“Spoken like a lawyer, Curly!” laughed the young co-pilot. “You’re a swell guy to offer, but it’s no go. So don’t argue. Just tell me when we’re nearing our base, and then help Fred bring the Old Man back to the cockpit.”
There was a little more discussion of the landing Barry would have to attempt, but nobody else protested. As soon as Soapy Babbitt was made as comfortable as he could be, the thermos jug of coffee was passed around. Barry forced himself to eat a little.
After a seemingly endless time Curly Levitt reported that he had warned the base by radio. The field would soon be in sight.
In the distance Barry recognized the New Guinea coastline. Now he picked out certain mountain landmarks that gave him the exact direction of the base.
“Bring the Old Man up front, fellows,” he said. “And then hook on your parachutes. We have about five minutes to go.”
The men worked fast. Captain O’Grady was still unconscious under the double effect of shock and the morphine that Curly had administered. The navigator and Fred Marmon handled him as tenderly as they could. The strapping was finished, and the men were back at the open bomb bay when Barry spotted the field. Big Danny Hale was gripping the zippered case that held his precious bomb-sight.
Barry tried to judge the proper moment for the first parachute jump. Twisting in the seat, he raised his hand.
Fred Marmon saluted, grinned, and dived headfirst into space. The others followed in quick succession. The bomber roared on, slowly circling the field. Far below, Barry counted six white ’chutes drifting toward the raw, brown slash in the jungle.
“They’re safe!” he murmured. “Wish I had a parachute for Sweet Rosy O’Grady, too!”
When the last ’chutist had landed, the young pilot nosed down and came in up-wind for his risky attempt. He cut the gun, fishtailed to kill speed. A Fortress’s wheels should touch the ground at ninety miles an hour, for a smooth landing; but Rosy couldn’t let down her wheels. A belly landing at ninety would be an ugly mess.