The Thin Red Line

Part I

Dawn came, and passed, and still they waited. The roses and blues of the dawn light changed to the pearl and misty grays of early morning light. Of course everyone had been up, and nervously ready, since long before dawn. But for today Colonel Tall had requested a new artillery wrinkle. Because of yesterday's heavy repulse, Tall had asked for, and got, an artillery time-on-target "shoot." This device, an artillery technique left over from World War I, was a method of calculating so that the first rounds of every battery hit their various targets simultaneously. Under TOT fire men caught in the open would suddenly find themselves enveloped in a curtain of murderous fire without the usual warning of a few shells arriving early from the nearest guns. The thing to do was to wait a bit, play poker with them, try to catch them when they were out of their holes for breakfast or an early morning stretch. So they waited. Along the create the silent troops stared across a silent ravine to the silent hilltop, and the silent hill stared back.

C-for-Charlie, waiting with the assault companies on the slope below, could not even see this much. Nor did they care. They crouched over their weapons in total and unspeakable insularity, so many separate small islands. To their right and to their left A-for-Able and B-for-Baker did the same.

At exactly 22 minutes after first daylight Colonel Tall's requested TOT fire struck, an earthcracking, solidly tangible, continuous roar on Hill 210. The artillery fired three-minute concentrations at irregular intervals, hoping to catch the survivors out of their holes. Twenty minutes later, and before the barrage itself was ended, whistles began to blow along the crest of Hill 209.

The assault companies had no recourse except to begin to move. Minds cast frantically about for legitimate last-minute excuses, and found none. In the men themselves nervous fear and anxiety, contained so long and with such effort in order to appear brave, now began to come out in yelled exhortations and yelps of gross false enthusiasm. They moved up the slope; and in bunches, crouching low and carrying their rifles in one or both hands, they hopped over the crest and commenced to run sideways and crouching down the short forward slope to the flat, rocky ground in front. Men in the line shouted encouragement to them as they passed through. A small cheer, dwarfed by the distant mountains, rose and died. A few slapped some of them toughly on the shoulder as they went through. Men who would not die today winked lustily at men who, in some cases, would soon be dead. On C-for-Charlie's right 50 yards away A-for-Able was going through an identical ritual.

They were rested. At least, they were comparatively so; they had not had to stand watch one half of the night, and they had not been up on the line where jitters precluded sleep, but down below, protected. And they had been fed. And watered. If few of them had slept much, at least they were better off than the men on the line.

Corporal Fife was one of those who had slept the least. What with the rain, the total lack of shelter from the rain, and his nervous excitation about the morrow, he had only dozed once for about five minutes. But the loss of sleep did not bother him. He was young, and healthy, and fairly strong. In fact, he had never felt healthier or in better shape in his life; and earlier in the day, in the first gray of early light, he had stood forth upon the slope and, exuding energy and vitality, had looked a long time down the ravine as it fell and deepened toward the rear until he wanted to spread wide his arms with sacrifice and love of life and love of men. He didn't do it of course. There were men awake all round him. But he had wanted to. And now as he dropped over the ridge and into the beginning of the battle, he shot one swift look behind him, one last look, and found himself staring headon into the wide, brown, spectacle-covered eyes of Bugger Stein, who happened to be right behind him. What a hell of a last look! Fife thought sourly.

Stein thought he had never seen such a deep, dark, intense, angrily haunted look as that which Fife bent on him as they dropped over the ridge, and Stein thought it was directed at him. At him, personally. They two were almost the last to go. Only Sergeant Welsh and young Bead remained behind them. And when Stein looked back, they were coming, hunched low, chopping with their feet, sliding down the shale and dirt of the slope.

Stein's dispositions had been the same today as in the two previous days. They had done nothing much and he saw no reason to change the march order: 1st Platoon first, 2d Platoon second, 3d in reserve. One of the two machineguns went with each forward platoon; the mortars would stay with the Company HQ and the reserve. That was the way they had moved out. And as Stein slid to the bottom of 209's short forward slope he could see 1st Platoon pass out of sight beyond one of the little folds of ground which ran across their line of advance. They were about a hundred yards ahead and appeared to be deployed well.

There were three of these little folds in the ground. All of them were perpendicular to the south face of Hill 209, parallel to each other. It had been Stein's idea, when inspecting the terrain with Colonel Tall the evening before, to utilize these as cover by shoving off from the right end of the hill and then advancing left across them and across his own front -- instead of getting himself caught in the steeper ravine immediately between the two hills, as had happened to Fox Co. Tall had agreed to this.

Afterward, Stein had briefed his own officers on it. Kneeling just behind the crest with them in the fading light, he pointed it all out and they looked it over. Somewhere in the dusk a sniper's rifle had spat angrily. One by one they inspected it through binoculars. The third and furthest left of these three folds was about 150 yards from the beginning of the slope which became the Elephant's Neck. This slope steepened as it climbed to the U-shaped eminence of the Elephant's Head, which from 500 yards beyond commanded and brooded over the entire area. This 150-yards low area, as well as the third fold, was dominated by two lesser, grassy ridges growing out of the slope and 200 yards apart, one on either side of the low area. Both ridges were at right angles to the folds of ground and parallel to the line of advance. With these in their hands plus the Elephant's Head, the Japanese could put down a terrible fire over the whole approach area. Tall's plan was for the forward elements to move up onto these two ridges, locating and eliminating the hidden strong points there which had stopped 2d Battalion yesterday, and then with the reserve company to reinforce them, work their way up the Elephant's Neck to take the Head. This was the Bowling Alley. But there was no way to outflank it. On the left it fell in a precipitous slope to the river, and on the right the Japanese held the jungle in force. It had to be taken frontally. All of this Stein had lined out for his officers last evening. Now they were preparing to execute it.

Stein, at the bottom of the shale slope, could see very little of anything. A great racketing of noise had commenced and hung everywhere in the air without seeming to have any source. Part of course was due to his own side firing all along the line, and the bombardment and the mortars. Perhaps the Japanese were firing too now. But he could see no visual signs of it. What time was it, anyway? Stein looked at his watch, and its little face stared back at him with an intensity it had never had before. 6:45; a quarter to seven in the morning. Back home he would be just -- Stein realized he had never really seen his watch. He forced himself to put his arm down. Directly in front of him his reserve 3d Platoon was spread out and flattened behind the first of the three little folds of ground. With them were the Company HQ and the mortar section. Most of them were looking at him with faces as intense as his watch's face. Stein ran crouching over to them, his equipment bouncing and banging on him, shouting for them to set up the mortars there, motioning with his hand. Then he realized that he could only just barely hear his own voice himself, with all this banging and racketing of doom bouncing around in the air. How could they hear him? He wondered how the 1st Platoon -- and the 2d -- were doing, and how he could see.

The 1st Platoon, at that particular moment, was spread out and flattened behind the middle of the three little folds of ground. Behind it the 2d Platoon was spread out and flattened in the low between the folds. Nobody really wanted to move. Young Lt Whyte had already looked over the area between this fold and the third and seen nothing, and he already had motioned for his two scouts to proceed there. Now he motioned to them again, using an additional hand-and-arm signal meaning "speed." The booming and banging and racketing in the air was bothering Whyte, too. It did not seem to come from any one place or several places, but simply hung and jounced in the air, sourceless. He too could see no visual end results of so much banging and exploding. His two scouts still not having moved, Whyte became angry and opened his mouth and bellowed at them, motioning again. They could not hear him of course, but he knew they could see the black open hole of his mouth. Both of them stared at him as though they thought him insane for even suggesting such a thing, but this time, after a moment, they moved. Almost side by side they leaped up, crossed the crest of the little fold, and ran crouching down to the low where they flattened themselves. After a moment they leaped up again, one a little behind the other, and ran bent almost double to the top of the last fold and fell flat. After another moment and a perfunctory peek over its top, they motioned Whyte to come on. Whyte jumped up making a sweeping forward motion with his arm and ran forward, his platoon behind him. As the 1st Platoon moved, making the crossing as the scouts had: in two rushes, the 2d (continued on page 42) Thin Red Line (continued from page 40) Platoon moved to the top of the middle fold.

