He looked to the pilot of the plane on the other side of him and held up two fingers questioningly, signifying in the hand signaling parlance of the air, “Where is the missing plane?”
The skipper of the other ship shrugged his shoulders, indicating his lack of knowledge of the absent airplane’s whereabouts.
Panama watched the gas gauge that indicated their fuel was running low. He touched the shoulder of the commander in front of him and pointed to the gauge. Harding gazed at his watch and, after slight deliberation, gave the signal to swing the planes toward Managua.
In less than an hour, they were flying over the field of the Marine base, then circling in formation before landing.
When the ships had taxied into position and the motors again became silent, Harding jumped from the cockpit as Panama and the other pilots and observers gathered about him.
“Did anyone see what happened to Graham and Phelps?” he asked with an uncertain ring of anxiety in his voice.
The men of his command shook their heads in grim ignorance of the missing Marines’ whereabouts.
“Last I saw of them,” one of the pilots explained, “they were chasing a gang of greasers down a gulley!”
“Our gas was too low to make a search,” Harding announced, “but somebody’s got to go back now. Who’ll volunteer?”
No sooner had the major asked for a searching party than every man in the squadron, except Panama, stepped forward.