That evening, two flying Marines, temporarily inactive, sat in wheel chairs in the cool and quiet ward of the base hospital that stood as a silent warning just south of the flying field.
“I feel sorry for that guy, but I can’t help but laugh,” one of them said, looking in the direction of the bed in which Lefty was sleeping. “He didn’t even take the ship off the ground.”
The other incapacitated Marine nodded good-naturedly. “I’m not so good but I did better than that. I got my plane off the ground but I couldn’t get it down!”
His companion signaled him to be quiet as Lefty showed signs of coming out of his long sleep.
As he slowly opened his eyes, Elinor and Panama entered the ward and walked directly to his bed, standing beside him.
“How do you feel?” Elinor asked as Lefty showed signs of recognition, and her hand gently stroked his bandaged head.
A look of abject pain crossed the weary boy’s face. “I did it again! I failed you both just as I failed Yale. Oh, I wish I’d been killed!”
“It’s all right; you mustn’t worry,” she consoled him. “You’ll come through with flying colors the next time.”
Panama tried to laugh and, forgetting Lefty’s condition, slapped him a resounding blow on the shoulder.
“Wait’ll you see that concrete wall—you certainly knocked hell out of it! I never saw anyone equal your speed!”