Back at the first fold of ground Stein had seen this move and been a little reassured by it. Creeping close to the top of the fold among his men, he had raised himself to his knees to see, his face and whole patches of his skin twitching with mad alarm in an effort to call his insanity to his attention. When nothing hit him immediately, he stayed up, standing on his knees, to see 1st Platoon leave the middle fold and arrive at the crest of the third. At least they had got that far. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He lay back down, feeling quite proud, and realized his flattened men around him had been staring at him intently. He felt even prouder. Behind him, in the low of the fold, the mortar squads were setting up their mortars. Crawling back to them through the infernal racketing still floating loose in the air, he shouted in Culp's ear for him to make the lefthand grassy ridge his target. At the mortars Private Mazzi, the Italian boy from the Bronx, stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. So did most of the others. Stein crawled back to the top of the fold. He arrived, and raised himself, just in time to see 1st Platoon and then 2d Platoon attack. He was the only man along the top of the first fold who did see it, because he was the only man who was not flattened on the ground. He bit his lip. Even from here he could tell that it was bad, a serious tactical blunder.

If tactical blunder it was, the fault was Whyte's. First Whyte, and secondly, Lt Tom Blane of the 2d Platoon. Whyte had arrived at the top of the third and last fold of ground without a casualty. This in itself seemed strange to him, if not highly overoptimistic. He knew his orders: he was to locate and eliminate the hidden strong points on the two grassy ridges. The nearest of these, the righthand one, had its rather sharply defined beginnings about 80 yards to his right front. While his men flattened themselves and stared at him with intense sweating faces, he raised himself cautiously on his elbows till only his eyes showed, and inspected the terrain. Before him the ground fell, sparsely grassed and rocky, until it reached the beginnings of the little ridge, where it immediately became thickly grassed with the brown, waist-high grass. He could not see anything that looked like Japanese or their emplacements. Whyte was scared, but his anxiety to do well today was stronger. He did not really believe he would be killed in this war. Briefly he glanced over his shoulder to the ridge of Hill 209 where groups of men stood half-exposed, watching. One of them was the corps commander. The loud banging and racketing hanging sourceless in the air had abated somewhat, had raised itself a few yards, after the lifting of the barrage from the little ridges to the Elephant's Head. Again Whyte looked at the terrain and then motioned his scouts forward.

Once again the two riflemen stared at him as though they thought he had lost his mind, as though they would have liked to reason with him if they hadn't feared losing their reputations. Again Whyte motioned them forward, jerking his arm up and down in the signal for speed. The men looked at each other, then, gathering themselves on hands and knees first, bounced up and sprinted 25 yards down into the low area and fell flat. After a moment in which they inspected and found themselves still alive, they gathered themselves again. On hands and knees, preparing to rise, the first one suddenly fell down flat and bounced; the second, a little way behind him, got a little further up so that when he fell he tumbled on his shoulder and rolled onto his back. And there they lay, both victims of well placed rifle shots by unseen riflemen. Neither moved again. Both were obviously dead. Whyte stared at them shocked. He had known them almost four months. He had heard no shots nor had he seen anything move. No bullets kicked up dirt anywhere in front. Again he stared at the quiet, masked face of the deserted little ridge.

What was he supposed to do now? The high, sourceless racketing in the air seemed to have gotten a little louder. Whyte, who was a meaty, big young man, had been a champion boxer and champion judoman at his university where he was preparing himself to be a marine biologist, as well as having been the school's best swimmer. Anyway, they can't get all of us, he thought loyally, but meaning principally himself, and made his decision.

"Come on, boys! Let's go get 'em!" he yelled and leaped to his feet motioning the platoon forward. He took two steps, the platoon with their bayonets fixed since early morning right behind him, and fell down dead, stitched diagonally from hip to shoulder by bullets, one of which exploded his heart. He had just time enough to think that something had hurt him terribly, not even enough to think that he was dead, before he was. Perhaps he screamed.

Five others of his platoon went down with him almost simultaneously, in various states of disrepair, some dead, some only nicked. But the impetus Whyte had inaugurated remained, and the platoon charged blindly on. Another impetus would be needed to stop it or change its direction. A few more men went down. Invisible rifles and machineguns hammered from what seemed to be every quarter of the globe. After reaching the two dead scouts, they came in range of the more distant left ridge, which took them with a heavy crossfire. Sergeant Big Queen, running with the rest and bellowing incoherently, and who had only been promoted two days before after the defection of Stack, watched the platoon sergeant, a man named Grove, throw his rifle from him as though he feared it, and go down hollering and clawing at his chest. Queen did not even think about it. Near him Pfc Doll ran too, blinking his eyes rapidly as though this might protect him. His mind had with-drawn completely in terror, and he did not think at all. Doll's sense of personal invulnerability was having a severe test, but had not as yet, like Whyte's, failed. They were past the dead scouts now. More men on the left were beginning to go down. And behind them over the top of the third fold, suddenly, came the 2d Platoon in full career, yelling hoarsely.

This was the responsibility of 2d Lt Blane. It was not a particularly complex responsibility. It had nothing to do with envy, jealousy, paranoia, or suppressed self-destruction. He too, like Whyte, knew what his orders were, and he had promised Bill Whyte he would back him up and help him out. He too knew the corps commander was watching, and he too wanted to do well today. Not as athletic as his fellow worker, but more imaginative, more sensitive, he too leaped up and motioned his men forward, when he saw 1st Platoon move. He could see the whole thing finished in his imagination: himself and Whyte and their men standing atop the bombed out bunkers in proper triumph, the position captured. He too died on the forward slope but not at the crest like Whyte. It took several seconds for the still-hidden Japanese gunners to raise their fire, and 2d Platoon was 10 yards down the gentle little slope before it was unleashed against them. Nine men fell at once. Two died and one of them was Blane. Not touched by a machinegun, he unluckily was chosen as target by three separate riflemen, none of whom knew about the others or that he was an officer, and all of whom connected. He bounced another five yards forward, and with three bullets through his chest cavity did not die right away. He lay on his back and, dreamily and quite numb, stared at the high, beautiful, pure white cumuli which sailed like stately ships across the sunny, cool blue tropic sky. It hurt him a little when he breathed. He was dimly aware that he might possibly die as he became unconscious.

2d Platoon had just reached the two dead 1st Platoon scouts when mortar shells began to drop in onto the 1st Platoon 25 yards ahead. First two, then a (continued on page 50) Thin Red Line (continued from page 42) single, then three together popped up in unbelievable mushrooms of dirt and stones. Shards and pieces whickered and whirred in the air. It was the impetus needed either to change the direction of the blind charge or to stop it completely. It did both. In the 2d Platoon S/Sgt Keck, watched by everyone now with Lt Blane down, threw out his arms holding his rifle at the balance, dug in his heels and bellowed in a voice like the combined voices of 10 men for them to "Hit dirt!" Hit dirt!" 2d Platoon needed no urging. Running men melted into the earth as if a strong wind had come up and blown them over like dried stalks.

In the 1st Platoon, less lucky, reaction varied. On the extreme right the line had reached the first beginning slope of the righthand ridge, long hillock really, and a few men -- perhaps a squad -- turned and dove into the waist-high grass there, defilading themselves from the hidden MGs above them as well as protecting them from the mortars. On the far left that end had much further to go, 70 yards more, to reach dead space under the lefthand ridge; but a group of men tried to make it. None of them reached it, however. They were hosed to earth and hiding by the machineguns above them, or bowled over stunned by the mortars, before they could defilade themselves from the MGs or get close enough to them to escape the mortars. Just to the left of the center was the attached machinegun squad from Culp's platoon, allowed to join the charge by Whyte through forgetfulness or for some obscure tactical reason of his own, all five of whom, running together, were knocked down by the same mortar shell, gun and tripod and ammo boxes all going every which way and bouncing end over end, although not one of the five was wounded by it. These marked the furthest point of advance. On the extreme left five or six riflemen were able to take refuge in a brushy draw at the foot of Hill 209 which, a little further down, became the deep ravine where Fox and George had been trapped and hit yesterday. These men began to fire at the two grassy ridges although they could see no targets.

