A protracted search was at last rewarded. An insignificant sketch clipped from some British magazine told him that it had not been necessary to change the manner of operation for this plane. “You turn on the gas, release the brakes, step on the accelerator, and away you fly,” he read.
“Just like that!” he exclaimed. “Perfect!”
As he returned the book to its place on the rock, then turned to go up the trail, he realized that though the mystery of the strange plane had, in part, been solved, that mystery had been supplanted by even more important problems. Who were these men who came and went so mysteriously? They had told him very little. The book had told him less. Since the clippings were printed in four languages, and these men had collected them, they might be friends or enemies—Englishmen, Australians, or Germans. These islands were in enemy waters, but were too small and rugged to be considered important. Perhaps these men were Germans placed here to spy on Allied ships and to watch the islands.
But in that case they’d have nabbed me, he thought. Well, maybe not. They knew I couldn’t get away. Perhaps they thought they could find out things from me, the ship I’d sailed on, number of ships in the task force, and all that.
But then, they spoke English. He laughed lightly. Probably Englishmen. But why are they here? He gave it up and started back toward their camp.
On his way back to camp he made discoveries that deepened the already ominous mystery of the island. He had covered half the distance when a fluttering bit of white against the dark trunk of a huge teakwood tree caught his eye. He hurried toward it.
He discovered that it was pinned there by three thorns. It was a note written on paper made from a thin slice cut out of the stem of a palm frond and bleached in the sun. The message was printed, but not crudely done. It read:
Don’t trust those men with the strange plane. We think they are dangerous. We have heard them talking German.
That was all. The note was not signed. Who were “we”? To this there was no answer.
Jack felt a warm wave of friendliness sweep over him as he pocketed the note. Some one on this island wished to befriend him. A vision of the tall, slender girl whose roast pork had so excited the natives, and whose smile was most engaging, came before his eyes.
She might have written it, he told himself. Then again, perhaps not. There might be white people hiding on the island. Who knows?
Suddenly, as he rounded a coco plum bush, he caught a glimpse of that same girl. She was on her knees at the foot of a great coconut palm tree.
Seems to be praying to the spirit of the palm, he thought, as he watched her from the shadows.
He knew soon enough that his guess was poor. The girl was removing dried leaves and palm fronds from a spot at the foot of a tree. After throwing aside a square of brown canvas, she carefully lifted something white from its place of hiding.
Jack could not see what this was, but he was not long in finding out, for the girl stood up and held before her a white dress.
“An Army nurse’s uniform,” Jack whispered to himself. He shuddered involuntarily.
In a twinkling, without removing her thin, one-piece garment, the girl had the white dress on, and a cap of white on her hair.
After that, attired as a nurse, she did a strange little dance all by herself. Stooping over, she took a small square mirror from the hiding place. This she hung against the tree. Standing there, she surveyed herself in the mirror. Jack too, caught a glimpse of her face in the glass. Her dark face stood out strangely against the stark white of her dress. There was a curious look of animation and amusement on her face. Once she laughed, then shook her fist at the face in the mirror.
Then, as her shoulders drooped in an attitude of utter sadness, she removed the dress and nurse’s cap, to return them to their hiding place.
Realizing that she might come out on the trail at any moment, Jack hurried past the spot while she was covering her treasures. Jack hurriedly and quietly put some distance between them.
His head was in a whirl. Who was this girl? Why had she come here, and how had she come into possession of the nurse’s costume? It was all very strange and disturbing. Dark forebodings took possession of him as he hurried along over the damp, heavily shaded path.
CHAPTER XVI
MOSTLY MEMORIES
Darkness was falling as the carrier Black Bee, escorted by cruisers and destroyers, sailed away from the scene of her latest triumph, her attack on the unnamed island that meant so much to the Allied cause on its way to Tokyo. Not one U. S. ship had been sunk or damaged. Jap installations had been smashed and the airfield taken. The Marines had stormed ashore in great waves, accomplishing the occupation of a greater part of the island with a minimum of loss.
