The trail was easy to follow in the moonlight. It followed the creek for about a mile, and ended at the edge of a huge open space. This had been, a few hours before, the Jap airfield. Now, in the dim light, the place looked more like the cratered landscape of the moon than anything on earth.

“There,” said Soapy Babbitt, pointing to a heap of coral blocks and rubble, “must be what’s left of the operations building. Probably the radio was there, too.”

“What happened to the planes?” queried Chick Enders. “There must have been a lot of ’em caught on the ground, but I can’t see more than two or three wrecks from here.”

“I guess our bombs pulverized them,” Fred Marmon said. “Boy! That blitz certainly was thorough. It’s hard to see how any Japs lived through it.”

“Some of the barrack buildings around the edge of the field escaped the worst of the bombing, no doubt,” Barry Blake observed. “We’ll circle the place now and see if anything is left. Keep your pistols ready, fellows. If there should be any wounded Japs left, they’ll open fire on us.”

Blasted, leafless trees that rimmed the field bore ghastly witness to the size of the bombs. Moonlight made the scene of destruction more horrible, with shadows that both concealed and exaggerated. Several times the searchers stumbled on fragments of bomb-torn corpses.

One end of the field showed fewer bomb craters. It was here that a number of Mitsubishi bombers had been lined up when the blitz opened. Either they had been left there for servicing, or the Japs had felt so secure that they didn’t bother to scatter their planes around the field at dispersal points.

At first glance most of the bombers seemed to be intact. If that were the case, a guard might have been left with them. So as not to walk into a trap, Barry led his men into the jungle and approached the line-up from the rear.

Two hundred feet back in the bush he came upon a frame building that sagged drunkenly as if a giant hand had given it a push. The tin roof had been blown off, and now lay upside down on a group of flattened tents. The building had evidently quartered Jap officers, while the tents served as shelters for the enlisted personnel. There was no sign of life in any of them—only half a dozen Japs killed by shrapnel.

The planes, too, were unguarded. On closer inspection they proved to be hopeless wrecks. Fragmentation bombs had riddled the bombers with shrapnel holes, torn off wings, ripped the thin-skinned fuselages. Strangely enough, only two ships at one end of the line had burned.

“No wonder the Nip survivors cleared out!” Curly Levitt remarked. “There aren’t enough usable parts in the whole line-up to build half a plane, so far as I can see. Let’s cut a mast for the catamaran, and get back to the beach, skipper.”

Barry Blake did not move. Deep in thought, he stood staring at the nearest bomber, which leaned crazily on one wheel and one wing tip.

The plane’s left aileron dangled loosely. Its tail fin was smashed, and one of the elevators was gone completely. Great holes showed in the fuselage. The greenhouse was broken in. Yet something about the wreck appeared to fascinate the young pilot.

“Curly,” he said soberly, “you’ve given me an idea. We can build a plane with these parts, if the Japs will give us time. A few shell holes are nothing if the crate will fly. You fellows beat it back to the beach and bring the others here. We’ll rig up sleeping quarters for tonight and begin work at crack of dawn.... Fred, you stay here with me. We’ll start looking these planes over now, by moonlight. It will save time.”

If the others had doubts that Barry’s scheme would work, they failed to mention them. The idea of flying home appealed so powerfully to their minds that they would have backed a one-in-twenty chance of success. They headed for the creek trail in high spirits.

When they returned, an hour later, Barry had good news to tell the whole company. He and Fred had found two Mitsubishi bombers with engines apparently unhurt and wings not too badly damaged, though the tail assemblies, fuselages and undercarriages were in sad shape. A greater surprise was a two-place Kawasaki fighter. Its greenhouse and rear fuselage were full of holes, but its working parts were undamaged.

“Hap, you can take off first in that Kawasaki with the two ladies,” Barry told his co-pilot. “The rest of us can rebuild one of the bombers and follow you in a day or two. Finding that fighter plane is a better break than anything we’ve had yet.”

“Humph!” snorted the bigger man. “It might be—if you could find somebody else to fly it. But even then I have a hunch the girls would make trouble. Claire wouldn’t leave without her father, and Dora wouldn’t leave without Claire. Of course neither Chick nor Curly nor I would leave without you, and nobody else except Crayle knows enough to handle a plane; and so—”

“Oh, drive it in the hangar, will you, Hap!” Barry said with a wry grin. “I know when I’m licked. We’ll all have to wait till one of the Mitsus is fixed, I suppose—and just hope that the Japs won’t be back before we get off. Come on—let’s see what sort of chow and sleeping equipment the Japs have left us.”