In the center of 1st Platoon's line there were no defilades or draws to run to. The middle, before the mortars stopped them, had run itself right on down and out onto the dangerous low area, where they could not only be enfiladed by the ridges but could also be hit by MG plunging fire from Hill 210 itself. Here there was nothing to do but get down and hunt holes. Fortunately the TOT barrage had searched here as well as on the hillocks, and there were 105 and 155 holes available. Men jostled each other for them, shared them. The late Lt Whyte's 19th Century charge was over. The mortar rounds continued to drop here and there across the area, searching flesh, searching bone.

Private John Bell of the 2d Platoon lay sprawled exactly as his body had skidded to a halt, without moving a muscle. He could not see because his eyes were shut, but he listened. On the little ridges the prolonged yammering of the MGs had stopped and now confined itself to short bursts at specific targets. Here and there wounded men bellowed, whined or whimpered. Bell's face was turned left, his cheek pressed to the ground, and he tried not even to breathe too conspicuously for fear of calling attention to himself. Cautiously he opened his eyes, half afraid the movement of eyelids would be seen by a machine-gunner a hundred yards away, and found himself staring into the open eyes of the 1st Platoon's first scout lying dead five yards to Bell's left. This was, or had been, a young Graeco-Turkish draftee named Kral. Kral was noted for two things, the ugliest bentnosed face in the regiment and the thickest glasses in C-for-Charlie. That with such a myopia he could be a scout was a joke of the company. But Kral had volunteered for it; he wanted to be where the action was, he said; in peace or in war. A hep kid from Jersey, he had nevertheless believed the four-color propaganda leaflets. He had not known that the profession of first scout of a rifle platoon was a thing of the past and belonged in the Indian Wars, not to the massed divisions, superior firepower, and tighter social control of today. First target, the term should be, not first scout, and now the big glasses still reposed on his face. They had not fallen off. But something about their angle, at least from where Bell lay, magnified the open eyes until they filled the entire lenses. Bell could not help staring fixedly at them, and they stared back with a vastly wise and tolerant amusement. The more Bell stared at them the more he felt them to be holes into the center of the universe and that he might fall in through them to go drifting down through starry space amongst galaxies and spiral nebulae and island universes. He remembered he used to think of his wife's c------ like that, in a more pleasant way. Forcibly Bell shut his eyes. But he was afraid to move his head, and whenever he opened them again, there Kral's eyes were, staring at him their droll and flaccid message of amiable good will, sucking at him dizzyingly. And wherever he looked they followed him, pleasantly but stubbornly. From above, invisible but there, the fiery sun heat of the tropic day heated his head inside his helmet, making his soul limp. Bell had never known such eviscerating, ballshrinking terror. Some-where out of his sight another mortar shell exploded. But in general the day seemed to have become very quiet. His arm with his watch on it lay within his range of vision, he noticed. My God! Was it only 7:45? Defeatedly he let his eyes go back where they wanted: to Kral's. Here lies four-eyes Kral, died for something. When one of Kral's huge eyes winked at him waggishly, he knew in desperation he had to do something, although he had been lying there only 30 seconds. Without moving, his cheek still pressed to earth, he yelled loudly.

"Hey, Keck!" He waited. "Hey, Keck! We got to get out of here!"

"I know it," came the muffled answer. Keck was obviously lying with his head turned the other way and had no intention of moving it.

"What'll we do?"

"Well ..." There was silence while Keck thought. It was interrupted by a high, quavery voice from a long way off.

"We know you there, Yank. Yank, we know you there."

"Tojo eats s------!" Keck yelled. He was answered by an angry burst of machinegun fire. "Roozover' eats------!" the faraway voice screamed.

"You goddam right he does!" some frightened Republican called from Bell's blind right side. When the firing stopped, Bell called again.

"What'll we do, Keck?"

"Listen," came the muffled answer. "All you guys listen. Pass it along so everybody knows." He waited and there was a muffled chorus. "Now get this. When I holler go, everybody up. Load and lock and have a nuther clip in yore hand. 1st and 3d Squads stay put, kneeling position, and fire covering fire. 2d and 4th Squads hightail it back over that little fold. 1st and 3d Squads fire two clips, then scoot. 2d and 4th fire covering fire from that fold. If you can't see nothin, fire searching fire. Space yore shots. Them positions is somewhere about halfway up them ridges. Everybody fire at the righthand ridge which is closer. You got that?"

He waited while everyone muffledly tried to assure themselves that everybody else knew.

"Everybody got it?" Keck called muffledly. There were no answers. "Then -- GO!" he bellowed.

The slope came to life. Bell, in the 2d Squad, did not even bother with the brave man's formality of looking about to see if the plan was working, but instead squirmed around and leaped up running, his legs already pistoning before the leap came down to earth. Safe beyond the little fold of ground, which by now had taken on characteristics of (continued on page 68) Thin Red Line (continued from page 50) huge size, he whirled and began to fire cover, terribly afraid of being stitched across the chest like Lt Whyte who lay only a few yards away. Methodically he drilled his shots into the dun hillside which still hid the invisible, yammering MGs, one round to the right, one to the left, one to center, one to the left ... He could not believe that any of them might actually hit somebody. If one did, what a nowhere way to go: killed by accident; slain not as an individual but by sheer statistical probability, by the calculated chance of searching fire, even as he himself might be at any moment. Mathematics! Mathematics! Algebra! Geometry! When 1st and 3d Squads came diving and tumbling back over the tiny crest. Bell was content to throw himself prone, press his cheek to the earth, shut his eyes, and lie there. God, oh, God! Why am I here? Why am I here? After a moment's thought, he decided he better change it to: why are we here. That way, no agency of retribution could exact payment from him for being selfish.

Apparently Keck's plan had worked very well. 2d and 4th Squads, having the surprise, had gotten back untouched; and 1st and 3d Squads had had only two men hit. Bell had been looking right at one of them. Running hard with his head down, the man (a boy, named Kline) had jerked his head up suddenly, his eyes wide with start and fright, and cried out "Oh!," his mouth a round pursed hole in his face, and had gone down. Sick at himself for it, Bell had felt laughter burbling up in his chest. He did not know whether Kline was killed or wounded. The MGs had stopped yammering. Now, in the comparative quiet and 50 yards to their front, 1st Platoon was down and invisible amongst their shell holes and sparse grass. Anguished, frightened cries of "Medic! Medic!" were beginning to be raised now here and there across the field, and 2d Platoon having escaped were slowly realizing that they were not after all very safe even here.

Back at the CP behind the first fold Stein was not alone in seeing the tumbling, pellmell return of the 2d Platoon to the third fold. Seeing that their Captain could safely stand up on his knees without being pumped full of holes or mangled, others were now doing it. He was setting them pretty good example, Stein thought, still a little astonished by his own bravery. They were going to need medics up there, he decided, and called his two company aidmen to him.

"You two fellows better get on up there," Stein yelled to them above the racket. "I expect they need you." That sounded calm and good.

"Yes, sir," one of them said. That was the scholarly, bespectacled one, the senior. They looked at each other seriously.

"I'll try to get stretcherbearers to the low between here and the second fold, to help you," Stein shouted. "See if you can't drag them back that far." He stood up on his knees again to peer forward, at where now and then single mortar shells geysered here and there beyond the third fold. "Go by rushes if you think you have to," he added inconclusively. They disappeared.

