stood in great rows like lines of automobiles in a garage.

Towards sundown the forward planes were manned and in quick
succession shot down the runways and took to the air. Ethel and her
companions were below air the time and hardly knew what was going
on. Their luggage had been taken up some time ago, except for an
extra kima, which they had been ordered to put on. In their turn
they were now called out and ordered to go above, that is, the names
of the men were called and Ethel knew that she was listed as Madame
Komoru, a thing that made her shiver every time it was brought to
her attention.

An exclamation or astonishment escaped the lips of the more
impulsive American girl as she came on deck; for as far as the eye
could see the gray flat tops of the war vessels were covered with
the drab-winged planes, while every few seconds a plane shot into
the air and joined an endless winged line that stretched away to the
northeast.

"Komoru eighty-five: Oshima eighty-six."

The intent of that command was clear and Ethel was soon settled
immediately behind the young secretary in the little bamboo car of a
Japanese plane-of-war.

The propeller started with a shrill musical hum; they raced down the
runway; dipped for a second toward the water; rose, and sailed
swiftly up and on toward the dark line of Mexico, that lay in the
evening shadow cast by the curved surface of the Pacific Ocean.