A month following Lefty’s accident during his first solo flight, the Major General in command of the United States Marine forces, called a hurried meeting of his staff late one evening.

The Chief of Staff, a pompous brigadier general, who possessed an exceptional knowledge of tropical countries due to long years of service spent below the equator, and the Chief of Aviation, a methodical, middle-aged Lieutenant Colonel, responded to the Major General’s summons as did a representative from the Navy Department.

These four men, gathered together behind closed doors in typical Washington fashion, met to discuss an urgent problem that was inciting the wrath of American citizens throughout the country, already placing both the Department of State and the Secretary of the Navy in a self-conscious embarrassing position.

Far away in the little Republic of Nicaragua, a young and dangerous rebel had become displeased over the results of a recent election.

This man, in the guise of a patriot and self-appointed deliverer, traveled among the ignorant peasantry, calling men to revolt against a mythical hand that was supposed to be oppressing these people.

In time, he had gathered a fairly good-sized army which, mysteriously enough, soon became clothed and armed, declaring open war upon the recognized republic and its administrative heads.

For a time, the soldiers of the republic waged a losing battle against the rebel horde, whose forces were continually supplied from some mysterious source with funds, food supplies and weapons of war.

It soon became apparent that the men fighting under the leadership of the usurper, Sandino, were far more interested in confiscating American property and threatening the lives of the Northern Republic’s citizens with interests in Nicaragua, than they were in lifting the supposed iron hand of an unseen tyrant.

The helpless president of the little republic, divided in two through a vicious civil war, appealed to the State Department in Washington for aid, reminding us of a document known as the Monroe Doctrine, contending that the rebel forces were being financed by some foreign power. It also became apparent that Sandino was not a deliverer of his people, but a paid dupe of some great commercial and industrial group who had promised him a free ruling hand and financial aid in return for the delivery of the little nation.

Both the President and the Secretary of State informed the minister at Nicaragua to attempt to end the civil war and secure a guarantee of protection for American lives and property through diplomatic intercourse, but these arrangements soon proved futile. Sandino no longer attempted to hide the fact that his purpose was directed solely at American commercial intervention and the concessions granted to citizens of the United States by the Republic of Nicaragua.

After great deliberation and undue suffering by American citizens through Sandino’s practice of vicious banditry, the President ordered the Marines to Nicaragua merely to repel the constant pilfering of American property and to guard the safety of our citizens.

No sooner had the Marines landed at Managua, the capital of the little nation, merely in the roles of governmental police, than Sandino officially declared war upon them, killing three of their number in a surprise attack.

Back in the States, as word reached the public of the brutal murdering of American Marines, both the press and the people demanded that Washington either recall her sea soldiers or declare open war upon Sandino and his rebels, sending reenforcements immediately.

With the official report of more casualties in the Marine ranks and the further threatening attacks upon Americans that imperiled our industrial possessions, reenforcements were sent south and open warfare was declared upon the Sandino bandits.

When the Chief of Staff, the representative from the Navy Department and the Chief of Marine Aviation gathered in the office of the Major General, the Commander of the Marines explained the object of the meeting.

“Colonel, I have here a memorandum from the Secretary of the Navy,” he said, handing the Chief of Aviation a communication typed on official stationery. “The Secretary states that the President of Nicaragua has made an urgent request for a squadron of airplanes.”

The Lieutenant Colonel gazed down upon the official communication handed to him by the Major General as a sober shadow cast itself over his face.

“What is the opinion of the Marine Commander?” the Chief of Aviation asked. “Is he in accord with the President’s request?”

“The President’s appeal meets with the approval of the Commanding Officer of the Second Brigade, now stationed in that country, who further advises that a squadron of planes would be a decisive help in combating the outlaws.”

The representative from the Navy Department turned and faced the Lieutenant Colonel, interrupting with the explanation: “It is almost impossible to suppress Sandino and his bandits with land forces due to the nature of the country.”

“So I have been informed,” the Chief of Aviation replied. “It is a hilly and dangerous country, certain death to any invader unfamiliar with the lay of the land.”

The Major General rested back in his chair. A tired, care-worn look plainly overshadowed his face. Due to the trying events of the past few weeks, he had aged considerably. In his heart, he wished the whole unpleasant mess would suddenly come to an end.

“Have you a squadron prepared to depart immediately?” he asked the Lieutenant Colonel.

“Yes, sir. Observation Squadron Ten is available at once.”

The Major General smiled complacently as his mind recollected some of the past glorious deeds of the pride of the Marine air forces, Observation Squadron Ten. He raised himself in his chair, once more alive with active interest.

“The Flying Devils—that outfit can go anywhere! What will be their route, Colonel?”

The Air Chief rose, crossed the room to a case and returned with a large map, spreading it out upon the table so that all might view the course of his finger.

The men, attentive to detail, moved forward in their chairs as the Lieutenant Colonel pointed to a spot on the map.