"I need a runner." Stein bawled, looking toward the line of his men who had had both the sense and the courage to climb to their knees in order to see. All of them heard him, because the whole little line rolled their eyes to look at him or turned toward him their heads. But not a single figure moved to come forward or answered him. Stein stared back at them, disbelieving. He was aware he had misjudged them completely, and he felt like a damned fool. He had expected to be swamped by volunteers. A sinking terror took hold of him: if he could be that wrong about this, what else might he not be wrong about? His enthusiasm had betrayed him. To save face he looked away, trying to pretend he had not expected anything. But it wasn't soon enough and he knew they knew. Not quite sure what to do next, he was saved the trouble of deciding: a wraithlike, ghostly figure appeared at his elbow.

"I'll go, sir."

It was Charlie Dale the second cook, scowling with intensity, his face dark and excited.

Stein told him what he wanted about the stretcherbearers, and then watched him go trotting off bent over at the waist toward the slope of Hill 209 which he would have to climb. Stein had no idea where he had been, or where he had come from so suddenly. He could not remember seeing him all day today until now. Certainly he had not been one of the line of kneeling standees. Stein looked back at them, somewhat restored. Dale. He must remember that.

There were now 12 men standing on their knees along the little fold of ground, trying to see what was going on up front. Young Corporal Fife was not, however, one of these. Fife was one of the ones who stayed flattened out, and he was as absolutely flattened as the could get. While Stein stood above him on his knees observing, Fife lay with his knees drawn up and his ear to the soundpower phone Stein had given him care of, and he did not care if he never stood up or ever saw anything. Earlier, when Stein had first done it with his stupid pleased pride shining all over his face, Fife had forced himself to stand straight up on his knees for several seconds, in order that no one might tag him with the title of coward. But he felt that was enough. Anyway, his curiosity was not at all piqued. All he had seen, when he did get up, was the top two feet of a dirt mushroom from a mortar shell landing beyond the third fold. What the f------ was so great about that? Suddenly a spasm of utter hopelessness shook Fife. Helplessness, that was what he felt; complete helplessness. He was as helpless as if agents of his government had bound him hand and foot and delivered him here and then gone back to wherever it was good agents went. Maybe a Washington cocktail bar, with lots of broads all around. And here he lay, as bound and tied by his own mental processes and social indoctrination as if they were ropes, simply because while he could admit to himself privately that he was a coward, he did not have the guts to admit it publicly. It was agonizing. He was reacting exactly as the smarter minds of his society had anticipated he would react. They were ahead of him all down the line. And he was powerless to change. It was frustrating, maddening, like a brick wall all around him that he could neither bust through nor leap over and at the same time -- making it even worse -- there was his knowledge that there was really no wall at all. If early this morning he had been full of self-sacrifice, he now no longer was. He did not want to be here. He did not want to be here at all. He wanted to be over there where the generals were standing up on the ridge in complete safety, watching. Sweating with fear and an unbelievable tension of doublemindedness, Fife looked over at them and if looks of hatred could kill they would all have fallen down dead and the campaign would be over until they shipped in some new ones. If only he could go crazy. Then he would not be responsible. Why couldn't he go crazy? But he couldn't. The un-stone of the stone wall immediately rose up around him denying him exit. He could only lie here and be stretched apart on this rack of double-mindedness. Off to the right, some yards beyond the last man of the reserve platoon, Fife's eyes recorded for him the images of Sergeants Welsh and Storm crouched behind a small rock outcrop. As he watched, Storm raised his arm and pointed. Welsh snaked his rifle onto the top of the rock and cheeking the stock, fired off five shots. Both peered. Then they looked at each other and shrugged. It was an easily understood little pantomime. Fife fell into an intense rage. Cowboys and Indians! Cowboys and Indians! Everybody's playing cowboys and Indians! just as if these weren't real bullets, and you couldn't really get killed. Fife's head burned with a fury so intense that it threatened to blow all his mental fuses right out (continued on page 108) Thin Red Line (continued from page 68) through his ears in two bursts of black smoke. His rage was broken off short, snapped off at the hilt as it were, by the buzzing whistle of the soundpower phone in his ear.

Startled, Fife cleared his throat, shocked into wondering whether he could still talk, after so long. It was the first time he had tried a word since leaving the ridge. It was also the first time he had ever heard this damn phone thing work. He pushed the button and cupped it to his mouth. "Yes?" he said cautiously.

"What do you mean, 'yes'?" a calm cold voice said, and waited.

Fife hung suspended in a great empty black void, trying to think. What had he meant? "I mean this is Charlie Cat Seven," he said, remembering the code jargon. "Over."

"That's better," the calm voices said. "This is Seven Cat Ace." That meant 1st Battalion, the HQ. "Colonel Tall here. I want Captain Stein. Over."

"Yes, sir," Fife said. "He's right here."

He reached up one arm to tug at the skirt of Stein's green fatigue blouse. Stein looked down, staring, as if he had never seen Fife before, Or anybody else.

"Colonel Tall wants you."

Stein lay down (glad to flatten himself, Fife noted with satisfaction) and took the phone. Despite the racketing din overhead, both he and Fife beside him could hear the Colonel clearly.

When he accepted the phone and pushed down the button, Bugger Stein was already casting about for his explanations. He had not expected to be called upon to recite so soon, and he had not prepared his lessons. What he could say would of course depend on Tall's willingness to allow any explanation at all. He could not help being a guilty schoolboy about to be birched. "Charlie Cat Seven. Stein," he said. "Over." He released the button.

What he heard astounded him to speechlessness.

"Magnificent, Stein, magnificent. "Tall's clear cold calm boyish voice came to him -- came to both of them -- rimed over with a crust of clear cold boyish enthusiasm. "The finest thing these old eyes have seen in a long time. In a month of Sundays." Stein had a vivid mental picture of Tall's closecropped, boyish, Anglo-Saxon head and unlined, Anglo-Saxon face. Tall was less than two years older than Stein. His clear, innocent, boyish eyes were the youngest Stein had seen in some time. "Beautifully conceived and beautifully executed. You'll be mentioned in Battalion Orders, Stein. Your men came through for you beautifully. Over."

Stein pressed the button, managed a weak "Yes, sir. Over," and released the button. He could not think of anything else to say.

"Best sacrificial commitment to develop a hidden position I have ever seen outside maneuvers. Young Whyte led beautifully. I'm mentioning him, too. I saw him go down in that first melee. Was he hurt very bad? But sending in your 2d too was brilliant. They might very well have carried both subsidiary ridges with luck. I dont think they were hurt too bad. Blane led well, too. His withdrawal was very old pro. How many of the emplacements did they locate? Did they knock out any? We ought to have those ridges cleaned out by noon. Over."

Stein listened, rapt, staring into the eyes of Fife who listened also, staring back. For Fife the calm, pleasant, conversational tone of Col Tall was both maddening and terrifying. And for Stein it was like hearing a radio report on the fighting in Africa which he knew nothing about. Once in school his father had called him long distance to brag about a good report card which Stein had thought would be bad. Neither listener betrayed what he thought to the other, and the silence lengthened.

"Hello? Hello? Hello, Stein? Over?"

Stein pressed the button. "Yes. sir. Here, sir. Over." Stein released the button.

"Thought you'd been hit," Tall's voice came back matter-of-factly. "I said, how many of the emplacements did they locate? And did they knock any of them out? Over."

Stein pressed the button, staring into the wide eyes of Fife as if he might see Tall on the other side of them. "I dont know. Over." He released the button.

"What do you mean you dont know? How can you not know?" Tall's cool, calm, conversational voice said. "Over."

