He rose and reached into the rear cockpit, bringing forth a large bundle which he clumsily opened, displaying a good quantity of food, cold tea, chocolate bars and cigarettes.
“Here you are, boys!” he shouted gayly. “The Flying Restaurant! Come and get it!”
The men didn’t have to be invited a second time. It had been many days since any of them had tasted food or enjoyed the fragrant aroma of a lighted cigarette.
“Who’s in command?” Panama asked a man standing by the fuselage, munching upon a piece of milk chocolate.
“Lieutenant Baker, but he’s too sick to get up.”
Williams cast a sweeping glance over the group, searching for the really bad cases as he explained that his orders were to return the men to the base, one at a time, and asking them to choose among themselves who would be the first to go.
With the announcement came an insistent chorus of replies, “Take the lieutenant back first!”
A little to the left of the plane, the pitiful, wan shell of a man lifted his head with every bit of effort he possessed, shaking his finger in a manner of objection.
“No—no—not me—I’m all right. Take one of the others!”
“But you’re all in, sir!” one of the boys protested.