The representative from the Navy Department turned and faced the Lieutenant Colonel, interrupting with the explanation: “It is almost impossible to suppress Sandino and his bandits with land forces due to the nature of the country.”
“So I have been informed,” the Chief of Aviation replied. “It is a hilly and dangerous country, certain death to any invader unfamiliar with the lay of the land.”
The Major General rested back in his chair. A tired, care-worn look plainly overshadowed his face. Due to the trying events of the past few weeks, he had aged considerably. In his heart, he wished the whole unpleasant mess would suddenly come to an end.
“Have you a squadron prepared to depart immediately?” he asked the Lieutenant Colonel.
“Yes, sir. Observation Squadron Ten is available at once.”
The Major General smiled complacently as his mind recollected some of the past glorious deeds of the pride of the Marine air forces, Observation Squadron Ten. He raised himself in his chair, once more alive with active interest.
“The Flying Devils—that outfit can go anywhere! What will be their route, Colonel?”
The Air Chief rose, crossed the room to a case and returned with a large map, spreading it out upon the table so that all might view the course of his finger.
The men, attentive to detail, moved forward in their chairs as the Lieutenant Colonel pointed to a spot on the map.
“They will fly from Quantico to Pensacola and refuel there,” he explained as his finger followed the proposed route across the map. “A member of the Squadron, Sergeant Williams, is temporarily assigned to that base as a flying instructor. He will rejoin his regular unit and their next hop will be to Havana, then to Honduras and from there it will be only one short jump to Managua.”