CHAPTER XII
Within a half hour after “To the Colors” had been sounded and the men and officers at the flying base at Managua had retired to mess, the motor of a plane was heard over the field.
Major Harding, in command of the Tenth Squadron, had left the officers’ mess earlier than was his custom, to stroll alone before retiring. At the sound of the familiar purr of a pursuit plane, he raised his eyes in time to see Sergeant Williams’ plane circle the field and make a three-point landing just as a group of ground men ran forward to meet the ship taxiing toward them.
As the plane came to a stop, two ground men ran to the rear cockpit and carried out Lieutenant Baker, the last of the lost company of Marines that had been rescued, one by one, by Panama.
Tired from his long ordeal, dirty, greasy and covered with grime, Williams crawled out of his cockpit, weary of limb but mentally alive, proud of his daring accomplishment.
He meandered toward the barracks only to be met by the major who smiled generously upon the successful pilot.
After the two men had exchanged formal salutes, Harding placed his hand upon the shoulder of the noncom, in no way attempting to conceal his fondness for the man.
“You’ve earned a good rest, sergeant. I want to thank you for what you have done, but don’t let me keep you from your sleep.”
Panama smiled gratefully and pointed to the two ground men carrying Baker off on a make-shift stretcher in the direction of the field hospital. “That’s the last of them going in now!”
“I don’t think you’re any too sorry, are you, Williams?”