“It was a great day!” Kentucky murmured as he sat with his fighter pals on the flight deck.
“Yes, a big day,” Blackie echoed.
The elevator trap opened and from below came the sounds of voices and music. Men were singing and radios blared popular music or announced more victories.
The elevator rose. It carried a new fighter to the flight deck.
“That’s for Ted or Jean,” Kentucky rumbled, “if one of them comes back.”
“Yes, if only one of them does come back,” Red agreed soberly.
It had been a truly great day. The men below decks were happy and hilarious. But the trio on the flight deck, Kentucky, Blackie and Red, were for the most part silent. Ted was gone. No one knew when he would be seen again, if ever.
Jean, too, was gone. He had somehow been lost from his formation. Kentucky had heard him say, “I am being attacked by a superior force. Notify my nearest of kin.”
Had Jean been joking? There was no way to know. Men did joke in the midst of battle. That was the one way of keeping your nerves steady.
Kentucky did not believe that Jean had been joking. He had scant hope of ever seeing him again.
But Ted—that was different. Kentucky believed that Ted had made a safe landing on the water.
“The course we are taking,” he said soberly, “should bring us in about two hours over the spot where Ted went down. I’m going to ask for permission to make a search.”
“At night?” Blackie voiced his astonishment.
“Sure! Why not?” Kentucky’s tone was confident. “Ted’s smart. He’ll know the sound of our planes and he’ll find something to use as a flare. If he’s there and I get near the spot, I’ll bring him in.”
“I’m with you,” said Red.
“Count me in.” Blackie made it three.
Darkness came down like a black curtain. Through this curtain the task force plowed on. “What’s our destination?” was the question passed from man to man. Mindanao was often mentioned, but only one man—the Commander—knew what lay ahead, and he wasn’t telling.
On being told of Jack’s discoveries—the book that gave him so much information about the jet plane, the note of warning attached to a tree, and the native girl who paraded in an Army nurse’s uniform—Stew found himself torn between two desires: one to fit out the Jap raft and leave the island immediately; the other, to remain to help Jack try to commandeer the jet plane and fly away.
“Must be a marvelous new invention,” he commented excitedly. “Think of doing the stratosphere at 500!”
“And then dropping down upon some unsuspecting Japs!” Jack added.
In the end Stew decided that it would be wise to put the Jap raft into condition for immediate escape, if flight became necessary.
“Who knows what might happen?” he argued. “If those men speak German, they could easily be Nazis, and they may bring in a whole boatload of Japs to hunt us down.”
Jack was not so sure of all this. Those men in charge of the jet plane had been friendly enough and did not seem like Nazis. Nevertheless he did realize that it was best to be prepared for any emergency. So, after a rather cheerless breakfast of cold fish and coffee, they spent the morning putting the raft in order.
When they returned at lunchtime, they found that the bananas had not yet begun to ripen, so they lunched on chocolate bars.
“But just you wait!” Stew exclaimed. “I’m going to have a real dinner tonight, if I have to run down a wild pig.”
“Okay,” Jack agreed. “I’ll gladly join you. In fact, I’ll even roast the pig. But you’d better take the fishline with you. There are worse meals than fish.”
“Oh, fish!” Stew snorted. “Just you wait and see!” However, he did take the fishline as they climbed up the slope for one more look at their island home.
“I’ll charm one of those wild roosters into sitting on my knee,” Jack laughed, as he tucked the violin under his arm.
“Or some wild maiden,” Stew joked.
“None of that!” Jack replied, soberly.
Stew paused half way up the ridge to examine some fresh wild pig tracks, but Jack kept straight on, until he reached the crest of the ridge. There, seated on the highest pinnacle of rock, he surveyed the scene, and was enchanted.
Save for a few white clouds, the day was clear. On the dark, blue water there was a slight ripple that made it seem alive.
