“Funny thing, lieutenant,” the Marine announced. “There was a bridge over this stream last night but it ain’t there now.” “A washout?” questioned the medical man. “Or else Sandino came down and busted it up for firewood,” the Marine speculated. “But don’t worry, we’ll get it across. The water is pretty shallow up this way. Some of the boys went over on horseback and didn’t even wet their shoe tops.” “Yes, but a heavy truck—that’s another thing,” one of the nurses added. “If the river bed is all sand, we’re liable to get stuck.” “You just let me attend to that, sister,” the Marine replied with a broad grin, then stepping on the gas as he shifted his gears, the big car responded with a snort and leaped forward, jolting its occupants. No sooner had they reached the center of the stream, than the car stopped suddenly, throwing its passengers forward as the rear wheels kept spinning, splashing mud and water but not budging an inch. Gradually the truck sunk lower and lower in the dirty waters of the river bed as the terrified female occupants clung to each other with fright, crying for help. “Pipe down,” the sergeant yelled. “You’ll scare the fishes.” The Medical Corps lieutenant rose and vainly attempted to quiet his charges with an assurance that everything would be all right, then turning to the man at the wheel, inquired as to what would be done. “There’s a lot of things we can do,” the Marine drawled indifferently. “If you’re in a hurry, you might try walking.” The lieutenant was an amusing little man, slight of stature, without any sign of hair on his head, though a carefully trained walrus mustachio gave him an appearance of a comic opera villain. He had been in the service but a few months and his first taste of campaign duty was anything but in accord with his gentle senses. He knew that it would be folly to attempt to argue with the hard-boiled Marine at the wheel, though he found sufficient relief in planning what he would have done with this man when they reached Managua and the base of military activities. Suddenly it dawned upon him that he was a lieutenant being subjected to abuse from a mere Marine noncom. “I’ll have you understand, sir,” he announced, pointing his finger at the sergeant as his cheeks flushed with rage, “I am a commissioned officer of the United States Navy and entitled to the consideration military regulations allow a man of my position!” The Marine turned about slowly and eyed the little man so conscious of his own importance. He was unable to suppress any longer a loud, boisterous laugh. “What d’ya want me to do,” he inquired, “sing ‘Sonny Boy’?” “What do I want you to do?” the medical man shrieked with rage. “I want you to hold your tongue and help me to get out of this terrible mess!”