes and biting ants.
Lefty sat beside him, filthy and red with insect bites, his clothing tom
to shreds due to journeys through the bushes in search of food.
“Do you feel any better, Steve?” he asked, as the same time shooing a
swarm of mosquitoes away from the stricken boy’s face. “Do you think
maybe I could carry you?”
The wounded pilot gazed up at his companion with a grateful look and
attempted to smile weakly.
“It ain’t no use, kid! You know, the old back is pretty bad. Why don’t
you beat it, though? There is a chance you might make it if you went
alone. We’ve been here a whole week. They’ll never find us now.”
Lefty rose with an air of impatience and walked away, extremely hurt
over the other man’s suggestion that he quit.
“Aw, don’t be a chump!”
Steve raised himself with much difficulty and rested his entire weight
upon his elbow. He lifted the index finger of his other hand and
motioned to the boy. “Come here, Lef,” he called, “I didn’t mean to hurt
you!”
Phelps turned back and sat down once more beside the other man, fanning
him with his hat and brushing away some flies.
“You know that runnin’ backward stuff?” Steve began. “I’m sorry that I
razzed you, kid. Don’t let anybody ever ride you again. Say, it’s hot,
ain’t it? I wish I had some water!”
Lefty reached for the canteen and held it up to the boy’s mouth but it
was empty.
“There’s a pool over behind them trees,” Steve said, “I can hear it
tricklin’ sometimes. Maybe the water ain’t bad there.”
Lefty picked up his helmet and raised himself to his feet. In a moment,
he had disappeared behind the bushes, leaving the wounded man a helpless
victim once more to the biting ants that again began to crawl over his
hands and face.
The mechanic found the pool, but like the other small outlets of water
about them, this one too was stagnant with filth and slime.
Without hesitation, he waded into the mud, bending over and looking at
the bad water, then brushing away the scum from the top and filling his
helmet to the brim.
Once more beside his friend, Phelps proceeded to bathe the boy’s head in
the lukewarm water as Graham opened his eyes and pleaded for a drink.
“You can’t have that stuff, Steve; it’s filthy.”
“I don’t care,” the boy begged. “Please gimme some!”
Feebly, the wounded man forced Lefty to relent and allow him to sip the
stagnant liquid from the helmet.
Completely resigned to the hopeless Fate that had enveloped them, Phelps
lifted the helmet to his lips, deciding to quench his own parched
thirst, irrespective of whatever the consequences might be.
Steve caught this action on the other man’s part just in time to knock
the helmet from Lefty’s hand, spilling the remains on the ground before
them.
“No, you don’t!” he warned. “That stuff can’t hurt me any more, but
you——”
He fell off into a coma without finishing his sentence. Lefty gazed down
upon him and picked up his helmet, slowly fanning the boy as he once
more went into a deep sleep.
At approximately the same time, Panama’s plane came to a landing at the
flying base.
He lifted his goggles and brushed the oil and dirt from his face with a
soiled handkerchief, then turning to the ground man standing beside the
fuselage, ordered: “Fill her up full this time!”
Major Harding, followed by Elinor and two members of his staff,
approached the ship, looking up at Williams and noting the tired, drawn
and wan expression plainly visible upon the man’s face.
“Better turn in,” the Major advised. “You need some sleep.”
“I’m afraid this search is becoming hopeless,” the adjutant added, much
to the consternation of the determined pilot still seated in the
cockpit.
“I’ve got to find them, sir!” Panama pleaded as he addressed the major,
“for more reasons than one!”
Harding shook his head slowly as a shadow of despair darkened his face.
“I’m afraid there isn’t a chance!”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” Williams asked, “I’d like to take one more
crack at it!”
The major accepted his top sergeant’s act of insubordination with an
admiring salute and turned away, leaving Elinor alone and trembling,
gazing up at the determined man in the plane.
“Oh, Panama, you don’t think it’s too late, do you?”
“Now don’t worry,” he struggled to reassure her. “I haven’t half looked
yet!”
“And you won’t give up, will you?”
“Me?” he asked, trying to hide his own anxiety from the girl’s searching
eyes. “Say, forget about it, will you?”
Elinor raised her hand and after a moment of hesitance, allowed her
fingers to touch the sleeve of the sergeant’s greasy windjammer.
“Panama,” she whispered in profound admiration, “you’re—you’re the
finest man in the whole world!”
He smiled grimly as his eyes closed, dreaming in despair of a happiness
that he knew could never be his.
“She’s filled to the brim!” the ground man announced, awakening Williams
from his brief moment of tranquillity, then yelling as he wound up the
motor: “Contact!”
Not daring to look at the girl, Panama gave the ship the gun and in
another moment, was taxiing down the broad field, once more embarked
upon his futile search for a man who, if he did find him, would be
delivered right into the arms of the woman they both loved more than
life.