Off to the right and lower down he suddenly discovered the small native village, a few tiny grass huts clustered about a larger one. As he watched, two long, slender canoes with outriggers shot from the shore. He looked at them through his binoculars and discovered that one was manned by two native boys, the other by two native girls.
As the paddles flashed and the canoes sped away in a wild race, he thought, if things should get worse here, those people could take us to the next island, or elsewhere. He glanced away to the south. It couldn’t be more than ten miles to that next island.
At last, charmed by the scene that lay before him, he took up his violin and began to play.
He had once supposed that much of the music he had known might by this time have escaped him, but now, in this moment of rest and inspiration, they all came back to him—“Londonderry Air,” “Ave Maria,” “O Sole Mio,” and many others. How long he played, he could not tell.
Had he paused to listen as he played, he might have heard movements in the brush directly beneath him. The snapping of a twig, the swish of a branch, even the low murmur of a voice might have reached his keen ears. At last, with a sigh, he replaced the violin in its case.
Brings back memories of home, he thought, as he sighed again. Here’s hoping I get back there some time.
Memories! How strange his life had been! Thousands cheer, he thought grimly. Thousands had cheered his music, and now he played to the rocks, the birds, and the broad sea. But the war is a thrilling adventure—he squared his shoulders—I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds!
From the moment he had passed his tests and joined the Navy, his life as a flying cadet had been thrilling. He thought it by far the finest branch of the service.
First had come his civil aeronautics training. An instructor had taken him up and scared him almost to death. Next time he went up, he was given the controls and told to fly. And he had flown!
Two months of this and he had thought himself a finished flier. He did not know then that he needed to gain a great deal more knowledge than he had. He had wanted all the world to know how good he was, especially Mom, Pop, and the home-town folks.
The old home town was “out-of-bounds” for him, but what of that? When he was given two hours of free flying, he had headed for home, thirty miles away. It had taken a lot of treetop clipping to get Mom and Pop out to see him fly, for he had not written them he was coming. He got them out at last, and waved them a salute. Then he had flown over the golf course where only a year before he was a mere caddy. Stalling his plane, he had come zooming down from three thousand feet to scare caddies and golfers half to death, then had zoomed away.
Some of the older golfers who had never taken a chance in all their lives, who had never flown a mile nor been obliged to fight for their country, had taken the number of his plane and threatened to report him for reckless flying. Had they? He did not know. All he did know was that he had flown gloriously on.
Next came Iowa City. No flying there, but plenty of study and hardening up. It was summer and hot as an oven. The trainers were relentless. Marches, races, hurdles, football, boxing, and all the rest he took in his stride. He got a broken nose from football, a black eye from boxing, and a sprained ankle in high hurdles.
There was little time for social affairs and when there was, one was almost too hot and tired to care. One bright spot stood out in that whole summer—the night he took the Commandant’s daughter to the banquet and dance given for his group as their training ended. He remembered still her gay laughter and the bright sparkle of her eyes.
He drew Minneapolis for preflight training. What a camp that had been! He was flying again, real combat planes. Formations, sham dogfights, night flying, following the light of the plane ahead round and round.
A truly great camp. A grand USO with bowling, billiards, a movie every week, warm-hearted city folks, and plenty of girls. How he had hated it when the day came to pack up and leave.
And then there was the long, hard pull in Texas. Some of the boys “washed out.” Jack was determined not to let that happen to him. It did not.
He disliked the heat and the great, flat plains of Texas, but most of the time he had been too busy to notice them.
Before long it was time for that new suit of blues and the brief ceremony that made him an ensign and gave him his wings.
Deck training at Great Lakes, then a short leave to bid farewell to the folks at home.
Those fleeting days in the old home town left delightful, exciting memories. The good folks of the little city had done their best to show him that they really appreciated the sacrifices he must make to fight for them. He even forgave the old golfers who had threatened to report him when he had scared them half to death on his flying visit to the golf course months before.
