The air was filled with planes, droves of them, flying in formation, casting their shadows over the Marine Aviation Base at Pensacola, Florida, like a great body of locusts.

Suddenly, a lone pursuit plane flew over the field like a majestic eagle.

The pilot pushed the stick forward and the plane slowly glided down toward earth, an almost human thing, beautiful to gaze upon, graceful as a large bird and perfectly handled at the controls by an expert airman.

As the landing gears touched ground and the plane taxied along to the place where other ships stood idle, Lefty, who was standing with a group of newly arrived recruits, noticed the bold, red flying devil painted directly under the cockpit.

Presently the prize ship came to a stop and the familiar figure of Sergeant Panama Williams crawled out of the cockpit, attired in greasy, oil-stained flying togs.

As his feet once more touched ground, he handed his parachute to a waiting mechanic and reached into the pocket of his blouse for a chew of tobacco.

Lefty’s heart leaped with joy for here was a friend among this great, countless group of strange, indifferent enlisted men and officers.

Here was a man, the one person in all the world who had instilled a feeling of confidence within him when everyone else delighted in ridiculing his unfortunate play.

“That’s Sergeant Williams,” announced a corporal assigned to watch the new squad of rookies. “He’s the man who will instruct you fellows.”

Panama removed his Gasborne helmet and, in characteristic fashion, crossed the field to join a group of noncommissioned officers.

“Well, there’s a new batch of students over there, waiting for you, Panama,” a flying sergeant announced as Williams joined the group. “More students means more work.”

“And more headaches,” Williams added. Then turning to one of the other men, he said, “Bring that gang of frozen skulls over here.”

In a few moments, Panama was face to face with his latest proteges.

The recruits stood in a line, none daring to look their new sergeant squarely in the eye as Williams walked past them, studying each man and forming an opinion in his mind as to their individual characters and ability.

He stopped directly in front of a tall, thin, and somewhat stooped-shouldered individual with a pasty complexion and small, narrow eyes.

“What’s your name?” he snapped at the rookie.

“Steve Graham, sergy. What’s yours?”

Panama’s face grew livid with rage. He knew then and there that this would be one unfortunate who would learn a severe lesson in Marine conduct.

“Button your lip or I’ll close it for you!”

The sergeant’s words apparently had no effect upon the recruit for his lips parted in a challenging manner.

“I’ll bet you play a great game of pool,” Panama surmised sarcastically.

“You said it, kid,” Steve replied, not at all phased by the sergeant’s bulldozing tactics. “Do you?”

Panama’s eyes narrowed and he bit his lip, struggling with himself to keep from smashing a few teeth from this brazen newcomer’s flip mouth.

“You keep your trap shut or I’ll teach you how!” he roared as he walked along, stopping in front of Lefty.

The boy was thrilled from head to toe at the opportunity of once more standing face to face with the man who had encouraged him so that dismal afternoon in the little New Haven railroad station wash room. A broad, generous smile was plainly registered upon Lefty’s happy face as he waited for Panama to display some sign of recognition.

“Wipe that smile off your pan!” Williams bellowed and passed on to the next man.

He looked back for a moment, somewhat puzzled. Certainly he had seen that face before and the boy’s smile was probably one of recognition, but where, when or how he knew the recruit, he could not explain and furthermore, made no serious attempt to.

Panama was in the midst of his element. True to his calling, this hard-boiled sergeant had a greater penchant for talking to new recruits than eating.

He stopped a few paces back and eyed each man again before beginning to speak.

“So you want to be flyers, eh?” he drawled in an uncomplimentary manner. “You want to be birdies and go bye-bye in the clouds? Well—it will be a miracle if any of you ever leave the ground!”

Every man in the line felt a lump rise in their throats that they tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow.

Panama turned and pointed to a Martin Bomber standing some twenty feet away as the eyes of every man followed the direction of his finger.