In the Jap officers’ wrecked quarters they discovered a flashlight, and with its help located other things. There were enough iron cot beds and fairly clean bedding to supply all the white members of the party. Best of all, there was plenty of mosquito netting.

The islanders found all they needed in the flattened tents. A quantity of canned beef and vegetables was also located, but everyone was too weary to think of preparing food. As soon as three of the tents could be set up the whole crowd turned in to sleep.

The next four days and nights were one long, frantic battle against time, heat, and mechanical difficulties that only desperate men could have solved. The men snatched an hour or two of sleep when they could no longer keep awake. Even Crayle worked at filling in shell holes to make a runway—not willingly, but in fear of punishment.

The man’s reason was so warped that he regarded everyone with a sullen hatred. If he could have laid hands on a gun, anything might have happened. His companions realized this and took special precautions.

Nanu, the wounded native, was made custodian of the tommy-gun while Mickey Rourke was working. His instructions were to shoot Crayle rather than let him come near the weapon. The shell-shocked pilot was sane enough to realize that Nanu would obey orders to the letter. He made no open break, but his eyes never lost their cunning look.

The repairs to the least-damaged Mitsubishi were completed by Fred, Soapy, and the two Fortress pilots within three days. As the work neared completion, the four men erected a camouflage of wreckage above their plane, supporting the junk on a framework of poles. To a Jap pilot flying overhead the restored Mitsu would be visible only as another hopeless ruin.

At last the repair job was finished—even the radio which they dared not test. The weary mechanics filled the big bomber’s gas tanks with fuel from other wrecks. They tested her engines and that of the Kawasaki fighter.

It was planned that Hap Newton should fly alone in the latter. Reaching Darwin a little ahead of the Mitsubishi, he would take the risky job of identifying himself. Once landed, he would prepare the airport’s defenders for his friends’ arrival in a Jap bombing plane.

One more day was needed to smooth a runway long enough for the bomber’s take-off. The thirteen able-bodied members of the party worked feverishly, with shovels improvised from pieces of wreckage, to fill in the last gaping bomb craters. The knowledge that at any time the Japs might return in force was a spur to their bone-tired bodies. Only Glenn Crayle stalled, when he thought he was not observed.

By mid-afternoon one unfilled crater stood between them and freedom, and the workers, except Crayle, were all at the point of exhaustion.

“We’ll lay off for an hour, friends,” Barry Blake croaked, as he wiped a dirty hand across his forehead. “Can’t afford to break down with success almost in sight. A cool drink and a rest will help us to finish the job by night....”

He broke off as a distant hum of engines grew on the air.

“Planes coming!” he yelled. “Take cover!”

Dropping their tools, the little crowd staggered into the sheltering bush. As they flung themselves down, a squadron of Mitsubishis sailed into view. At twenty-thousand feet, they looked like small silver flying fish.

Probably, Barry thought, they were scanning the island for signs of enemy activity. He wondered if they would notice the smooth strip at the edge of the bomb-pocked field.

He was not left long in doubt. Three of the bombers peeled off and circled down in wide, slow spirals. They were wary, those Jap pilots, of another Guadalcanal-style occupation. The newly smoothed runway strip must have looked to them exceedingly suspicious.

A shout from Nanu at the other end of the runway rang above the droning of enemy engines. There was alarm in it, and pain. A cry from Dora Wilcox echoed it.

Barry sprang to his feet and raced through the bush, in the direction of the planes. Behind him he could hear his crew panting.

Their progress was maddeningly slow, yet they dared not leave the bush. Once the enemy planes guessed their identity bullets would fly, and bombs would fall.

“Crayle’s grabbed the tommy-gun, I’ll bet,” Chick Enders gasped as he fought to keep up with Barry. “The idiot would pick a time like this. Oh-oh! There he is—in the—uh—Kawasaki!”

The bomber’s team halted as Crayle saw them and swung his sub-machine gun to cover them.