“They will fly from Quantico to Pensacola and refuel there,” he explained as his finger followed the proposed route across the map. “A member of the Squadron, Sergeant Williams, is temporarily assigned to that base as a flying instructor. He will rejoin his regular unit and their next hop will be to Havana, then to Honduras and from there it will be only one short jump to Managua.”

When the Lieutenant Colonel finished, he looked to the Major General for a sign of approval. The Commander responded merely with a nod of his head as the Air Chief rolled up the map and returned it to its case.

“Any suggestions, gentlemen?” the general asked of his aides, waiting a moment for their response.

“I believe the Lieutenant Colonel’s flight plan answers the Secretary’s request, guaranteeing the arrival of our air forces in the shortest possible time,” the Chief of Staff announced. “I have no further comments.”

As the others rose to leave after announcing their satisfaction with the proposed plans, the Major General turned to his Air Chief and explained, “You will notify the commander of the Tenth Squadron and also this sergeant at Pensacola to join his unit for active duty upon their arrival at his base.”

The Lieutenant Colonel saluted and left with the others to prepare plans for the attack upon the Nicaragua bandits from the air.

The following morning, miles away at the Marine instruction base at Pensacola, Panama Williams was summoned to the quarters of the Post Commandant and given the official orders received by telegraph that morning from Washington.

His entire being thrilled with the prospect of real action after so long a period of peace-time inactivity.

His imagination became alive, visualizing all sorts of adventures he would encounter, striking a responsive chord in his stout heart.

Sure-footed, with sparkling eyes and cheeks flushed from excitement, he made his way hurriedly across the field to the base hospital, where, he tried to make himself believe, he wanted to have the final bandage removed from his burned hand, but in truth, hoped to have a few minutes alone with Elinor at that early hour.

Upon his arrival at the dispensary, his secret hopes became justified for there was Elinor, alone in the large room, rolling bandages in preparation for a long day of activity just ahead.

“Morning!” Panama shouted jubilantly, “It’s a great day, Elinor!”

The little nurse turned, put down the bandage she had been rolling and with a welcome smile, crossed to greet the sergeant.

“Hello, Panama,” she said warmly. “What brings you here so early?”

Her words completely took him off guard for a moment and he struggled to regain his bearings, thinking fast for a probable excuse.

“Why—er—well—er—that is, I wanted you to—er—remove my—my bandage!” he stuttered.

“But the dispensary doesn’t open until nine o’clock,” she said indifferently, though secretly amused by the man’s lame excuse. “What’s your hurry?”

A look of pain crossed the man’s face as he struggled for words that would convince the girl.

“Why—er—I got a busy day ahead of me,” he lied gracefully. “And unless you remove the bandage, I can’t use my hand so I——”

“Never mind explaining the rest,” Elinor interrupted. “I guess I understand.”

She led the way to a small white table near the window as Panama trailed after her.

Following her lead, he sat down at the opposite side of the table, never for a moment taking his anxious eyes away from her loveliness that so enthralled him.

As she bent forward to undo the wrapping, he was tempted to kiss her beautiful hair but his better judgment prevailed in time just as she looked up into his eyes, speaking in a mockingly accusing manner: “Lefty Phelps has been out of the hospital for three days and you are still coming here for treatment! Your hand has been well for over a week.”

Panama grinned in a guilty fashion and dropped his eyes. Then, in an effort to vindicate himself, he pointed to a small, red spot between his thumb and index finger, still slightly bruised.

“There’s a little place here,” he explained as a matter of defense. “It still hurts!” Elinor smiled, and without making comment, reached for a small piece of absorbent cotton, dipped it with ointment and proceeded to place it on the sore spot.

“I suppose they’ll be transferring Lefty out of the flying corps,” she said, managing to keep her eyes upon her work so that Panama would not detect any personal gleam of anxiety which might betray her secret interest in the former football player, an interest that had grown to be something more than just casual.

The sergeant’s other hand mechanically reached for his blouse pocket and rested there. “Oh, I don’t know about that?” he replied, endeavoring to assume a careless attitude, though his answer didn’t fool the girl in the least. She looked up at him quickly, her woman’s intuition alive to the fact that he was holding something back from her.

“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.

“Nothin’!”

She tried to smile her prettiest and, with an alluring air of coquetry, hoped to learn the secret Panama was keeping from her.

“You do mean something,” she persisted. “Panama, you’re keeping something from me—you know you are!”

“I’m not!” he fabricated, secretly amused. “What would I be keeping from you?”

“You said that they might not transfer Lefty out of the service!”

Panama was enjoying, for the first time, the thrill of having this girl, whom he idolized, begging him to unfold to her a secret which he was keeping all to himself.

“Well, mebbe I did, but what does that mean? I ain’t the Chief of Staff to be saying what will or won’t happen to some dub that can’t move a plane from the ground!”

Elinor dropped Panama’s hand and struggled with herself to hold back the tears that she already felt moistening her eyes.

