“No, sir!” Panama replied truthfully and then turning, pointed out the bullet holes in the side of the fuselage and the struts that were lashed with sapling. “Do you see what I had to do?”
“That was fine work,” the major announced with pride. “I am going to recommend you for a medal for bringing in those wounded men!”
Panama grinned sheepishly, making a sincere effort to pass off Harding’s promise and compliment lightly. They shook hands and saluted, the major continuing his stroll, leaving the sergeant standing alone.
As he unbuttoned his windjammer and pulled off the Gasborne helmet, Panama’s eyes caught sight of Steve Graham (recently made a corporal), carrying a bucket of water.
“Bring that over here,” he shouted jovially, and the once ostentatious would-be flyer complied without making any comment. He merely stood by and lighted a cigarette as Panama reached for the dipper and drank several refreshing cups full of water, pouring the remainder left in the bucket over his head.
“Any letters for me?” he inquired of Graham as he stood, dripping wet, wiping the water out of his eyes.
Steve shook his head impatiently. “I told you every day for the past week—‘no!’ Look’s like you got the air.”
Still in a good humor, though inwardly disappointed over Elinor’s failure to answer his recent letters, he reached down and picking up the empty bucket, slammed it over the astonished corporal’s head, emitting a loud roar of laughter and walking off toward the line of tents, leaving Steve struggling to release the bucket.
As Panama approached the company street where the tent was located that he and Lefty occupied, he heard the voices of several Marine flyers lifted in harmony. He smiled contentedly, for this was home to him. The grim, khaki-colored tents, standing like rows of silent ghosts; the songs of the Marine Corps brutally sung by dish-pan quartets, then a sudden foul oath emitted by an occupant of one of the tents, voices raised in argument over a card game or some other trivial matter; that was the only world he had known since the day he ran away from home to become one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers of the sea. It was his life, his love and his work and he was never so contented as when returning from an expedition during a campaign, knowing that his day’s labor had been well done.
He rambled along, through the narrow little street with rows of tents on each side, humming a popular song, dog-tired and ready to fall into a welcome and waiting cot.