Jack heaved a sigh of relief. So they spoke English! They must be okay. At that he stepped boldly out from the brush and walked straight toward the plane. The man in the cockpit was bent over working on something. He did not raise his head until Jack was within three yards of the plane. When he did look up, he started at the sight of Jack. His figure stiffened. His right hand dropped.
“Stand where you are!” he commanded. “Who are you? What do you want? And how did you come here?” The man spoke with a decided accent.
“My uniform should tell you what I am,” Jack replied evenly.
“In war, uniforms mean nothing!” the man snapped. His gray eyes matched the gray of the bushy hair about his temples. He was no longer young. Between his eyes were two lines that told of work and strain.
“I’m sorry.” Jack apologized. “I had no intention of startling you. I’m an American fighter pilot, whether you believe it or not. I was shot down nearly two days ago and floated ashore here.”
“That’s okay, son.” The man’s smile was not unfriendly. His accent, Jack thought, made him English or Australian. “We have to be careful, that’s all. This plane is a secret weapon.”
“It must be,” Jack grinned. “I never before saw one that burned kerosene, had no propeller, and yet went like the wind.”
“Of course not,” the man admitted. “There aren’t a dozen of them in the world.”
“May I look at it?” Jack took a step forward.
“Not a glance. Stay where you are.” The man’s lips formed a straight line. “We’re not allowed to show anything. In fact, you’re too close right now.”