When Steve awoke from his coma, it was late afternoon. He had been lying
there, silent and unconscious, for more than twelve hours.
He looked about for Lefty but the boy was nowhere in sight. An army of
vicious ants were crawling over his hands and legs, leaving large, ugly
and painful red welts in their wake.
The boy’s face became a contorted mass of fear and suffering as he
raised himself to his elbow and shouted the name of his companion.
At the sound of Steve’s voice, Lefty, who had been picking wild berries
from near-by bushes, came running back to the wrecked plane and bent
over beside the boy, brushing away the ants and wiping the perspiration
from his brow.
“Help me, help me, Lefty!” Steve cried out dismally, “I can’t stand it—I
can’t!”
The mechanic pulled the limp boy to the other side of the wing, placing
his own windjammer under Steve’s head as a pillow, leaving himself
exposed now to the swarm of crawling ants that were already upon the
sleeve of his shirt.
Steve’s eyes seemed to see something in the sky above and with every bit
of remaining strength left in his body, pulled at the other man’s arm
and shouted: “Lefty, look! There’s the planes—they’ve found us!”
Not without a sharp thrill of excitement, the other man raised his eyes
heavenward only to see a swarm of black buzzards flying over their
heads.
He turned away with keen disappointment, though attempting to hide his
feelings from Steve, whose eyes were still glued upon the birds of ill
omen.
“Look, Lefty, can’t you see? They’re circling us—they’re going to land!”
He noticed that the other man didn’t respond and, looking closer,
realized that what he believed to be planes were merely the
hallucinations of a fever-torn mind.
“I—I thought they were ships,” he whispered as he fell back on the
disabled wing, closing his eyes with a death-like relaxation that
startled the other boy.
“Steve, Steve!” Lefty cried, working to bring his buddy out of the
passive submission of physical defeat that had enveloped him, “don’t
give up; they’ll find us, sure!”
The sick man’s eyes fluttered open as they each gazed at one another for
a brief moment. The realization that the end was hovering near left the
two men with a morbid resignation of complacency registered upon their
faces.
“Remember what you promised,” Steve said a little above a whisper.
“Don’t let ’em get me! You know—the ship—I’d do the same for you!”
Lefty nodded grimly as his face took on an appearance of cold,
indifferent immobility. When he looked down again, Steve smiled up at
him, gasped and fell back, motionless. He lifted the man’s eyelids, felt
his pulse and listened for a sign of life as his ear rested against the
other’s heart.
All was over—it was Taps for the pilot and Phelps braced himself for his
next ordeal as he covered the dead boy’s face with the windjammer.
What he was about to do, took a great deal of courage, but it was the
boy’s last wish and he braced himself for the ordeal with that belief in
mind.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and brought forth a match, striking
it and touching the flame to the canvas of the wing, just below the
boy’s head.
In a moment, the last rites for the dead man had been performed and the
remains of the plane, with its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of
flames.
[Illustration: The last rites performed, the remains of the plane, with
its silent pilot, disappeared in a burst of flames.]
As Panama flew over the deserted corral and across the mountain, he saw
a thin spiral of smoke rising through the tree tops just ahead.
The expression on his face changed to one of mingled fear and hope as he
flew nearer the spot from which the increasing volume of smoke came.
At that moment, the huge flames had just consumed the last of the plane
and its silent occupant, dying down now to a small blaze. Lefty, resting
upon his knees in silent, terrified meditation, raised his eyes to the
skies above just as the purr of an airplane motor reached his ears.
Panama spied the lone man and the burning plane at the same moment that
Lefty raised his eyes heavenward.
He studied the ground below, searching for a safe place to land, then
nosed toward earth and circled overhead before making a final decision.
Just over the mountain, two companies of the rebel army had returned to
the scene of their abject defeat at the hands of the Marines a week
before.
Their purpose was to reclaim their dead now that they were certain the
Marines had left that particular sector.
As they prepared to descend the steep mountain to the corral below, one
of them looked to the west and saw the spiral of smoke and the lone
plane with its nose turned earthward.
“Americano weeth bad motor, mebe?” one of the group said in broken
English.
The others smiled and, without further ado, turned in their tracks and
started up the mountain, prepared to open a surprise attack upon the
helpless airman going toward the swamps below.
Panama finally effected a landing in a spot not far from where Lefty was
standing, watching the pilot’s descent.
As the ship touched earth, the boy ran forward, his heart filled with
mute gratitude, though still unaware as to the identity of his rescuer.
The sergeant jumped out of the cockpit and inspected his landing gear,
pushing back his goggles for a better view just as the boy came up
alongside of the fuselage.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp crack was heard and Panama
fell to the ground, a victim from a bandit’s bullet.
The rebels were now lined up on the ridge of the mountain, prepared to
descend and after killing the other Marine, capture the plane.
Lefty swung about just as one of the Sandino followers raised his gun
and fired again, hitting the landing gear of the plane and knocking off
the hub of the right wheel.
The boy fell to the ground on all fours, unhurt as the rebels again
opened fire and the bullets flew wild, missing their mark.
Phelps smiled grimly and crawled over to where the motionless form of
Panama lay outstretched, over the cowling.
Master of a tense situation for the first time in his life, Lefty pulled
his rescuer down into the cockpit just as the bandits advanced and
opened fire again.
Without wasting a single moment, the boy whipped the machine gun of the
plane into place, made certain that the magazine was filled and then
trained it upon the line of approaching rebels, opening up wide and
spitting forth deadly fire in all directions, causing a host of
fatalities in the ranks of the bandits as, one by one, they toppled over
and fell down the side of the mountain to the swamps below.
Certain that he was free of at least the first line of the advancing
bandits, the boy jumped into the forward cockpit, swung the plane about,
and facing the few remaining rebels, gave the ship the gun, taxiing
forward, and smiting down the terror-stricken men before they had time
to run to a protective covering.
Taxiing his ship to a take-off, a look of grim determination appeared
upon the boy’s face that finally broke out in a broad smile of triumph
as the ship gained altitude.
He turned about and saw that Panama was just coming to, cognizant for
the first time that Lefty was piloting the plane.
“I did it!” the proud mechanic boasted over his successful feat in
making a perfect take-off, “I got her off the ground this time!”
Panama, despite the excruciating pain caused by the wound the rebels had
inflicted, smiled broadly and shouted: “Atta boy!”