Three weeks had passed, three weeks for the constantly active Marine aviators, flying over mountain and jungle, supplying the leathernecks on foot with food and ammunition, guiding them through an impassable country in their futile search for Sandino and his rebel band.

With the dawn, came orders to scout over jungle regions in search of lost parties or else departures on long observation, map-drawing flights.

Returning to the field, with no other desire than to flop upon a cot and sleep, the pilots were informed to refuel and take off again, perhaps to drop medical supplies or food at some temporary base, hundreds of miles away and to return before daybreak.

The long, constant grind, the terrible hours spent in the air and the days that passed without sleep, had worn most of the airmen and their observers down to almost human skeletons. They stumbled around, silent, nerve-wracked, mostly in a dull stupor, haggard looking with large, black circles under their glassy, tired eyes. There was little time to eat, much less to shave, and some of the boys had gone the full three weeks without shaving or washing off the grime and dirt from their hands and faces.

War to them was a business and their purpose as part of the government’s great machine of action was to obey silently until their legs gave way from under them or else their brains snapped under the terrific strain.

No one complained and there was no discord, no more than there has ever been known to be in the long history of the Marine Corps on land, sea or in the air. It was a man’s game they were playing and each man played his hand to the last card without a question, though it seemed as if the deck had been stacked against them.

Personal grievances, hurts or questions of safety never entered the minds of any of those men from the major, commanding the squadron, down to the rawest of the ground men. They were a part of a grand and glorious fighting organization, the oldest in the service of their country and their unit would not be the first to besmirch the colorful traditions of the service through placing personal safety above duty.

Long before dawn, Panama had been sent out alone to search the jungle for a company of men missing for more than a week. Hours had passed and no sign of the absent Marines came to light.

The sergeant, before turning in, made one last attempt. He put the stick forward and the nose of the plane went downward, flying only a few hundred feet from the ground.

Haggard and with a chalk white, grim complexion, he straightened out the ship, intently studying the lay of the land, his eyes eagerly searching every nook and corner beneath for a sign of human life.

As he went a little farther north, flying between two dangerous crags that imperiled the safety of the plane, his eyes became fixed upon something just a little to the west. His taut features softened in an expression that was intermingled with both hope and anxiety.

There, along the shore of a winding river, just at the edge of a jungle, a group of Marines rested, most of them lying exhausted, flat upon the ground. On a panel spread near by, facing upward, was the code signal of the Marines, “V—V,” meaning: “Have Casualties.”

The muscles of Panama’s jaw again grew taut as he searched the ground below for a safe place to land.

What had been a snappy, spick-and-span, clear-eyed company of men a little more than a week previous, leaving the barracks at Managua on a surveying expedition, was now reduced to twelve, ghost-like Marines, bearded, haggard, fever sick and near starvation, their faces, legs and arms bearing huge, red-infected welts from insect bites and their clothing bedraggled and torn to shreds from traveling through the treacherous jungle bushes.

The heat was terrific and the sun beat unmercifully down upon the helpless surviving victims who rested under poorly improvised shelters, long since giving up all hope of being rescued, silently awaiting the grim specter of Death like true Marines, completely resigned to their fate.

One of the men looked up to the sky with wide, glassy eyes that fell upon Panama’s plane. His parched lips parted in a half-hearted smile and his long, thin hand lifted feebly. “It’s—it’s a plane!” he managed to say.

The eyes of the other helpless men followed the direction of the first man’s finger that pointed upward.

“It’s a Marine plane!” another announced. “Look, he’s circling us—he’s going to land!”

A few of the poor unfortunates struggled to rise to their feet, following the progress of the ship with their eyes. Those that were successful crawled along to the water’s edge, stumbling across the stream to a semi-flat piece of ground on the opposite side where they were certain the plane would land.

There they gathered in a small group, with eyes still raised heavenward, silently following the course of the plane and waiting for it to land.

Panama realized that if he was to even attempt to save these men, he would have to take a chance and make a landing on the uncertain ground below, or else leave them to die helpless victims of exposure. He nervily shot the nose of his ship toward the ground, narrowly escaping some rough tree tops that might have crippled his wings.

Once the wheels of his landing gear touched earth, he knew he was safe, and with a feeling of just pride over his accomplishment, he released the stick and taxied along for a few feet, coming to a stop and finding himself surrounded by the small group of eager, grateful men.

He rose and reached into the rear cockpit, bringing forth a large bundle which he clumsily opened, displaying a good quantity of food, cold tea, chocolate bars and cigarettes.

“Here you are, boys!” he shouted gayly. “The Flying Restaurant! Come and get it!”

The men didn’t have to be invited a second time. It had been many days since any of them had tasted food or enjoyed the fragrant aroma of a lighted cigarette.

“Who’s in command?” Panama asked a man standing by the fuselage, munching upon a piece of milk chocolate.

“Lieutenant Baker, but he’s too sick to get up.”

Williams cast a sweeping glance over the group, searching for the really bad cases as he explained that his orders were to return the men to the base, one at a time, and asking them to choose among themselves who would be the first to go.

With the announcement came an insistent chorus of replies, “Take the lieutenant back first!”

A little to the left of the plane, the pitiful, wan shell of a man lifted his head with every bit of effort he possessed, shaking his finger in a manner of objection.

“No—no—not me—I’m all right. Take one of the others!”

“But you’re all in, sir!” one of the boys protested.

“Who says so?” the lieutenant demanded to know, without any attempt to conceal his indignation. “I’m still in command here! Sergeant, take Shorty in first. His foot needs dressing.”

Shorty, a kindly little fellow seated on the ground, unable to walk because of a dangerously infected foot, protested vehemently over the lieutenant’s orders, insisting that he was in better physical condition than any man among the group of survivors.

“Why, you can’t even stand up on your feet!” Baker answered with a tinge of derision in his voice.

“I can stand on one foot!” insisted the plucky little Marine, “and that’s more’n you can do!”

A faint hit of color came to the lieutenant’s pallid cheeks as he struggled to, lift his head again. “How dare you resort to insolence in the presence of your superior?”

“But I don’t want to go!” Shorty bewailed futilely. “Let him take you in first and then he can come back for me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Baker called out, angrily. “I’m boss here and you’ll take orders!”

“Well, I think I’m entitled to say when, where and how I’m to be rescued,” speculated the obdurate little fellow, “and I ain’t going back now!”

“When I get you back there, I’ll have you court-martialed on nine different counts!” Baker threatened.

Shorty smiled and winked to Panama, who was standing up in the cockpit, completely obfuscated over the stubbornness of two hungry, sick men, arguing as to who should be saved first.

“You’re going to have me court-martialed? Now I know I ain’t going back!”

The situation was highly amusing to everyone, especially Williams. The bantering back and forth was refreshing after the trying week these men had undergone and the sleepless nights Panama had struggled through. The flying sergeant realized that this argument was sapping the little remaining strength the lieutenant still possessed so he jumped out of the cockpit and without a word, picked Shorty up in his arms and placed the protesting, struggling Marine in the plane, much to the satisfaction of Baker and the others.

“I’ll be back for another one in the morning,” he promised. “You’ll find plenty in this sack to eat, smoke and keep you warm until I return.”

“Hope you like the ride, Shorty,” one of the boys called out. “Don’t stand up on your one good foot or you’ll rock the boat!”

“I’ll punch you in the nose the minute you get back to Managua,” the little Marine threatened, “and you can court-martial me for that and make it ten counts!”