In the steaming woods that crowd the engineer-made airdrome on Bataan, the monkeys chattered a tuneless obbligato to the bright-plumaged birds. Below them, sweating hard and grunting often, men in grease-stained coveralls worked over a handful of pursuit planes -the last, bullet-chipped remnant of Douglas MacArthur's Air Force. Now, after days of ingenious patching, the P-4Os were ready to fly.
From the north came the intermittent pop-popping of small-arms fire as patrols bumped and broke off again, but except for an occasional door-slamming bang from the guns the artillery was silent. In the woods...
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