“I think you’re just perfectly mean,” she scolded; “talking that way about Lefty!”

“Yeah?” he questioned, sensing that Elinor’s interest was becoming more than just an impersonal one. “What’s it to you what I think or say about that guy?”

The little nurse checked herself in time, and, forcing a smile, looked up at the hard-boiled sergeant in an assumed attitude of indifference.

“Why—it’s nothing, Panama, nothing,” she hastily explained. “Only—well, I do feel kind of sorry for the poor kid. He’s been given a few bad deals and——”

“I guess you’re right, Elinor,” Williams interrupted as his eyes softened, changing his entire demeanor to one of sympathy and understanding. “He deserves a decent break and I’m going to help him get it!”

Her eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed slightly. She felt her heart beating a trifle faster at the sound of the sergeant’s welcome words of understanding. “What do you mean?”

He smiled and pointed to the pocket of his regulation blouse from which protruded the white corner of the order from Washington, handed to him by the Post Commandant only a half hour previous.

Not quite fully cognizant of Panama’s meaning, Elinor, with a questioning look, lifted her hand and with hesitance, touched the sergeant’s blouse pocket, extracting the paper. Nervously she unfolded the white sheet as her eyes eagerly devoured the contents.

“In compliance with the above reference,” she read hurriedly, passing over the formal introduction at the top of the page, “upon the arrival of Observation Squadron Ten, en route to Managua, Nicaragua, you are hereby ordered to join the Squadron, prepared for active service.

“Three of the new Naval aviation pilots will be selected to accompany this flight as observers. Your flight orders are continued in force for this duty. You will select a suitable mechanic to accompany you.

“The travel herein enjoined is necessary in the public service. John Hibbard, Chief of Staff, U.S.M.C.”

Elinor dropped the paper and with excited and grateful eyes, reached for Panama’s hands and pressed them to her fondly.

“You will select a suitable mechanic,” she repeated, quoting from the communication. “Then that means——”

Panama smiled broadly, too thrilled for words over the manner in which Elinor held his hands in hers. “We’re shoving off to-morrow at daybreak for that two-by-four comic opera republic.”

“And you’re going to take Lefty with you as your mechanic?” she questioned, as her eyes danced for joy and her heart beat furiously with pride and gratitude.

Panama loosened one of his hands from Elinor’s and reached for a plug of tobacco in his blouse pocket. “Yeah. He don’t know it, but I am.”

“I think that’s immense of you,” she said, with a ring of sincerity in her voice.

The sergeant indifferently bit off a large chew of tobacco and placed the remainder of the plug back in his pocket. “Aw, that’s nothin’. He’s a good kid! You know somethin’, Elinor? He’s got blue blood in his veins—an’ he’s been to college too! You should hear that guy talk! Baby, what an awful lot of language he has parked under his bean. When we get back, I want you to know him better, ’cause I think you’d like each other!”

At that moment, one of the medical officers looked in and beckoned to Elinor.

“Miss Martin!”

She turned and, seeing the M.O., rose, replying, “I’ll be right in, Doctor!”

Panama watched her every movement as she crossed the room to her desk and picked up some report cards. He did not know how long it would be before they met again—if ever, and he wanted these last few seconds to be his to remember always.

She went to the door and, placing her hand on the knob, about to enter the Medical Officer’s room, then remembered that this was a parting with a good friend. She turned and came back to the little table which the sergeant was resting against.

She held out her hand which he took and clasped warmly. “You’re going, Panama,” she said tenderly, “I almost forgot. Good-by—and—and lots of luck!”

Williams held her hand, trying for all the world to say something but as usual, he became inarticulate and unable to find the proper words.

Sensing his embarrassment, Elinor tried to relieve the situation by fussing with his tie and warning him to take good care of himself, during which time, the unnerved Panama struggled to bring forth orally the thoughts that continually were on his mind and kept his heart alive. Just as he believed he had found his speech, the door opened again and the Medical Officer reappeared.

“I am waiting, Miss Martin,” he announced curtly, and then slammed the door, disappearing back into his office.

With a hurried and warm smile, Elinor clasped Panama’s hand again and ran to the door, opening it and entering, leaving the sergeant to stand motionless, gazing after her.

When the door had closed again, he picked up his campaign hat and crossed the room, intending to leave. As he passed Elinor’s desk, his eyes fell upon the large green blotter where several snapshots of the nurse smiled up at him.

He turned and looked back to make certain that no one was watching, then stealthily, he reached over the desk and picked up the pictures, folding them hurriedly in between the official dispatch, carefully placing them away in his blouse pocket.

Once more he looked toward the door through which Elinor had passed only a moment before. His hands touched his lips and he blew her a kiss.

Smiling sheepishly and his cheeks flushed crimson from the embarrassment of his own actions, he tiptoed out of the room, his hands pressed against the pocket that held the muchly-prized photographs of the woman with whom he had left his heart.