The Marine’s prediction was correct, for just as the sun set over the mountain top to the west of the little river where the truck was imbedded, Lefty was but a half a mile away, driving a Ford repair car, loaded with four husky Marines besides himself.
Three weeks in the tropics had completely changed the once uncertain, overanxious boy into a calloused, self-assured man of the world, whose entire demeanor betrayed a devil-may-care attitude of total indifference.
Turning and addressing the men seated in the rear of the truck, he said with the usual anticipation of the inactive fighting man, “I hope there are some chic-looking nurses stranded out there!”
“Me too,” one of the others agreed with enthusiasm. “It’ll be a relief to see a white woman again, homely or otherwise!”
At that moment, the truck passed a couple of native girls who had stopped to look back after the American men in uniform. Lefty gazed over his shoulder and waved to them, smiling invitingly as he slowed down his speed.
The men in the rear jumped to their feet with concern, attempting to prevent the boy from giving the native women a lift.
“Hey, don’t you ever read orders?” one of them shouted. “You know men in the service aren’t allowed to mix with the natives!”
“What do I care about orders?” the boy asked with an air of defiance in his voice, though he reluctantly stepped on the gas, increasing the car’s speed, “I joined the Marines to become a flyer, not a truck driver!”
At that moment, the little car loaded with the squad of rescuers pulled up alongside of the river hank.
“Here they are now!” the driver of the imbedded truck shouted to the nurses who were drowsily napping on one another’s shoulders.