The pilot had a scratch extending from left shoulder to right hip. It was not deep. A miracle, in Dingo's view, when one smashes a B-25 into the Papua lowlands. This pilot's four crewmen didn't share the miracle. "Where are we?" asked the pilot. He was alert and able to move. The lowlands were an eternal swamp, but Dingo knew exactly what was land and what was water. "Roughly 6 kilometers southeast of Morobe. Too bloody close to the enemy for my comfort. So we head further in. It may be a bit wet, but it's not infested with Japanese." "Dingo, huh? You know, you don't sound Australian, exactly." The bushmaster smiled. "New Zealander father, English mother, actually. But you Americans seem to like the Aussies better. 'Dingo' buys me more beer." |
