“So you came instead?” Jimmie’s voice was low, friendly.
“Something like that,” she agreed.
“Tell me about the Cumberlands,” Jimmie begged. “I read books about them when I was a boy. They went like this: ‘He jerked a blue barrelled pistol from under his arm and whang! Whang! The desperado bit the dust.’”
“That’s not very accurate, but it will do,” Gale laughed. “Tell me more about Burma and the route you take,” she begged. “Then I’ll tell you about the Cumberlands. Turn about is fair play.”
“The Burma air trail,” he mused. “That’s the toughest trail there is in all the world. No kiddin’. The Burma air route is the worst there ever was. There’s one spot at the crest of that towering ridge that we call ‘Hell’s Half Hour.’ The rocks are like iron hands reaching up to slap you, and the gales come up without a moment’s warning to lift you and whirl you into the sky.
“Some of the boys have crashed there and have never been heard from again.” Jimmie’s voice went husky. “And some of them wandered for weeks in the trackless wilderness until some wild natives picked them up, fed them, and brought them in.
“And then there’s the desert,” he went on. “A forced landing there can mean anything from murder to suicide. But mostly we make it.” He drew a long breath. “I always have.
“But let me tell you one thing, sister.” His voice rose. “We’ll be mighty glad when you and the colonel have blazed the land trail across Burma to China and straight to Tokio. And there are signs.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “There are signs, sister.” His voice trailed off.
At that instant there came the sound of some slight movement at the back of the shelter. Quick as a flash Mac threw the gleam of his electric torch into that dark corner. Its gleam fell on the startled face of a little dark-complected man.
“The black dwarf,” Gale whispered. “He was there when we had that other air raid.”