When it came time to go he had told Pop and Mom good-by at home because he wanted it that way. At the last moment Patsy had insisted on walking to the depot with him.
When the train whistled, she had put out a hand for a good, honest handshake, and had said, “Well, so long old pal. Have a good time. Take good care of yourself, and plea—please come back, for we all need you so much!”
Patsy’s voice had sounded a bit strange. He could hear her still, “Plea—please come back.” It was strange about him and Patsy.
He looked off toward the sun now hanging low over the dark, blue sea, and at the green jungle at his feet. Yes, this was a great little world over here. He’d like to come back some time. But just now, how he’d like to be back in the old home town!
CHAPTER XVII
VOICES IN THE NIGHT
Jack dreamed until the sun was low; finally he heard Stew giving the call of a parakeet, the signal they had agreed upon.
He squawked in answer, then gathered up his violin and went hurrying down the hill.
“What were you going to do,” Stew exclaimed when they were together again, “dream up there all day and half the night?”
“Not quite,” Jack laughed. “But you have to take time to relax, even in war, or you’re likely to crack up.”
“You’ll never crack!” Stew was tired. “Look what I got for supper!” He held up his catch.
“Fish! Oh, boy!” Jack made a brave attempt at expressing joy.
“You’d be thankful for fish,” said Stew, “if you’d been through what I have!”
“What happened?” Jack was curious.
“Plenty. I saw a small porker and followed him. He really looked young. But when he got all hot and bothered he turned and squealed angrily at me. And boy! His tusks seemed to be at least two feet long. I went up a tree, which was a job in itself. Anyway, there was a strange bird up in that tree. I wanted to have a look at that bird,” Stew ended with a drawl.
“Not a rooster?” Jack grinned.
“The rooster came later,” Stew sighed. “He was a dandy! But he refused to be caught. So—o,” Stew sighed once more, “I decided on fish for supper. And one thing more,” he grinned. “While you played the violin, I saw two huge, dark-skinned men with six-foot spears all set along the points with flying squirrels’ teeth. They were looking up at you. They didn’t spear you, did they?”
“It’s a wonder they didn’t let me have it!”
“Probably thought they might injure the violin,” Stew chuckled. “Come on. Let’s go down.”
In silence they trudged down the ridge and through the shadowy forest.
They approached their camp in the bright afterglow, and in that sudden burst of light Jack thought he caught a glimpse of a figure darting into the shadows of a great mango tree. He could not be sure, so he tramped on in silence.
“I’ll bet you were so lost in your dreams you never even heard that jet plane return,” said Stew.
“That’s right. I didn’t,” Jack admitted. “Did it really come in?”
“It sure did. And do you know,” Stew said thoughtfully, “their landing was so different from the one they made the other day that you’d have said another pilot was at the stick. He made two false landings, then zoomed up, and finally seemed to come in straight from the sea.”
“But he made it?” Jack was puzzled.
“I suppose so. I didn’t see him land. He—”
“Look!” Stew’s voice fell to an excited whisper. “There’s a glow of coals in our fireplace!”
“Can’t be!” Jack was incredulous. “I remember putting the fire out.”
“It’s burning now, all right,” Stew insisted.
And so it was. There was a fire, and something more, besides.
When the boys reached the spot they stood gazing in speechless astonishment, for there, held over the fire by an impromptu spit of teakwood, was a roast of pork loin, done to a delicious brown and sizzling in its own fat. Beside it, kept warm on a rack close to the fire, was a stack of brown cakes.
“Brownies,” Jack whispered.
“Dark brownies. Natives,” Stew murmured.
“Brownies, all the same!” Jack insisted.
Stew tossed his catch upon a rock. “How’d you like to wait until tomorrow for your fish?”
“Suits me,” said Jack.
The fish did wait, and the two boys sat down to enjoy a feast such as they had not eaten in months.
