One of the men looked up to the sky with wide, glassy eyes that fell upon Panama’s plane. His parched lips parted in a half-hearted smile and his long, thin hand lifted feebly. “It’s—it’s a plane!” he managed to say. The eyes of the other helpless men followed the direction of the first man’s finger that pointed upward. “It’s a Marine plane!” another announced. “Look, he’s circling us—he’s going to land!” A few of the poor unfortunates struggled to rise to their feet, following the progress of the ship with their eyes. Those that were successful crawled along to the water’s edge, stumbling across the stream to a semi-flat piece of ground on the opposite side where they were certain the plane would land. There they gathered in a small group, with eyes still raised heavenward, silently following the course of the plane and waiting for it to land. Panama realized that if he was to even attempt to save these men, he would have to take a chance and make a landing on the uncertain ground below, or else leave them to die helpless victims of exposure. He nervily shot the nose of his ship toward the ground, narrowly escaping some rough tree tops that might have crippled his wings. Once the wheels of his landing gear touched earth, he knew he was safe, and with a feeling of just pride over his accomplishment, he released the stick and taxied along for a few feet, coming to a stop and finding himself surrounded by the small group of eager, grateful men. He rose and reached into the rear cockpit, bringing forth a large bundle which he clumsily opened, displaying a good quantity of food, cold tea, chocolate bars and cigarettes. “Here you are, boys!” he shouted gayly. “The Flying Restaurant! Come and get it!” The men didn’t have to be invited a second time. It had been many days since any of them had tasted food or enjoyed the fragrant aroma of a lighted cigarette. “Who’s in command?” Panama asked a man standing by the fuselage, munching upon a piece of milk chocolate. “Lieutenant Baker, but he’s too sick to get up.” Williams cast a sweeping glance over the group, searching for the really bad cases as he explained that his orders were to return the men to the base, one at a time, and asking them to choose among themselves who would be the first to go. With the announcement came an insistent chorus of replies, “Take the lieutenant back first!” A little to the left of the plane, the pitiful, wan shell of a man lifted his head with every bit of effort he possessed, shaking his finger in a manner of objection. “No—no—not me—I’m all right. Take one of the others!” “But you’re all in, sir!” one of the boys protested. “Who says so?” the lieutenant demanded to know, without any attempt to conceal his indignation. “I’m still in command here! Sergeant, take Shorty in first. His foot needs dressing.”