They were well above the mountains when a mountain battery opened up on them. Lucas heard a terrific burst, and the plane careened like a wounded thing. He fought the controls. He spoke into the intercom, asking reports. There was no reply. The intercom was dead. He sent the radio man back to check the damage. Clayton, in the co-pilot's seat, helped with the controls. It required the combined strength of both men to keep the plane from nosing over. Lucas called to the navigator. 'Check and see that everybody jumps,' he said. 'Then you jump.'
The navigator poked his head into the nose to tell the nose gunner to jump. The nose gunner was dead. The radio man came back to the flight deck. 'The whole goddam tail's shot off,' he said. 'Butch and that photographer went with it.'
'Okay,' said Lucas. 'Jump, and make it snappy.' Then he turned to Clayton. 'Better bail out, sir.'
'I'll wait for you, if you don't mind, Captain,' said Clayton. 'Jump!' snapped Lucas. Clayton smiled. 'Right-o!' he said.
'I've opened the bomb bay doors,' said Lucas. 'It's easier out that way. Make it snappy!'
Clayton reached the catwalk in the bomb bay. The ship was falling off on one wing. It was evidently going into a spin. One man could not hold it. He wanted to hang on until Lucas jumped—until the last minute. It was the last minute. The ship careened, throwing Clayton from the catwalk. His body struck the side of the bomb bay and then rolled out into thin air.
Unconscious, he hurtled toward death. Through heavy, enveloping clouds his body fell. Lovely Lady, her three motors still roaring, raced past him. Now, when she crashed she was sure to burn, leaving nothing for the enemy to learn or salvage.
But momentarily stunned, Clayton soon regained consciousness. But it took several seconds before he realized his situation. It was like awakening in a strange room. He had passed through the cloud bank, and was now in a torrential tropical rain below it. Perhaps it was to the cold rain that he owed his salvation. It may have revived him just in time to pull the rip cord while there was still a margin of seconds.
His chute billowed above him, and his body snapped grotesquely at the sudden retardation of his fall. Directly beneath him a sea of foliage billowed to the pounding of hurtling masses of rain. In a matter of seconds his body crashed through leaves and branches until his chute caught and held him suspended a couple of hundred feet above the ground. This close had he come to death.
Simultaneously, he heard a rending and crashing a few hundred yards away—a dull explosion followed by a burst of flame. Lovely Lady's funeral pyre lit up the dismal, dripping forest.
Clayton seized a small branch and pulled himself to a larger one that would support him. Then he slipped off the chute harness and his Mae West. His uniform and his underclothes, to the skin, were soaked and soggy. He had lost his cap during his fall. Now he removed his shoes and threw them away. His pistol and ammunition belt followed. Then his socks, tunic, trousers, and underclothes. He retained only a web belt and his knife in its scabbard.
He next climbed upward until he could release the snagged chute. He cut away all the lines, wrapped the silk in a small bundle; and, together with the lines, tied it to his back. Then he commenced the descent toward the ground. He swung down easily from branch to branch. From the lowest branches, giant creepers depended to the ground undergrowth below. Down these he clambered with the agility of a monkey.
From the silk of his chute, he fashioned a loin cloth. A sense of well being, of happiness surged through him. Now, that which he had lost he had regained. That which he loved most. Freedom. The habiliments of civilization, even the uniform of his country's armed forces, were to him but emblems of bondage. They had held him as his chains hold the galley slave, though he had worn his uniform with pride. But to be honorably free of it was better. And something told him that Fate may have ordained that he was to serve his country quite as well naked as uniformed. Else why had Fate plunged him thus into an enemy stronghold?
The poring rain sluiced down his bronzed body. It tousled his black hair. He raised his face to it. A cry of exaltation trembled on his lips but was not voiced. He was in the country of the enemy.
His first thought now was of his companions. Those who had alighted within sound of the crashing plane would naturally attempt to reach it. He made his way toward it. As he went, he searched the ground. He was looking for a certain plant. He did not entertain much hope of finding it in this strange, far away land. But he did. He found it growing luxuriantly. He gathered some and macerated the great leaves between his palms. Then he spread the juice over his entire body, face, limbs, and head.
After that he took to the trees where travelling was easier than through the lush and tangled undergrowth. Presently he overtook a man stumbling toward the wrecked plane. It was Jerry Lucas. He stopped above him and called him by name. The pilot looked in all directions, except up, and saw no one. But he had recognized the voice.
'Where the heck are you, colonel?'
'If I jumped, I'd land on your head.'
Lucas looked up, and his mouth dropped open. An almost naked giant was perched above him. He thought quickly: The guy's gone off his bean. Maybe he hit his head when he landed. Maybe it was just shock. He decided to pay no attention to the nudity. 'Are you all right?' he asked.
'Yes,' replied Clayton. 'And you?'
'Fit as a fiddle.'
They were but a short distance from the Lovely Lady. The flames were rising high above her, and some of the trees were blazing. When they got as close to her as the heat would permit they saw Bubonovitch. Bubonovitch saw Lucas and greeted him happily. But he did not see Clayton until the latter dropped from a tree and alighted in front of him. Bubonovitch reached for his .45. Then he recognized the Englishman.
'Migawd!' he exclaimed. 'What happened to your clothes?'
'I threw them away.'
'Threw them away!'
Clayton nodded. 'They were wet and uncomfortable. They weighed too much.'
Bubonovitch shook his head. His eyes wandered over the Englishman. He saw the knife. 'Where's your gun?' he asked.
'I threw that away, too.'
'You must be crazy,' said Staff Sergeant Bubonovitch.
Lucas, standing behind Clayton, shook his head vigorously at his crewman. But the remark didn't seem to excite Clayton, as the pilot had feared it might. He just said, 'No, not so crazy. You'll be throwing yours away pretty soon. Inside of twenty-four hours it will be rusty and useless. But don't throw your knife away. And keep it clean and sharp. It will kill and not make as much noise as a .45.'
Lucas was watching the flames licking through the openings in his beloved plane. 'Did they all get out?' he asked Bubonovitch.
'Yes. Lieut. Bumham and I jumped together. He should be close around here somewhere. All those who were alive got out.'
Lucas raised his head and shouted: 'Lucas calling! Lucas calling!'
Faintly an answer came: 'Rosetti to Lucas! Rosetti to Lucas! For Pete's sake come an' get me down outta dis.'
'Roger!' shouted Lucas, and the three men started in the direction from which Shrimp's voice had come.
They found him—dangling in the harness of his chute a good hundred feet above the ground. Lucas and Bubonovitch looked up and scratched their heads—at least figuratively.
'How you goin' to get me down?' demanded Shrimp.
'Damifino,' said Lucas.
'After a while you'll ripen and drop,' said Bubonovitch.
'Funny, ain'tcha, wise guy? Where'd you pick up dat dope wid out no clothes?'
'This is Colonel Clayton, half-wit,' replied Bubonovitch.
'Oh.' It is amazing how much contempt can be crowded into a two letter word. And S/Sgt. Tony Rosetti got it all in. It couldn't be missed. Lucas flushed.
Clayton smiled. 'Is the young man allergic to Englishmen?'
'Excuse him, colonel; he doesn't know any better. He's from a suburb of Chicago known as Cicero .'
'How you goin' to get me down?' demanded Shrimp again.
