They shaded their eyes from the blinding glare of the sun with their hands and gazed heavenward, searching the clear blue sky for huge, dark objects flying toward the south and Managua.
At that moment, two thousand feet above, the planes of the Tenth Marine Aero Squadron appeared over the ridge of Los Agualo, flying in the direction of the capital in battle formation.
“It’s the Marines—our planes!” shouted the sergeant, jumping to his feet and waving his hands frantically above his head as the others rose and followed suit.
“Them’s the planes what dey told us wuz coming,” the tall, lanky leatherneck yelled enthusiastically.
“Do you think they see us down here?” the little, sandy-haired Marine asked the big fellow who was standing alongside of him.
“Sure they do! Don’t we see them?”
“Well,” the undersized leatherneck answered doubtfully, “why don’t they do something?”
“Whatinell do you want ’em to do—step out on the wings and throw kisses at you?”
Two thousand feet above ground, in the plane piloted by Panama, the sergeant and his mechanic, with faces grimed from oil and smoke, peered over the side of the ship, resting their eyes for the first time upon the hilly country below.
Panama held the joy stick between his knees as he took out a small white pad from the pocket of his windjammer and scribbling a note upon it, passed the message back to Lefty.