Stein was in a quandary. He could admit what both he and Fife knew, or perhaps Fife did not know, which was that he knew nothing about Whyte's attack, had not ordered it, and until now had believed it bad. Or he could continue to accept credit for it and try to explain his ignorance of its results. He could not, of course, know that Tall would latter change his opinion. With a delicacy of sensibility Stein had never expected to see at all in the army, and certainly not on the field under fire, Fife suddenly lowered his eyes and looked away, half turned his head. He was still listening, but at least he was pretending not to.

Stein pressed the button, which was a necessity, but which was beginning to madden him. "I'm back here," he said sharply. "Behind the third fold.

"Do you want me to stand up? And wave? So you can see me?" he added with caustic anger. "Over."

"No," Tall's voice said calmly, the irony lost on him. "I can see where you are. I want you to do something. I want you to get up there and see what the situation is, Stein. I want Hill 210 in my hands tonight. And to do that I have to have those two ridges by noon. Have you forgotten the corps commander is here observing today? He's got Admiral Barr with him, flown in specially. The Admiral got up at dawn for this. I want you to come to life down there. Stein." he said crisply. "Over and out."

Stein continued to listen, gripping the phone and staring off furiously, though he knew nothing more was forthcoming. Finally he reached out and tapped Fife and gave it to him. Fife took it in silence. Stein rolled to his feet and ran crouching back down to where the mortars were periodically firing off rounds with their weird, other-world, lingering gonglike sound.

"Doing any good?" he bellowed in Gulp's ear.

"We're getting bursts on both ridges." Gulp bellowed back in his amiable way. "I decided to put one tube onto the right ridge," he said parenthetically, and then shrugged. "But I dont know if we're doin any damage. If they're dug in ----" He let it trail off and shrugged again.

"I've decided to move forward to the second fold," Stein yelled. "Will that be too close for you?"

Culp strode three paces forward up the shallow slope and craned his neck to see over the crest, squinting. He came back. "No. It's pretty close, but I think we can still hit. But we're running pretty low on ammo. If we keep on firing at this rate ----" Again he shrugged.

"Send everybody but your sergeants back for fresh ammo. All they can carry. Then follow us."

"They dont any of them like to carry them aprons," Culp yelled. "They all say if they get hit with one of those things on them ..."

"God damn it, Bob! I can't be bothered with a thing like that at a time like this! They knew what they were gonna have to carry!"

"I know it." Culp shrugged. "Where do you want me?"

Stein thought. "On the right, I guess. If they locate you, they'll try to hit you. I want you away from the reserve platoon. I'll give you a few riflemen in case they try to send a patrol in on our flank. Anything that looks like more than a patrol, you let me know quick."

"Dont worry!" Culp said. He turned to his squads. Stein trotted off to the right, where he had seen Al Gore, Lt of his 3d Platoon, motioning at the same time for Sgt Welsh to come over to him. Welsh came, followed by Storm, for the orders conference. Even Welsh. Stein noticed parenthetically, even Welsh had that strained, intent, withdrawn look on his face -- like a greasy patina of guilty wishful thinking.

While 3d Platoon and Stein's Company HQ were trooping forward in two parallel single files in their move to the second fold, the 1st Platoon continued to lie in its shell holes. After the first crash and volley and thunder of mortars they all had expected to be dead in five minutes. Now, it seemed unbelievable but the Japanese did not seem to be able to see them very well. Now and then a bullet or a burst zipped by low overhead, followed in a second or so by the sound of its firing. Mortar rounds still sighed down on them, exploding with roaring mushrooms of terror and dirt. But in general the Japanese seemed to be waiting for something. 1st Platoon was willing to wait with them. Leaderless, pinned down, pressing its hands and sweating faces to the dirt, 1st Platoon was willing to wait forever and never move again. Many prayed and promised God they would go to church services every Sunday. But slowly, they began to realize that they could move around, could fire back, that death was not a foregone conclusion and inevitable for all.

The medics helped with this. The two company aidmen, given their orders by Stein, had moved up amongst 2d Platoon along the third fold, and had begun little sorties out onto the shallow slope after wounded. In all there were 15 wounded men, and six dead. The two aidmen did not bother with the dead, but slowly they retrieved for the stretcher-bearers all of the wounded. With insouciance, sober, serious and bespectacled, the two of them moved up and down the slope, bandaging and salting, dragging and half-carrying. Mortar shells knocked them down, MG fire kicked up dirt around them, but nothing touched them. Both would be dead before the week was out (and replaced by types much less admired in C-for-Charlie), but for now they clumped untouchably on, two sobersides concerned with aiding the sobbing, near-helpless men it was their official duty to aid. Eventually enough 1st Platoon men raised their heads high enough to see them, and realized movement was possible -- at least, as long as they did not all stand up in a body and wave and shout "Here we are!" Not one of them had as yet seen a single Japanese.

It was Doll who saw the first ones. Sensing the movement around him as men began to stir and call softly to each other, Doll took his bruised confidence in hand and raised his head until his eyes showed above the slight depression into which he had sprawled. He happened to come up looking at the rear of the little lefthand ridge, just where it joined the rocky rim slope up to Hill 210. He saw three figures carrying what could only be a machinegun still attached to its tripod start across the slope back toward Hill 210, running bent over at the waist in the same identical way he himself had run up here. Doll was astounded and did not believe it. They were about 200 yards away, and the two men behind ran together carrying the gun, while the man in front simply ran, carrying nothing. Doll slid his rifle up, raised the sight four clicks and, lying with only his left arm and shoulder outside his little hole, sighted on the man in front, leading him a little, and squeezed off a shot. The rifle bucked his shoulder and the man went down. The two men behind jumped sideways together, like a pair of skittish, delicately coordinated horses, and ran on. They did not drop the gun, and they did not lose a stride or even get out of step. Doll fired again and missed. He realized his mistake now: if he had hit one of the men with the MG, they'd have had to drop it and leave it or else stop to pick it up. Before he could fire a third time they were in among the rocks on the rim, beyond which the steep precipice fell to the river. Doll could see their backs or heads from time to time as they went on, but never long enough to shoot. The other man remained where he had fallen on the slope.

So Doll had killed his first Japanese. For that matter, his first human being of any kind. Doll had hunted quite a lot, and he could remember his first deer. But this was an experience which required extra tasting. Like getting screwed the first time, it was too complex to be classed solely as pride of accomplishment. Shooting well, at anything, was always a pleasure. And Doll hated the Japanese, dirty little yellow Jap bastards, and would gladly have killed personally every one of them if the US Army and Navy would only arrange him a safe opportunity and supply him the ammo. But beyond these two pleasures there was another. It had to do with guilt. Doll felt guilty. He couldn't help it. He had killed a human being, a man. He had done the most horrible thing a human could do, worse than rape even. And nobody in the whole damned world could say anything to him about it. That was where the pleasure came.... He felt stupid and cruel and mean and vastly superior. It certainly had helped his confidence anyway, that was for sure.

Just then a mortar shell sighed down for a half-second and 10 yards away exploded a fountain of terror and dirt, and Doll discovered his confidence hadn't been helped so much after all. Before he could think he had jerked himself and his rifle down onto the floor of his little depression and curled up there, fear running like heavy threads of quicksilver through all his arteries and veins as if they were glass thermometers. After a moment he wanted to raise back up and look again but found that he couldn't. What if just as he put up his head another one exploded and a piece of it took him square between the eyes, or knifed into his face, or ripped through his helmet and split his skull? The prospect was too much. After a while, after his breathing had quieted, he again put his head up to the eye level. This time there were four Japanese preparing to leave the grassy ridge for the uphill road to Hill 210. They came into sight from somewhere on the ridge already running. Two carried the gun, another carried handled boxes, the fourth had nothing. Doll pulled his rifle up into position and aimed for the gun-carriers. As the party crossed the open space, he fired four times and missed each time. They disappeared into the rocks.

Doll was so furious he could have bitten a piece out of his own arm. While cursing himself, he remembered he had now fired six rounds. He released the clip and replaced it with a fresh one, sliding the two unused rounds into his pants pocket, then settled down to wait for more Japanese. Only then did he realize that what he was watching might have more implication and importance than whether he got himself another Jap.

