Shaded by large tropical trees, it was difficult for anyone flying overhead to penetrate through the thick foliage and see below to the swamp, but because of Steve’s weakened condition and Lefty’s refusal to leave his comrade, the men stuck it out, hoping against hope that somehow, some way they would be rescued.
For days, Graham lay upon the remains of the plane’s lower wing with the upper part shading him from the sun, a helpless, dying shadow of what was once a man, tortured inwardly from a severe, untreated wound and outwardly by thousands of mosquitoes and biting ants.
Lefty sat beside him, filthy and red with insect bites, his clothing tom to shreds due to journeys through the bushes in search of food.
“Do you feel any better, Steve?” he asked, as the same time shooing a swarm of mosquitoes away from the stricken boy’s face. “Do you think maybe I could carry you?”
The wounded pilot gazed up at his companion with a grateful look and attempted to smile weakly.
“It ain’t no use, kid! You know, the old back is pretty bad. Why don’t you beat it, though? There is a chance you might make it if you went alone. We’ve been here a whole week. They’ll never find us now.”
Lefty rose with an air of impatience and walked away, extremely hurt over the other man’s suggestion that he quit.
“Aw, don’t be a chump!”
Steve raised himself with much difficulty and rested his entire weight upon his elbow. He lifted the index finger of his other hand and motioned to the boy. “Come here, Lef,” he called, “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Phelps turned back and sat down once more beside the other man, fanning him with his hat and brushing away some flies.