Braving the flames that seared his face, hands and arms, Williams smashed in the side of the fuselage in a supreme effort to rescue Lefty from this death furnace.
Unmindful of his own severe burns, he dragged the unconscious boy through the hole he had made in the side of the fuselage, almost overcome now himself from the deadly gas fumes.
The two men in white from the ambulance ran forward with a stretcher and lifted the boy on to it as Panama watched eagerly for a sign of life.
“Is he—he hurt bad?” Williams asked the ambulance men.
“Can’t say how bad,” one of the doctors replied, “I think you had better hop in yourself and come along with us. Those burns on your face and hands don’t seem to help you remain in condition.”
“I’m Okay. Just hustle him along as quickly as you can,” Panama said in a manner of dismissal, just as an official car pulled up and the flying instruction major got out.
“Sergeant, I thought you said that man was ready to fly?”
Panama’s eyes rested on his dust-covered shoe tops, remembering that the major had placed the responsibility of Lefty’s flight upon his shoulders.
“He’s been an excellent student, sir. I considered him ready to go. Something must have rattled him but he’ll do better next time.”
“There won’t be any next time,” the major announced curtly. “We can’t afford to have any more exhibitions such as this. He’s through!”