“Do you know, Stew,” Jack said as he reclined against a rock, with the blue-black sea before him, “I think we picked the wrong party to help us get off this island.”
“What do you mean?” Stew sat up.
“Those natives have some swell outrigger canoes that would take us to some other island in less than an hour,” Jack confided. “I saw them. They’re really fast.”
“And then we’d just be on another island,” Stew drawled. “What I want is to be sitting on the flight deck of our ship hearing the engines warming up. Or I’d like to be down below where jazz music and radios make night hilarious on the old Black Bee.”
“All the same, I’d feel better if I were sure I could leave this island in a hurry if I needed to,” Jack insisted.
“Tell you what!” He sprang to his feet. “This feast of ours came from the native village. It’s a peace offering. What do you say we go and smoke a pipe of peace with them?”
“Oh-o-o no! Not me!” Stew did not move. “They might not be as civilized as you think. Don’t forget that girl and the nurse’s costume. Besides, I’ve got something else I want to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Try out that radio we found on the Jap raft.”
“I cranked it for an hour last night.” Jack’s interest was slight. “Not a peep out of it. But go ahead, try it.”
“Sure I’ll try it.” Stew walked away. “Give my regards to that head-hunter’s queen,” he added, with a low laugh. “She’s a regular pin-up girl, don’t you think? Tell her to put a ring in her nose and I’ll take her picture.”
Jack joined in the laugh. Then, after tucking his violin under his arm, he trudged away into the dark forest and over the trail leading to the village.
Guided by his pinpoint flashlight he followed the leafy trail, where his steps made no sound, and listened to the croak of a great frog that seemed to say, “Why? Why?” He dropped down into a valley, where some startled porkers went snorting away, then climbed again to cross the ridge and come down on the other side.
“Spooky business, following these trails at night,” he told himself. “Anything might happen.”
When he found himself close to the native village, he went on tiptoe until the light of their campfire, burned down to a dull glow, was practically in his eyes.
No feast now. It was too late for that. The natives were seated in a half circle. Close by the fire sat a stout young hunter. His fine brown face, with its gleaming white teeth, was a study. He was smiling broadly as jokes were passed back and forth. Before him lay a freshly killed pig. He had returned late from the hunt, no doubt, and was recounting his adventures. The others with one exception appeared happy. The tall, slim girl sat by herself. On her face was a look of loneliness, perhaps of sadness. The people were talking in their strange native tongue. The girl did not speak at all.
Then Jack did something that even to him seemed strange. Slipping silently through the brush, he came close to the girl and, more than half in shadow, unnoticed, took a seat beside her.
At that same moment, two hundred miles away, Kentucky, Blackie, and Red were out over the sea in their planes. Having obtained permission to conduct a night search for their lost comrade Ted, they were on their way. Talking over a radio of very low power that was not likely to be picked up at any distance greater than 300 miles, Blackie was saying to the others:
“Just about ten seconds more and we should be near the spot.”
“Twenty or twenty-five is my guess,” said Kentucky.
“Be great stuff if Ted were still on his plane there in the water and picked us up on the radio,” Red suggested.
“No chance.” Kentucky’s voice was low. “He’s lucky if he’s got his rubber raft.”
Ted did not hear them, but someone else, vastly excited, did.
“Got ’em!” Stew, on the island, tinkering with the Jap radio, cranked furiously as he murmured. “Now if only I can make them hear me.
“Kentuck—Kentucky!” he called into the small mike. “This is Stew. Do you get me? Stew. Come in!”
Kentucky did not come in. He kept right on with what he was doing. Stew could hear the three of them talking, heard Red say, “I think I see a light off to the right.”
“You sure?” was Kentucky’s excited answer. “Don’t lose it. That may be Ted.”
“It’s sure to be Ted,” Blackie broke in. “Don’t lose it.”
Just then Stew’s Jap radio took on a sudden burst of power to break through space and fall on Kentucky’s ears:
“Kentuck! This is Stew! Come in, Kentucky!”