“That’s an airplane. Get that? A Martin Bomber and a wonderful piece of machinery that cost old Uncle Sam about fifty thousand smackers. It’ll be a long, long time before we get foolish enough to let you babies take one of those things up alone for an airing!”

If Panama thought that his little heart-to-heart chat with these boys would discourage them in any way, he was mistaken. They merely looked on silent, each man certain of the fact that one day, they would show this loquacious sergeant a thing or two.

“It’s up to me to make pilots of you. It’s going to be tough on me but tougher on you,” Panama went on to explain. “But if you got guts enough to make the grade (and I don’t think any of you have), it’ll be worth the effort! Dismissed and report to me at six o’clock to-morrow morning!”

The men broke formation and started off toward the barracks just east of the landing field.

Panama watched them for a moment, then an idea came to him and he called after his charges to come back.

When they had again fallen into line, he smiled grimly for a moment and then explained: “When I learned how to fly, I got my education in a Jenny, and before we could take our little Jenny for a ride, we had to give her a bath. Now you guys hustle over there and wash that plane—and don’t use any perfume on her either!”

As the men broke rank and started off to where the Martin Bomber stood, Lefty hesitated, staring at Panama, undecided whether or not to approach him.

Just as he came to the conclusion that Panama must have forgotten him and it might be advisable to refresh the sergeant’s memory, Williams let out a roar that completely upset the boy’s nerves.

“Over there, lame brain! Move before I come and help you!”

Elinor, along with the rest of the San Diego flying instruction group, had been transferred to the Pensacola base, arriving the same time as Lefty. He had seen her earlier in the day and had had an opportunity to speak with her for one brief moment.

Now, as he stood perspiring and working over the wing of a plane with soap and water, she walked directly by him.

Just as she passed the boy, the bottom of her regulation cape caught in the wiring on the wing and the button at the neck fell off, dropping in the pail of water at Lefty’s feet.

As she looked after the absent button, somewhat perplexed, her eyes met Lefty’s and the broad smile beaming upon his face. He reached into the pail, retrieving the lost accessory and, holding it in his hand for her to reclaim, said, “If I wasn’t so busy, I’d sew it on!”

Elinor, remembering the incident in the Senior Medical Officer’s reception room, smiled good-humoredly and helped along the situation by replying, “Are you always busy?”

Lefty dropped his soap and brush, gazing down at the lovely girl hopefully at this welcome sign of encouragement.

“Well—I’m not busy to-night!”

A mischievous twinkle shone in Elinor’s eyes and, as she started to walk away, replied, “That’s just too bad, Private Phelps, because I am!”

“Well, how about to-morrow night?” Lefty called after her.

“Still busier!” she said, continuing on her way across the field.

“Then maybe you won’t be so busy on Saturday? That’s a good night to sew on buttons!”

Elinor stopped and turned back, smiling, then glanced down at the large, black single lettered vision card she was carrying. Holding the card up in plain view, she covered all the letters with her fingers except a large “O” and “K.”

A big, triumphant, boyish grin spread over Lefty’s face as he sensed Elinor’s way of acknowledging the engagement, and he returned to his task on the plane with renewed vigor.

Elinor hadn’t gone far when she felt someone alongside of her. Turning, she found that her self-appointed escort was no other than Sergeant Williams.

“Hello, Panama!” she greeted the Marine warmly. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Oh, places!” he said, “Gee, I haven’t seen you for a long time!”

“I’ve been awfully busy,” she explained.

“I understand. But say, I’ve been wanting to ask you—what are you doing Saturday night?”

Elinor nervously toyed with the ends of the vision card, managing to explain tactfully that she would be busy on Saturday. Then she noticed the evident disappointment plainly visible on Panama’s face and added, “You see, the sewing circle is going to meet and——”

Panama laughed and interrupted by chiding, “Well, I guess I wouldn’t be much use at a sewing circle!”

While Lefty worked alongside of Steve, washing his first plane, he bent over to dip his brush in the pail of water and as he did so, the leather wallet carried in his back pocket slipped to the ground, the owner being unawares of its loss.

