“Catch the Nip before he loses himself in the clouds!” Chick Enders muttered, reaching for a new belt of ammunition. “He’s trying to run from us, and that’s his only chance.” “He won’t make it, Chick,” Barry replied through clenched teeth. “We’re more than a hundred miles faster.... You boys in the turret—start ripping that _Mitsu’s_ belly. _Now!_” The turret guns chattered. A second later, Chick’s bow gun joined them. The Marauder was overtaking her enemy as if he were anchored. Smoke burst from the Jap’s fuselage. Flame licked at his left engine. He staggered like a wing-shot goose under the slashing American fire. His guns were still talking back, but their aim was nervous and poor. All at once a great ball of flame appeared just behind the Jap’s wings, and his nose dropped seaward. Swathed in fire, he plummeted into the water. Barry banked sharply, turning back toward the island. The bombed B-26 was blazing on the beach. At the jungle’s edge a lone figure lay motionless. “They’re all dead, Skipper,” Hap Newton muttered. “Let’s go home before the Nips send out a flock of Zeros to shoot us up....” “Wait!” Barry Blake exclaimed sharply. “That bird on the beach isn’t dead yet. I saw him move.” Barry swung away in a big circle and came in toward the end of the beach. The others of his team realized what he intended; he was going to land, regardless of risk, to save the neck of a coward who had deserted his fighting crew-mates. At best it meant that they all would fail to reach Port Darwin on the gas that would be left. At worst, the Zeros from Tanimbar would catch and strafe them on the beach. Yet not a man questioned their skipper’s decision. Each one was ready to back up Barry’s judgment with his life. The crew of _Sweet Rosy O’Grady_ would remain a smoothly functioning unit as long as it existed. Barry’s second landing was as careful as his first. Rolling as near to the burning bomber as he dared, he set the brakes, and followed Hap Newton through the hatch. The man they had come to rescue was sitting up about fifty yards away. “It’s Crayle, the yellow pup!” Hap grated. “It _would_ be!” Chick bitterly exclaimed. “I always knew a hot pilot of his stripe would be a quitter when the real test came.” Barry Blake said nothing as he helped his crew turn the plane around for a quick take-off. He was wondering whether Crayle’s dazed manner was real or faked. A trickle of blood from the pilot’s forehead suggested a head wound. The man was mumbling unintelligibly when they reached him. Barry’s fingers quickly explored the gash in the injured man’s scalp. Crayle winced but voiced no protest. The wound, Barry found, was no more than a shallow cut. Nowhere else on Crayle’s clothing did he see any sign of blood. “Shell-shocked,” was the young skipper’s verdict. “His mind has snapped, fellows. Maybe he’ll get over it shortly, but just now we’ll have to treat him like a baby. Help me carry him back to the plane, Hap.”