"Hey, Queen!"

After a moment, there was a muffled answer. "Yeah?"

"Did you see them Japs leavin that left ridge?"

"I aint been seen much of nothin," Queen called with muffled honesty.

"Well, why dont you get your f------in head up and look around?" Doll could not resist the gibe. He suddenly felt very powerful and in command of himself, almost gay.

"Go f------yourself, Doll," was Queen's muffled answer.

"No, Sarge," (he used the title deliberately), "I'm serious. I counted seven Japs leavin that lefthand grassy ridge. I got me one of them," he added modestly without, however, mentioning how many times he'd missed.

"So?"

"I think they're pullin out of there. Maybe somebody ought to tell Bugger Stein."

"You want to be the one?" Queen called back with muffled sarcasm.

The idea had not occurred to Doll. Now it did. He had already seen the two aidmen moving about on the slope, and apparently nothing had happened to them. He could see them now, simply by turning his head a little. "Why not?" he called cheerfully. "Sure. I'll carry the message back to Bugger for you." Suddenly his heart was beating in his throat.

"You'll do no such a goddam f------ing thing," Queen called "You'll stay right the f------ where you are and shut up. That's an order."

Doll did not answer for a moment. Slowly his heart returned to normal. He had offered and been refused. He had committed himself and been freed But something else was driving him, something he could not put a name to. "Okay," he called.

"They'll get us out of this in a little bit. Somebody will. You stay put. I'm ordering you."

"I said okay," Doll called. But the thing that was driving him, eating on him, didn't recede. He had a strange tingling all through his belly and crotch. Off to the right there was a sudden burst of the MG fire his ear now knew as Japanese, and immediately after it a cry of pain. "Aidman! Aidman!" somebody called. It sounded like Stearns. No, it wasn't all that easy. In spite of the two aidmen moving all around. The tingling in Doll got stronger and his heart began to pound again. He had never in his life been excited quite like this. Somebody had to get that news to Bugger. Somebody had to be a -- hero. He had already killed one man, if you could call a Jap a man. And nobody, not a single soul in the world, could touch him for it, not a single soul. Doll raised his left eyebrow and pulled up his lip in that special grin of his.

He did not wait for Big Queen, or bother with his permission. When he had squirmed himself around facing the rear, he lay a moment lifting himself to the act, his heart pounding. He could not quite bring himself to begin to move. But he knew he would. There was something else in it, also. In what it was that was driving, pulling him to do it. It was like facing God. Or gambling with Luck. It was taking a dare from the Universe. It excited him more than all the hunting, gambling and f------ing he had ever done all rolled together. When he went, he was up in a flash and running, not at full speed, but at about half speed which was better controlled, bent over, his rifle in both hands, even as the Japanese he himself had downed. A bullet kicked up dirt two feet to his left and he zigged right. Ten yards further on he zagged left. Then he was over the third fold into the 2d Platoon, who stared at him uncomprehendingly. Doll giggled. He found Capt Bugger Stein behind the second fold where he had just arrived, ran almost headon into him in fact and did not even have to hunt. He was hardly even winded.

1st Sgt Welsh was crouching with Stein and Band behind the crest of the second fold, when Doll came trotting up, bent over, giggling and laughing, so out of breath he could not talk. Welsh, who had always disliked Doll for a punk, and still did, thought he looked like a young recruit coming giggling out of a whorehouse after the first real f------ of his life, and he eyed him narrowly, wanting to know why.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Stein snapped.

"At the way I fooled them yellow bastards shooting at me," Doll gasped, giggling, but soon subsided before Stein's gaze.

Welsh, with the others, listened to his story of the seven Japanese and two guns he had seen leaving the left ridge. "I think they're pullin completely out of there, sir."

"Who sent you back here?" Stein said.

"Nobody, sir. I came myself. I thought it was something you'd want to know."

"You were right. It is." Stein nodded his head sternly. Welsh, watching him from where he crouched, wanted to spit. Bugger was acting very much the company commander, today. "And I won't forget it, Doll."

Doll did not answer, but he grinned. Stein, on one knee, was now rubbing his unshaven chin and blinking his eyes behind his glasses. Doll was still standing straight up.

"God damn it, get down," Stein said irritably.

Doll looked around leisurely, then consented to squat, since it was obviously an order.

"George," Stein said, "get a man with glasses and have him spot the back of that ridge. I want to know the second anybody leaves it. Here," he said, removing his own, "take mine."

"I'll do it myself," Band said, and bared his teeth in a brilliant-eyed, weird smile. He took off.

Stein looked after him a long moment, and Welsh wanted to laugh. Stein turned back to Doll and began to question him about the attack, casualties, the present position and state of the platoon. Doll didn't really know very much. He had seen Lt Whyte die, knew Sgt Grove was down but not whether he was dead. He had -- they all had, he amended -- been pretty busy when the first big bunch of mortars began to hit. He thought he had seen a group of about squad size go into the deep grass at the base of the right ridge, but wasn't sure. And he had seen the machinegun squad run far out ahead and all go down together with one mortar burst. Stein cursed at this, and demanded what they were doing there in the first place. Doll of course didn't know. He thought that the center, ensconced in their U.S.-made shell holes and depressions in the bottom, were safe enough for the moment, provided the Japs did not lay a heavy mortar barrage on them. No, he himself had not been very scared the whole time. He didn't know why, really.

"You're not really pinned down, then," Stein said. "I was told ----"

"Well, we are, in a way, sir," Doll said. "But, like you see, I got back all right. We couldn't all come back at once."

Stein nodded.

"But two or three at a time could make it, I think. With 2d Platoon firing covering fire," Doll suggested.

"We dont even know where those goddamned f ------ ing emplacements are," Stein said sourly.

"They could fire searching fire, couldn't they?" Doll suggested professionally.

Stein glared at him. So did Welsh. Welsh wanted to boot the new hero in the ass: already giving the company commander advice -- about searching fire, yet.

Welsh interrupted them. "Hey, Cap'n!" he growled. "You want me to go down there and get them men back up here for you?" He glared murderously at Doll, whose eyebrows went up innocently.

"No." Stein rubbed his jaw. "No, I can't spare you. Might need you. Anyway, I think I'll leave them there awhile. They dont seem to be getting hurt too bad and if we can get up onto that right ridge frontally maybe they can flank it." He paused. "What interests me is that squad on the right that got into the deep grass on the ridge. They ----"

He was interrupted by George Band who, bent over, came running down the little slope. "Hey, Jim! Hey, Captain Stein! I just saw five more leaving the left ridge, with two MGs. I think they really are pulling out."

"Really?" Stein said. "Really?" He sounded as relieved as if he had just been told the battle had been called off until another time. At least now he could act. "Gore! Gore!" he began to bellow. "Lt Gore!"

It required 15 minutes to summon Gore, instruct him, assemble his 3d Platoon, and see them off on their venture.

"We're pretty sure they're pulling out completely, Gore. But dont get overeager; like Whyte. They may have left a rearguard. Or maybe it's a trap. So go slow. Let your scouts look it over first. I think your best approach is down the draw in front of Hill 209. Go left behind this middle fold here till it hits the draw, and then down the draw. If you get hit by mortars like they did there yesterday, you got to keep going, though. If there's a waterhole in that brush at the foot of the ridge, let me know about it. We're running very short of water; already. But the main thing. The main thing, Gore, is not to lose any more men than you absolutely have to." It was becoming an increasingly important point to Stein, almost frantically so. And whenever he was not actually occupied with something specific, that was what he brooded over. "Now, go ahead, boy; and good luck." Men; men; he was losing all his men; men he had lived with; men he was responsible for.