Kentucky heard, and sat up quickly.
“Stew! Where are you?” Kentucky came back in a steady drawl. “Where’s Jack?”
“We—well, you might say we’re back in the old home town.” Stew made up a code as he went along. He didn’t want those fellows on the jet plane to understand, nor some prowling Japs, either. “Remember those three houses? Do you get me?”
“Maybe I do,” Kentucky growled. “Continue.”
“Well, I live in the biggest house—the middle one—three stories—get me?”
“I get you.” Kentucky thought he understood that Stew was talking of three islands.
“Jack is with me,” Stew went on. “Our room is in the southwest corner. See?”
“I get you,” Kentucky came back again. “All okay?”
“Yes. Only we miss our boat. We—” Just then Stew heard Blackie break in. “Kentucky, there is a light. Must be Ted. I’m putting on my landing lights. Going down.”
“We’ll be right over you,” Kentucky assured him.
Stew understood it all, and was silent, even at a time when he wanted terribly to talk. And so, as he listened, the minutes ticked themselves away, and once again his radio went dead. Far away, Kentucky was thinking, “I wish Stew had talked straight. I think he meant he was on the biggest of those three islands, and on this end of it. But how’s a fellow to be sure?”
CHAPTER XVIII
LUCK, PALS, AND PROVIDENCE
Scarcely had Jack seated himself beside the slim girl in the shadows away from the campfire when she whispered:
“I hoped you’d come. I have something tremendously important to show you. First you must play for these people, for they love it.”
At that she clapped her hands and at the same time gave a sharp exclamation. Some native word, thought Jack. He was startled by this sudden turn of affairs.
The natives were on their feet in an instant. Three brown warriors, doubtless misunderstanding the call, seized their spears.
Like figures done in bronze, with the firelight playing on their dark faces, these three stood there, silent and alert, ready for action, as the girl said a few words to them in their own language. Then the men relaxed and a low murmur ran round the campfire.
“Play now!” the girl commanded, turning to Jack.
A louder murmur came from the natives as they settled back in their places and Jack tuned his violin.
Deciding that some simple tunes would suit these people best, the boy played “Turkey in the Straw.” Pleased by their dancing eyes, he did the “Arkansas Traveler,” then “Deep in the Heart of Texas.”
When he swung into “Old Man River,” the natives seemed to sense the meaning of the song, for their faces were somber and sad. But now some one was singing the words.
He listened carefully. It was the girl who sang.
“Sing it all,” he whispered. He started once more at the beginning and she sang with him to the end.
After that he played on and on, wondering, Where did this girl learn that song? She had said, “These people.” Were they not her people? It was mighty strange.
When the fire had burned low and some of the native children were asleep at their mothers’ sides, Jack put his violin away. Then, as if he were in church and had preached a good sermon, the older members of the group came forward for a solemn handshake.
After a few words to the natives, the girl turned to Jack. “I’ll show you a new way back to your camp,” she said in a quiet voice.
A moment later, without a light, she was leading him through the inky blackness of a jungle trail.
“There are only two of us, my pal and I,” Jack said to the girl after a time. “We may get into a tight spot any time!”
“Oh, you are in a tight spot right now!”
In the meantime, some distance to the south, things were happening on the dark waters of night. Catching the drone of airplane motors and recognizing them as those used in U. S. fighter planes, Ted on his raft had become greatly excited. That’s Kentucky and my other pals, he thought. They’re out looking for me. How can I signal to them?
A flare. The thought came to him at once. In his emergency outfit were matches in a sealed tin. With trembling fingers he opened the can.
But what could he use for a torch? He thought of his gony. Its feathers would burn. But no. He couldn’t do that. His parachute? Yes, it would burn. But what a waste. If other things failed, he’d use it. But meanwhile he’d tie his shirt to one of the paddles and light it. He wadded it tightly around the paddle blade so it would burn for some time. He lighted it, and moved it about in the air.
