Jungle dinner over, the doctor took charge of Jimmie. He discovered an arm out of its socket, a cracked rib, and a badly bruised leg that, after all, was not broken. When these injuries had been cared for, they all rolled up in their blankets and slept while dusky forms took turns at watching through the night.
Just after dark on that same day Pete came bursting into the colonel’s temporary headquarters, a deserted roadside store—a full fifty miles inside Burma.
Isabelle, who sat typing orders, looked up wearily to say:
“Did you want to see—” She broke off short to exclaim, “Pete! It’s you!”
“Who else?” Pete grinned. “The colonel sent for me. He wants to see me.”
“Does he? Then come on in here.” She led him to an improvised washroom where a wooden tub full of water awaited him.
“Dust an inch thick on your face and caked with blood at that,” she grumbled. “And your hair’s a mess.”
“They blowed my hat off and my rose! Blast ’em!”
“Never mind that. Duck your head,” she commanded.
When she had scrubbed his neck and hair she rubbed him down good with a coarse towel.