Steve bent over and, unnoticed by Lefty, picked up the wallet, taking from the inside a newspaper clipping. Opening the almost faded paper, his eyes beamed upon the telltale headline: “Lefty Phelps reminds us of Lindbergh—he’s so different!”

Instantly, Steve recognized the caption and Lefty’s forgotten identity as his face became illuminated with malicious glee. Brandishing the clipping in the air, he called to the other recruits working near by: “Hey, fellows! Look who’s here!”

Lefty looked quickly in Steve’s direction, discovering his lost wallet in the man’s hand but, before he could act, the others had formed a circle around them.

“Look who we have with us,” Steve continued, pointing to Lefty. “The guy that ran——”

He got no further than that. In a flash, Lefty made a lunge at the man, shrieking: “Give me that paper—it’s mine—give it to me, hear!”

A short distance off, Panama and Elinor, strolling by, talking idly, were interrupted by the scuffle and cries of men’s voices over by the plane.

Panama became infuriated with rage as he gazed upon his raw recruits already engaged in a brawl that was attracting the attention of every other Marine on the field.

In a flash, the sergeant became galvanized into action and turning to Elinor, begged leave of her society. She smiled sympathetically and in a moment, Panama was on his toes, running in the direction of the young riot.

Refused his own property, Lefty made a mad rush at Steve, knocking the weaker man to the ground and pouncing upon him.

Much to the merriment of the onlookers, these two rolled over and over again with Lefty, pounding away unmercifully at Steve’s face and body, crying out for the return of his wallet and papers.

Panama broke through the circle of men and, once within the center of the make-shift ring, gazed down at the two soldiers struggling just as Lefty cried out: “If you tell anyone who I am, I’ll kill you!”

Williams reached down and grabbed both men by the collars of their blouses, pulling them to their feet and holding them at arm’s length.

“Here, you two mugs—lay off that kind of rough-house,” he warned. “I’ll have no war going around here without me in it.”

“He took my papers,” Lefty explained defensively.

Panama eyed Steve and noticed that the other still held the wallet in his hand.

“Give that back to him,” the sergeant ordered, and as Steve complied by returning the wallet to Lefty, “I’ve got a good mind to give you both a bust in the nose!”

The group broke up as each man returned to his task, leaving Lefty and Panama confronting each other.

“Who do you think you are?” Williams snapped at the boy, “What have you got to hide? Get back to work!”

As Lefty slowly walked off toward the plane, Panama again became troubled with the annoying problem of where he had seen this boy before.

He looked to see if Elinor was waiting for him. Finding that she had gone, he called to Lefty to come back.

When the boy once more confronted him, he asked where he had seen him before.

Looking around first to make certain that they were alone, Phelps brought forth the clipping that had been the cause of the recent outburst and handed it to the sergeant.

“Well, I’ll be a ——” Panama exclaimed. “So you’re the guy what ran—Say, what are you doing in the Marine Corps?”

Lefty moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other, hoping that the sergeant wouldn’t betray his secret.

“I couldn’t stand the ridicule! You were the only one that was decent to me and—well, here I am, to make them all take that back some day. That’s my ambition.”

Panama listened attentively with a sympathetic smile, a trifle flattered by the praise of the college man.

He looked at the clipping again for a moment and then proceeded to tear the caption in half handing back the part to Lefty that read: “Lefty Phelps reminds us of Lindbergh,” crumpling the rest in his hand.

“That’s what they’ll be saying soon, kid,” he assured the boy.

Lefty, grateful beyond words, seemed to Panama like a great big, inarticulate dog, but managed to say: “Gee! That’s decent of you. I don’t know how to——”

“Don’t mention it,” Panama interrupted, and then assuming his hard-shelled professional tone, barked out so that everyone on the field could hear: “Whatinell are you doin’ here anyway? Snap into it and wash that plane clean!”