“That’s base ingratitude!” Curly retorted, applying the bandage. “I hope Soapy Babbitt is more appreciative when I fix him up. He got a smashed shoulder when the top turret was wrecked.”
As Curly left him, the full weight of his responsibility settled upon Barry’s mind. Had the Old Man been at the controls, Rosy O’Grady’s crippled condition would not have worried him particularly. If it were possible to bring a ship home on only one engine, Barry would have trusted his captain to do it.
Now, however, both the wounded plane and her wounded crew depended on him. With little more than training school experience, could he land them safely? As he struggled against such fears, Fred Marmon’s voice sounded in his ears.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Lieutenant,” the engineer announced. “The same burst of flak that jammed the bomb doors washed out the electrical system. Your landing flaps won’t work and your wheels won’t come down. Looks like we’ll all have to bail out and let Rosy crash.”
Barry’s first feeling was one of relief. Now, at least, he wouldn’t have to risk the lives of everybody aboard, landing a shot-up plane on a jungle field. But, wait! How about Old Man O’Grady? Even if somebody pulled the chute’s cord for him and dumped him out, the landing would kill him. A parachute lets you down with about the same shock you’d feel if you jumped out of a second story window. A half-dead man could never survive it, even if he didn’t land in the jungle and break his back.
“You men will bail out,” Barry said into the intercom mike. “When we get near the field, strap Captain O’Grady into his own seat, and pad him with your coats against the shock of a crackup. I’ll try to land Rosy on her belly without too much of a flop. It’s the Old Man’s only chance.”
The crew got that reasoning without any trouble.
“It makes me feel like a doggone coyote!” big Danny Hale muttered, turning to look at Barry. “My great gran’daddy didn’t leave the old Alamo, when it was sure death to stay. I reckon if he was in my place—”
“He’d obey orders, just as you’re going to do, Danny,” Barry Blake shot back at him. “I’m in command of this plane, while the Old Man is out. You and every other member of the crew will bail out when we reach the field. That’s final!”
“I agree absolutely, except on one point,” Curly’s voice chimed in. “You’re wounded, Lieutenant. It’s a miracle that you can fly a ship at all, with the beating you’ve had. It’s no reflection on your skill—or your grit—to say that you might go dizzy at the last minute of landing, and crack up. Now, I’ve had some flight training, enough to land belly-floppers on a soft field. Therefore it’s my place and not yours—”