“Who says so?” the lieutenant demanded to know, without any attempt to conceal his indignation. “I’m still in command here! Sergeant, take Shorty in first. His foot needs dressing.”
Shorty, a kindly little fellow seated on the ground, unable to walk because of a dangerously infected foot, protested vehemently over the lieutenant’s orders, insisting that he was in better physical condition than any man among the group of survivors.
“Why, you can’t even stand up on your feet!” Baker answered with a tinge of derision in his voice.
“I can stand on one foot!” insisted the plucky little Marine, “and that’s more’n you can do!”
A faint hit of color came to the lieutenant’s pallid cheeks as he struggled to, lift his head again. “How dare you resort to insolence in the presence of your superior?”
“But I don’t want to go!” Shorty bewailed futilely. “Let him take you in first and then he can come back for me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Baker called out, angrily. “I’m boss here and you’ll take orders!”
“Well, I think I’m entitled to say when, where and how I’m to be rescued,” speculated the obdurate little fellow, “and I ain’t going back now!”
“When I get you back there, I’ll have you court-martialed on nine different counts!” Baker threatened.
Shorty smiled and winked to Panama, who was standing up in the cockpit, completely obfuscated over the stubbornness of two hungry, sick men, arguing as to who should be saved first.