It required another half hour for Gore's reserve 3d Platoon to reach its jumpoff point at the foot of the grassy ridge. He was certainly following orders and going slow, Stein thought with impatience. It was now after 9:00. In the meantime Band had come back from the crest of the fold with a report that he had counted three more small bodies of men leaving the left ridge with MGs, but had counted none in the last 15 minutes. Also in the meantime little Charlie Dale the second cook had returned, his narrow closeset eyes snapping bright, and at the same time dark and thunderous. He showed Stein where he had brought the stretcherbearers to the low between the first and middle folds, four parties of four, 16 men in all, who were already starting to collect the first of the eight litter cases which had by now accumulated. Then he asked if there were any more little jobs for him to do.

Corporal Fife, lying not far from the Company Commander with the sound-power phone which had more or less become his permanent responsibility, thought he had never seen such an unholy look on a human face. Perhaps Fife was a little jealous because he was so afraid himself. Certainly there wasn't any fear in Charlie Dale. His mouth hung open in a slack little grin, the bright and at the same time lowering eyes darting everywhere and filmed over with an unmistakable sheen of pleased self-satisfaction at all this attention he suddenly was getting. Fife looked at him, then sickly turned his head away and closed his eyes, his ear to the phone. This was his job; he'd been given it and he'd do it; but he'd be damned if he'd do anything else he wasn't told to do. He couldn't. He was too afraid.

"Yes," Bugger Stein was saying to Dale. "You -- --"

He was interrupted by the explosion of a mortar shell amongst the 2d Platoon on the rear slope of the third fold. Its loud thwonging bang was almost simultaneous with a loud scream of pure fear, which after the explosion died away continued until the screamer ran out of breath. A man had thrown himself out of the line back down the slope and was bucking and kicking and rolling with both hands pressed behind him in the small of his back. When he got his breath back, he continued to scream. Everyone else hugged the comforting dirt, which nevertheless was not quite comforting enough, and waited for a barrage to begin to fall. Nothing happened, however, and after a moment they began to put their heads up to look at the kicking man who still bucked and screamed.

"I dont think they can see us any better than we can see them," Welsh muttered, tight-lipped.

"I believe that's Private Jacques," Lt Band said in an interested voice.

The screaming had taken on a new tone, one of realization, rather than the start and surprise and pure fear of before. One of the aidmen got to him and with the help of two men from 2d Platoon tore open his shirt and got a syrette of morphine into him. In a few seconds he quieted. When he was still the aidman pulled the hands loose and rolled him over. His belt off, his shirt up, he was looked over by the aidman, who then was seen to shrug with despair and reach in his pack and begin to sprinkle.

Behind the middle fold Bugger Stein was whitefaced, his lips tight, his eyes snapping open and shut behind his glasses. This was the first of his men he had actually seen wounded. Beside him Brass Band watched the same scene with a look of friendly, sympathetic interest on his face. Beyond Band Corporal Fife had raised up once to look while the man was still bucking and kicking and then lain back down sick all over; all he could think of was what if it had been him? It might easily have been, might still yet be.

"Stretcherbearers! Stretcherbearers!" Stein had suddenly turned back toward the hollow where two of the four groups had not yet departed with loads. "Stretcherbearers!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. One of the groups came on the run with their stretcher.

"But, Jim," Lt Band said. "Really, Jim, I dont ----"

"God damn you, George, shut up! Leave me alone!" The bearers arrived out of breath. "Go get that man," Stein said pointing over the crest to where the aidman still knelt by the casualty.

The leader plainly had thought someone of the CP group here had been wounded. Now he saw his mistake. "But listen," he protested, "we already got eight or nine down there now that we're supposed to ---- We're not ----"

"God damn it, dont argue with me! I'm Captain Stein! Go get that man, I said!" Stein bawled in his face.

The man recoiled, upset. Of course nobody was wearing insignia.

"But, Jim, really," Brass Band said, "he's not ----"

"God damn you, all of you! Am I in command around here or not!" Stein was in a howling rage; and he was actually almost howling. "Am I Company Commander of this outfit or am I not! Am I Captain Stein or a goddamned private! Do I give the orders here or dont I! I said go get that man!"

"Yes, sir," the leader said. "Okay, sir. Right away."

"That man may die," Stein said more reasonably. "He's hit bad. Get him back to battalion aid station and see if they can't do something to save him."

"Yes, sir," the leader of the bearers said. He spread his hands palms up toward Stein absolving himself of guilt. "We got others that're hit bad, sir. That was all I meant. We got three down there might die any minute.

Stein stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"That's it, Jim," Band said from behind him soothingly. "Dont you see? Dont you think he ought to wait his turn? Isn't that only fair?"

"Wait his turn? Wait his turn? Fair? My God!" Stein said. He stared at both of them, his face white.

"Sure," Band sale. "Why put him ahead of some other guy?"

Stein did not answer him. After a moment he turned to the leader. "Go and get him," he said stiffly, "like I told you. Get him back to battalion aid station. I gave you an order, Private."

"Yes, sir." The leader's voice was stony. He turned to his men. "Come on, you guys. We're goin over there after that guy."

"Well what the hell're we waitin for?" one of them snarled toughly. "Come on, Hoke. Or are you afraid of gettin that close to the shooting?" It was a ridiculous remark under the circumstances. The leader plainly wasn't afraid of going.

"You shut up, Witt," he said, "and let me alone."

All of them were squatting. The man he had addressed stood up suddenly. He was a small, frail-looking man, and the US helmet shell, which on Big Queen looked so small, looked like an enormous inverted pot on his small head and almost hid his eyes. He marched up to where Welsh half reclined.

"Hello, Firs' Sarn't," the small man said with a rapacious grin.

Only then did Stein, or any of the rest of the C-for-Charlie men for that matter, recognize that this Witt was their Witt, the same that Stein and Welsh had combined to transfer out before the division left for combat. All of them were astonished, as Witt obviously meant for them to be. Corporal Fife especially. Fife, still lying flat with the phone to his ear, sat up suddenly, grinning.

"By God! Hello, Witt!" he cried delightedly.

Witt, true to his promise of a few days before, passed his narrow eyes across the Corporal as if he did not exist. They came to rest on Welsh, again.

"Hi, Witt," Welsh said. "You in the medics now? You better get down."

Stein, who had felt guilty for having transferred Witt when he knew how badly Witt wanted to stay, even though he still felt he had done what was best for his company, said nothing.

Witt ignored Welsh's cautioning. He remained standing straight up. "Naw, Firs' Sarn't," he grinned. "Still in Cannon Comp'ny. Only, as you know, we aint got no cannons. So they've put us to work pushin boats up and down the river and as stretcherbearers." He inclined his head. "Who we goin after over there, Firs' Sarn't?"

"Jacques," Welsh said.

"Old Jockey?" Witt said. "S---, that's too bad." His three companions had already gone on and were now running downhill beyond the crest of the fold and Witt turned to follow them. But then he turned back and spoke directly to Bugger Stein. "Please, sir, can I come back to the comp'ny? After we get Jockey back to battalion? I can slip away easy. They'll give Hoke another man. Can I, sir?"

Stein was flattered. He was also confused. fused. This whole thing of the stretcher-bearers and Jacques was getting out of hand, taking too much of his attention from the plan he had been just about to conceive. "Well, I ----" he said and stopped, his mind blank. "Of course, you'll have to get someone's permission."

Witt grinned cynically. "Sure," he said. "And my rifle. Thank you, sir." He turned and was gone, after his mates.

Stein tried to reorganize the scattered threads of his thought. For a moment he stared after Witt. For a man to want to come back into a forward rifle company in the midst of an attack was simply incomprehensible to him. In a way, though, it was very romantic. Like something out of Kipling. Or Beau Geste. Now, what was it that he had just about had figured out?

Close to Stein, as Bugger's orders about the phone demanded he be, Corporal Fife had lain back down flat with his phone and shut his eyes.... When he reopened his eyes, he found himself looking into the white face of little Bead a few feet away, eyes popeyed with fright, blinking almost audibly, like some overgrown rabbit.

