Perhaps it was sixty seconds, or maybe it was sixty years before Dave felt the wheels touch, and was able to start braking the Vultee to a gentle stop. Only when the plane was motionless, and just the prop was ticking over, did he let the trapped air from his lungs. He did it with a long shrill whistle and wiped beads of cold sweat from his face.
“I think it’s safe to look, Freddy,” he said. “Is that the ground we’re resting on? Boy, oh boy! I’m still not sure whether I should believe it or not.”
“It’s true enough,” Freddy said, and gulped. “But how you ever made it, don’t ever ask! Very top-hole, just the same, Dave. One of the best bits of flying I ever saw you do. And I mean that, old thing!”
Dave wiped some more sweat from his face and legged out and down onto the ground.
“Thanks, pal,” he said. “But I did it by making believe it was you at the controls. Okay, let’s—”
Dave didn’t finish. At that moment came the agonized cry of an injured man through the trees.
“Help! Help! Over this way! Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Over this way—hurry...!”
Dave and Freddy simply glanced at each other. Then they spun around as one man and went plunging blindly back through the heavy valley growth.