“Stay back!” he warned hysterically. “You can’t keep me here on the ground while they’re dropping bombs on us. I’ll kill you if you come another step.... You, Nanu—walk that propeller around once again, or I’ll kill you, too. Turn it, you fool!”

Nanu, sweating with the pain of his injured leg, grasped the Kawasaki’s propeller and leaned his weight on it. Off balance, he slipped to his knees. The fall probably saved his life, for at that moment the engine coughed into life.

Crayle did not wait for the engine to warm up.... Scarcely had Nanu dragged himself out of the way of the wheels when they rolled forward. The Kawasaki rushed down the runway trailing a cloud of dust. Her tail came up. Then, just as she reached the end of the strip something went wrong.

Either the plane had not gathered sufficient speed, or Crayle failed to ease back on the stick soon enough. Instead of rising, the wheels struck the far edge of the unfilled bomb crater. The Kawasaki went end over end, with a rending crash.

Fire burst from the center section. The whole plane exploded in a giant bloom of flame. Above it the Jap bombers zoomed, and spiralled upward to join their formation. The Kawasaki’s futile attempt to take off had at least convinced them that the field was not in enemy hands.

Barry turned around to find Dora and Claire Barrows bandaging Nanu’s re-opened wound. They appeared far more concerned over the suffering native boy than about Glenn Crayle’s flaming death.

“How soon do you think we can get Nanu to a hospital, Barry?” the girl missionary queried anxiously. “This new loss of blood is likely to bring on a fever, and we haven’t a thing to treat it with.”

The young skipper looked toward the Kawasaki’s wreckage, blazing on the other side of the last bomb crater.

“We’ll have that hole filled before midnight, Dora,” he said wearily. “It will have to be Glenn Crayle’s grave. When the earth is smoothed down and the burned plane is hauled aside, there should be enough runway for the bomber. We’ll take off at dawn, and be over Port Darwin in two hours—if we’re not intercepted.”

At breakfast time the next morning an excited radio officer telephoned the O.C. at Port Darwin airfield.

“Message just received for you, sir,” he reported. “It purports to be sent by Lieutenant Barry Blake of the United States Army Air Forces, who’s been missing since the raid on Amboina. He says he is flying a Mitsubishi bomber with his B-26 crew and seven refugees aboard and asks permission to come in.”

“Barry Blake!” exclaimed the Australian colonel. “I should know that name. There’s a Yankee captain having breakfast with me, who’s been talking of little else. He came here with a fantastic notion that Blake would pop up sooner or later. We’ll jog down to the radio room and let Captain Tex O’Grady identify your mysterious pilot.”

Not a trace of fog obscured the Australian coast as Barry Blake picked out the rugged mass of Melville Island. The Mitsu’s patched wings glinted like silver in the early sunlight. Landing should be easy, but before giving permission, the O.C. had insisted on identifying the bomber’s crew by their voices. The Jap radio was tuned on the port’s wave length.

Without warning Tex O’Grady’s voice rang in the crew’s earphones.

“Dawg-gone you, Barry,” it said. “Where did you Fortress men get the idea that you could desert Sweet Rosy O’Grady and go gallivanting off with a silly little B-26? No wonder you-all had to come home in a Jap crate! What happened, anyway?”

“Skipper!” Barry shouted joyfully. “Where are you—at Port Darwin? What brought you here—”

“It’s the Old Man himself!” gasped Curly Levitt.

“Captain!” yelped Fred Marmon. “How are you, sir? And what’s the good news?”

“Reef back, boys!” Tex O’Grady’s humorous drawl answered them. “I’m not answering questions until you come in and we have a chance to talk. But the news is this: Your part in finding and helping to smash the big Jap flotilla off New Guinea has won Barry a captain’s bars and the rest some decorations. And here’s the best little item of all, I reckon....”

He paused briefly, as if trying to control a new huskiness in his speech.

“You boys,” he continued, “have drawn a thirty-day furlough, and we’re all going—going home to the States in Sweet Rosy O’Grady, as soon as she’s patched up enough to make the trip. Here’s Colonel Raymond with a word you’ve been waiting for.”

Barry’s head felt queerly light, and the mention of “home” had brought a lump to his throat that would not go down. As if from a great distance he heard a strange voice speaking.

“Permission to land is herewith granted,” the Australian O.C. said. “And may all your future landings be as happy as this one, Captain Barry Blake of the Flying Fortress!”