“It makes so little light. They’ll never see it,” he despaired.
But they did see it. Soon Kentucky came zooming down while the others circled above him.
“Boy! Am I glad to see you!” Ted put out a hand to Kentucky when the plane was down and he had paddled to it.
“That makes two of us!” Kentucky gripped his hand excitedly.
“I’ll be with the old Black Bee after all when we make that big push!” Ted exulted.
“You won’t be in anything if you don’t get busy and climb up here!” Kentucky laughed.
“Wait. I’ll have to take care of my gony.” Ted reached down.
“Hey! Ouch! Quit it!” he exclaimed. “Ungrateful creature! I should have used you for a torch.”
“What is it?” Kentucky asked in surprise.
“Just a gony—an albatross,” said Ted. “He lit on my head and now he bites me for the tenth time. Give me a light.”
Kentucky held a light on it while Ted cut the strap that held the huge bird. Then he tossed the gony into the sea. “I was keeping it for emergency rations,” he laughed.
Five minutes later he was in the plane, and they were roaring away. “Just one more incident in the great war,” Ted said. “Some get rescued and some don’t.”
“It’s all a matter of luck,” said Kentucky.
“Providence, luck, and pals,” Ted added.
“There’s more work of the same kind to be done,” said Kentucky. “I think I’ve got Jack and Stew located on one of those three islands.”
“Great stuff! How did you do it?”
“Stew’s got some kind of radio. Not very strong, but I got him. He told me in a sort of code that they were on this end of the biggest island.”
“That’s swell!” Ted exclaimed. “Going after them is my job. Jack’s from my home town.”
“Say! That’s keen!” said Kentucky. They flew on.
At the same time, on the island, with the aid of the girl, Jack was making a startling discovery. She walked with surprising speed over the jungle trail. Only now and then did she take his hand for an instant to whisper, “Over a log here” or “Up a low ledge now.”
“I didn’t want the natives to know,” she murmured low. “There might have been trouble if they saw what you are going to see. I didn’t want a fight—not now.”
“Know what?” Jack wanted to ask, but did not. What a queer girl this was! Her skin was dark, her nose was rather broad, and her lips seemed thick, yet she was surely not like the others.
“Been raised by some missionary,” he told himself. He knew well enough that there were such girls. He had seen some of them in the Solomons. Some were nurses. He thought again of the nurse’s uniform hidden at the foot of a huge palm. Had the girl been a native nurse?
“Up now,” she whispered, gripping his hand.
They climbed straight up a rocky ledge. At the crest she pushed him down to a place beside her.
“Look down,” she whispered.
He looked, then stared. Almost directly beneath them, surprisingly close and all lit up by a near-by campfire, was the mystery plane. Seated around the fire were not two men, but five. Three were small, the others large. Just then the two large men stood up. One was tall and rather thin, the other short and stout.
“Not the same men!” Jack whispered in astonishment.
“No, they’re not,” she agreed. “The three little men are Japs.”
“Japs!” Jack could feel prickles at the back of his neck. “What does it mean?”
“Danger!” came in a low whisper.
CHAPTER XIX
MYSTERIES DEEPEN
Standing beside the girl of “Mystery Isle,” Jack stared down at the five men and the jet plane in silence. “Here’s a ticklish situation,” he thought. He was glad he had established friendly relations with the natives. He and Stew, with only their sidearms, would be no match for those five men.
Jack’s amazement at this turn of affairs was great. He had been inclined to accept the men who first had the jet plane as Englishmen or Australians trying out a secret weapon. One thing was sure. This plane was no haphazard affair built from parts of other planes. It was brand-new and had been created in some up-to-date factory. There were little points about it that seemed to say, “Made in America,” but if it had been, how had these fellows gotten hold of it? It was a priceless possession, Jack was sure of that, for he had seen it perform. He’d seen many types of planes climb toward the stratosphere, but none had become a speck in the upper air as quickly as this one.
