War to them was a business and their purpose as part of the government’s great machine of action was to obey silently until their legs gave way from under them or else their brains snapped under the terrific strain. No one complained and there was no discord, no more than there has ever been known to be in the long history of the Marine Corps on land, sea or in the air. It was a man’s game they were playing and each man played his hand to the last card without a question, though it seemed as if the deck had been stacked against them. Personal grievances, hurts or questions of safety never entered the minds of any of those men from the major, commanding the squadron, down to the rawest of the ground men. They were a part of a grand and glorious fighting organization, the oldest in the service of their country and their unit would not be the first to besmirch the colorful traditions of the service through placing personal safety above duty. Long before dawn, Panama had been sent out alone to search the jungle for a company of men missing for more than a week. Hours had passed and no sign of the absent Marines came to light. The sergeant, before turning in, made one last attempt. He put the stick forward and the nose of the plane went downward, flying only a few hundred feet from the ground. Haggard and with a chalk white, grim complexion, he straightened out the ship, intently studying the lay of the land, his eyes eagerly searching every nook and corner beneath for a sign of human life. As he went a little farther north, flying between two dangerous crags that imperiled the safety of the plane, his eyes became fixed upon something just a little to the west. His taut features softened in an expression that was intermingled with both hope and anxiety. There, along the shore of a winding river, just at the edge of a jungle, a group of Marines rested, most of them lying exhausted, flat upon the ground. On a panel spread near by, facing upward, was the code signal of the Marines, “V—V,” meaning: “Have Casualties.” The muscles of Panama’s jaw again grew taut as he searched the ground below for a safe place to land. What had been a snappy, spick-and-span, clear-eyed company of men a little more than a week previous, leaving the barracks at Managua on a surveying expedition, was now reduced to twelve, ghost-like Marines, bearded, haggard, fever sick and near starvation, their faces, legs and arms bearing huge, red-infected welts from insect bites and their clothing bedraggled and torn to shreds from traveling through the treacherous jungle bushes. The heat was terrific and the sun beat unmercifully down upon the helpless surviving victims who rested under poorly improvised shelters, long since giving up all hope of being rescued, silently awaiting the grim specter of Death like true Marines, completely resigned to their fate.