“Tony can’t bail out, Lieutenant,” Fred Marmon’s voice interrupted. “He’s bleeding to death fast, from a leg wound. I’ve just found him unconscious in the tail turret, and put on a tourniquet.” A moment of shocked silence followed Fred’s statement. Each man of the crew felt as if he himself had received a deadly hurt. The fortress crew was like a single body, its members knit inseparably together by weeks of common danger, duty, thought and feeling. “Tie that tourniquet tight, Fred,” Barry Blake said huskily. “Keep Tony alive, and I’ll manage to set _Rosy O’Grady_ down somewhere, ceiling or no ceiling.... Soapy! Contact Mau River, will you, and ask what the weather is there.” Leaving his position in the top turret, Sergeant Babbitt sat down at his radio. In a few minutes he had the field’s weather report. “Closed in,” it said briefly, “and so are all near-by airfields. Better try Buna—or Port Moresby if you have enough gas.” “That’s the tough part of it,” said Hap bitterly. “We used up our gas hunting down the Jap Navy. Buna and Port Moresby are out! Our only hope is to hit the silk.” Groans sounded over the interphone. Not their own danger but that of Tony Romani, brought unanimous protest from the others. “There’s _got_ to be some place for us to set her down, Skipper,” Fred Marmon declared. “You’ve always been able to figure a way out. We can’t let Tony down.” “Curly!” exclaimed Barry Blake. “Get out your charts and see if there aren’t some atolls or small islands somewhere this side of that weather front. If one of them had a beach long enough and smooth enough—” “I see what you mean,” Curly spoke excitedly. “I’ll tell you in two shakes, Barry. There’s a sprinkling of little islands between us and the western tip of New Britain.... Here they are! Two or three of them ought to be clear of fog right now. I’ll give you the compass course....” A new spirit pervaded the bomber’s crew. Despite battle weariness, their still painful hurts and their worry over Tony, they crowded around Curly’s map like a bunch of eager kids. “Don’t get your hopes too high,” their levelheaded navigator warned them. “None of these islands may have a beach big enough to land a fighter plane. If that’s so, we’ll lose _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_ anyway.” “And if we can land,” Barry added, “the place may be swarming with Japs. Personally I’m for taking the risk, but if there’s one man who doesn’t like the idea, we’ll turn back and bail out over Mau River. Tony would have a bare chance to live if we pulled his ripcord and chucked him out.” Silence answered him. It was broken finally by Curly Levitt’s voice giving Barry the compass course for an unnamed islet that they might hope to reach ahead of the fog. “Okay, Crusoes, you asked for it!” _Rosy’s_ Old Man said cheerfully. “We’ll be in sight of Island number one in about twenty minutes.”