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.