“You’re crazy!” someone shouted. “What are them there planes doin’ here if there ain’t no war?” The doubting Thomas scratched his head and looked off in the direction of the disappearing ships absently. “I’ll bet any mother’s son here and now that there ain’t no war and there ain’t goin’ to be no war and furthermore, there ain’t no Sandino!” “How much’ll you bet there ain’t?” the tall, lanky fellow responded. “Six bits!” “Have you got six bits?” one of the other men asked, a trifle eagerly. “I’ll have it pay day!” Someone made a peculiar sound with his mouth that in no way added to the prestige of the Marine who wanted to wager three-quarters of a dollar out of a pay envelope that, considering the circumstances, might not be due for the next six months or a year. “I’d like to take a good poke at you!” the corporal of the squad ventured to say, eyeing the stubborn Marine from head to foot. “You and how many others?” “Me alone, buddy. When it comes to fightin’ a guy like you, well—it’s in the bag, brother, right in the bag!” “Oh, yeah?” questioned the unpopular leatherneck. “So sez you!” “Yeah, so sez me!” “Then you think yer big enough, huh?” “Listen, soldier,” the noncom added as a final gesture, “there ain’t nothin’ in no drug store what will kill you any quicker than me!” “I suppose you think yer poison, huh?” “Naw—T.N.T., that’s all!” The devil dogs gathered their belongings and started south, toward Managua and the Marine operating base, arguing and threatening as they went on their way, though secretly each man was thrilled beyond words over something new to discuss that had so many different angles, certain to last the two days until they reached the capital without becoming stale or rehashed. CHAPTER X 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.