“I’d like to get my hands on it,” he whispered to the girl.
“Wouldn’t you, though!” she whispered back.
Then the tall man nearest the jet plane did what to Jack seemed a strange thing. After lighting a large gas lantern that spread a white circle of light all about him, he climbed to the plane’s fuselage, threw back the canopies, hung the lantern on a pole propped against the inside of the cockpit, and then began tinkering with the controls.
“He certainly isn’t afraid,” Jack whispered to the girl. “Working in a flood of light on a strange island. What an easy mark he would make!”
“Perhaps he does not know you are on the island,” she returned.
“Wouldn’t those other men tell him?” he wondered.
“Who knows?” The girl’s words gave him the impression that she knew more than she cared to tell. “The Germans are not afraid of natives,” she went on. “Besides, they have machine guns.”
“On the plane?” Jack looked closely at the plane.
“Yes, two. I have seen them.”
Jack unslung his binoculars. They brought the plane and the men closer to him. A look of intense concentration came over the boy’s face. He watched every move the man on the plane made, studied and memorized the instruments on the board, noted that they were fewer than on most planes, then gave his attention to the controls.
As if conscious of the boy’s intense interest, the man threw on the power. The motor squealed. A fine, misty smoke half hid the plane. The man threw off the power. The mist drifted away.
“That plane has no propeller,” Jack whispered, half to himself and half to the girl.
“No,” she agreed.
“It’s run by jets going out from the back,” he went on. “If you held a large balloon before you and it exploded, it would push you over. That plane works something like that. The Italians tried it. Their jet went straight back out of the fuselage. It ran the plane, but took too much fuel. This one takes air from the sky into a large compressor. When it is under high pressure it is mixed in a chamber with explosive gas from kerosene. This mixture is ignited under terrific pressure, then carried round a right-angle bend and blown through fans that somehow give it a lot more power.”
The girl was silent. Did she understand? He wondered.
But now the man in the cockpit was ready for one more move. Once again he set the motor howling. This time however he released the brakes, dropped his lantern into the cockpit, touched the accelerator, and went gliding away into the night.
Jack had watched his every move. “That,” he whispered, “is about the easiest flying plane in the world. I could fly it right now.”
“So could—” The girl stopped, then added, “Yes, yes, I am sure you could.”
“I will, too,” Jack told himself, but did not say it aloud. No use telling too much.
They listened to the plane until its strange wail faded into nothing.
“He’s gone,” the girl said, half rising.
“I think he will be back,” Jack said, remaining in his place. “I want to find out all I can,” he added. The girl settled back in her place.
“That’s the fastest plane in the world,” Jack whispered. “I have seen it take off in daylight. In the air close to earth, it takes lots of fuel, but in the stratosphere, where other planes can’t travel because there’s no air for the propeller to bite into, this jet plane goes like the wind on just about no fuel at all.”
“O-o-o!” the girl murmured excitedly.
“They left a scrapbook telling all about it down there on the rocks,” he explained. “I got a look at it. Wish I’d taken it with me, but you see, I thought those first two men might be our friends. You don’t take books from friends.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed.
“Say!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Those natives are not your people.”
“They are not my people,” she agreed. “My home is far away. When you need to know more you shall be told. Is that fair?”
“Fair enough,” said the boy.
The jet plane came screaming back. Jack watched intently while the pilot put the ship to bed for the night. Then he said:
“We’d better go.”
When they reached the well-beaten trail he said, “Thanks a lot. I’ll be seeing you.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” she repeated. He went one way, she the other, into the night.
As he approached his own camp Jack saw no sign of life there. The fire had burned out. Nothing moved. All was silence and darkness.
“It’s like returning to an empty house at midnight,” he told himself.
Dark forebodings took possession of his mind. Had those original pilots of the jet plane told the others of their camp here on the island, and had the three Japs put an end to Stew’s carefree life?