Yet not a man questioned their skipper’s decision. Each one was ready to back up Barry’s judgment with his life. The crew of Sweet Rosy O’Grady would remain a smoothly functioning unit as long as it existed.
Barry’s second landing was as careful as his first. Rolling as near to the burning bomber as he dared, he set the brakes, and followed Hap Newton through the hatch. The man they had come to rescue was sitting up about fifty yards away.
“It’s Crayle, the yellow pup!” Hap grated.
“It would be!” Chick bitterly exclaimed. “I always knew a hot pilot of his stripe would be a quitter when the real test came.”
Barry Blake said nothing as he helped his crew turn the plane around for a quick take-off. He was wondering whether Crayle’s dazed manner was real or faked. A trickle of blood from the pilot’s forehead suggested a head wound. The man was mumbling unintelligibly when they reached him.
Barry’s fingers quickly explored the gash in the injured man’s scalp. Crayle winced but voiced no protest. The wound, Barry found, was no more than a shallow cut. Nowhere else on Crayle’s clothing did he see any sign of blood.
“Shell-shocked,” was the young skipper’s verdict. “His mind has snapped, fellows. Maybe he’ll get over it shortly, but just now we’ll have to treat him like a baby. Help me carry him back to the plane, Hap.”
“Let me, Skipper!” Fred Marmon said, taking Barry’s place. “I’ve been feeling useless ever since that Mitsubishi torched down.”
Despite their awkward burden, they broke into a run, conscious that any second might bring the snarling of Zero engines overhead, and a hail of tracer bullets. Barry, first into the belly hatch, turned to lift Crayle’s shoulders through the low door. Mickey Rourke, the last man, glanced up before ducking inside.
“Here they come, sir!” he cried, as he dived through the opening. “Five Zeros, flying low from Tanimbar.”