"Dale!" Bugger called. "Now, look," he said, marshaling his mind.

Charlie Dale crawled closer. When he first returned from his mission, he had made himself stand upright quite a while, but when the mortar shell exploded wounding Jacques, he had flattened himself. Now he compromised by squatting. Bugger had been just about to tell him something, perhaps send him on another mission, when Jacques got hit and then the stretcherbearers came. Dale could not help feeling a little piqued. Not at Jacques of course. He couldn't be mad at Jockey really. But he might have picked himself a better time to get shot up. But those goddam stretcherbearers from Cannon Comp'ny and that goddam bolshevik Witt, they certainly could have taken less of the Comp'ny C'mander's valuable time. Especially when he was about to tell Pfc Dale something very important maybe. For Dale this was the first chance that he had had in a long time for talking to the Comp'ny C'mander personally like this, for being free of that goddam order-giving Storm and his cheating cooks, first chance to not be tied to that goddam greasy sweating kitchen cooking masses of food for a bunch of men to gorge their guts on, and Dale was enjoying it. He was getting more personal attention than he had ever had from this outfit, at last they were beginning to recognize him, and all he had to do for it was carry a few messages through some light MG fire that couldn't hit him anyway. Gravy. Not far off he could see f------ing Storm lying all flattened out beside Sgt Welsh, and looking this way. Squatting, Dale put a respectful expression on his face and listened to his commander intently. An inarticulate, secret excitement burgeoned in him.

"I've got to know how 3d Platoon is doing," Bugger was telling him. "I want you to go and find out for me." He described the position and told him how to get there. "Report to Lt Gore if you can find him. But I've got to know if they occupied that grassy ridge, and I've got to know as soon as possible. Get back as soon as you can."

"Aye, aye, sir," Dale said, his eyes pleased.

"I want both you and Doll to stay with me," Bugger said. "I'll have further work for both of you. You've both been invaluable."

"Yes, sir," Dale smiled. Then, unsmiling, he looked over at Doll, and found Doll to be studying him equally.

"Now, go!"

"Right, sir." He snapped out a tiny little salute and took off, running bent over along the low area behind the fold, his rifle slung across his back, his Thompsongun in his hands. He did not have to go far. At the corner where the hollow met the draw in front of Hill 209, he met a man from 3d Platoon already on his way back with the news that 3d Platoon had occupied the lefthand grassy ridge without firing a shot and were now digging themselves in there. Together they returned to Stein, Dale feeling a little cheated.

Stein had not waited for Dale's return. Gradually his plan had shaped itself in his mind, even while he was talking to Dale. Whether 3d Platoon had occupied the lefthand ridge made little difference to it. They could provide more covering fire, and that would help, but it was not essential, because this movement had to do with the squad-sized group of 1st Platoon men who had made it in under the machineguns, into the thicker grass at the foot of the righthand ridge. That righthand ridge was obviously going to be the trouble spot, the stumbling block. With the squad-sized group already there plus two more squads from 2d Platoon Stein wanted to make a sort of double-winged uphill frontal attack whose center would hold and whose ends would curl around and isolate the main strongpoint on the ridge, wherever it was. The remainder of 2d Platoon could fire cover from the third fold, and Stein thought the rest of 1st Platoon -- the remnants, he amended sourly -- could fire cover along the flank from their advanced position in their holes. With this in mind he had already, after Charlie Dale's departure, sent Doll back down into that inferno beyond the third fold, now temporarily quiet, where 1st Platoon still clung precariously to the dirt of their holes, sweating. Doll had only just left when the stretcherbearers came back with Jacques. Stein found he could not resist the desire to look at him. Neither could anybody else.

They had laid him on his stomach on the stretcher. The aidman had a gauze compress over the wound, but it was apparent that there was a long glancing hole in the small of Jacques' back. His face hung over the side of the stretcher, and his half-closed eyes, dulled of intelligence by the morphine and by shock, held only a peculiar questioning look. He appeared to be asking them, or somebody, why? -- why he, John Jacques, ASN so-and-so, had been chosen for this particular fate? Somewhere a stranger had dropped a metal case down a tube, not knowing exactly where it would land, not even sure where he wanted it to land. It had gone up and come down. And where did it land? On John Jacques, ASN so-and-so. When it had burst, thousands of chunks and pieces of knife-edged metal had gone chirring in all directions. And who was the only one touched by one of them? John Jacques, ASN so-and-so. Why? Why him? No enemy had aimed anything at John Jacques, ASN so-and-so. existed. Any more than he knew the name, character and personality of the Japanese who dropped the metal case down the tube. So why? Why him? Why John Jacques, ASN so-and-so? Why not somebody else? Why not one of his friends? And now it was done. Soon he would be dead.

Stein forced himself to look somewhere else. At the tail, off end of the stretcher he saw Witt, who, being shorter, had to strain more to keep his end up level. Thinking about Doll and 1st Platoon, Stein was just about to send someone after Sgt Keck, the new commander of 2d Platoon, when Charlie Dale and the messenger returned.

Doll had gone back reluctantly. He had not intended, when he first came back, to set himself up as a troubleshooting messenger to dangerous areas for Bugger Stein. Truthfully, he did not really know why he had done it. And now he was hooked. Also, he was angered at the easiness of Charlie Dale's mission when compared to the hardness of his own. Any damn fool could go back, after stretcherbearers, or even forward when he had a covered route all the way. For himself, he did not know how he was going to accomplish his job. Whyte was dead, Grove dead or badly wounded, and that left the command of the platoon to Skinny Culn, the platoon guide. If he was not hit or dead too. Sgt Culn was a round, redfaced, pugnosed, jovial Irishman of 28, an old regular who ought to be all right leading the platoon. But Doll had no idea where to find him. The only man whose whereabouts Doll knew was Big Queen. This meant that he would have to hunt, maybe even run from hole to hole, looking, and down there Doll did not relish that idea. He'd like to see Dale do it.

Before going, he lay behind the crest of the third fold amongst the 2d Platoon and raised his head to look down into the low area where he must go. The 2d Platoon men nearby, cheeks pressed to the earth, stared at him with indifferent, sullen curiosity. He was aware that his eyes were narrowed, his nostrils flared, his jaw set. He made a handsome picture of a solider for the 2d Platoon men who watched him without liking. Out in front one of the medics was helping back a fat man who had been shot through the calf and was groaning audibly. Doll felt a sort of amused contempt for him; why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? Once again the sick excitement had taken hold of him and gripped him by the belly, making his crotch tingle and his heart pound and paralyzing his diaphragm so that he breathed slower and slower and slower, and even slower still, until his essence and being ran down and seemed to stop in an entranced totality of concentration. Then he was up and running. He ran bent over and at half speed and exposed to the world, the same way he had run up out of there. Some bullets kicked up dirt to right and left. He zigged and zagged. In 10 seconds' time he was back down flat in his little depression already calling breathlessly for Queen and wanting to laugh out loud. He had known all along he'd make it. A burst of MG fire tickled the rim of his hole and whined away, showering him with dirt.

But the getting here was only the beginning. He still had to find Culn. And the muffled information which came to him from Big Queen down in his hole was that Culn was somewhere over on the right; at least Queen had seen him there before the charge. But when Doll rolled over and called off to his right, the man who should have been, must be somewhere there, did not answer. A great soft lump of fear had risen in Doll's throat as he talked. He tried now to swallow it, but it remained. This was the situation he had been dreading back at the third fold before taking off. He was going to have to run down the line of holes looking for Culn.

All right then goddam them. He would show them. He'd do it, do it standing on his head. And then let's see what that little punk Dale could do. He was Don Doll and nobody was going to kill him in this war. The sons of bitches. Once again that great, strange stillness which he got, and which affected his breathing, came over Doll, blanketing out everything, as he prepared to get up. In his pants his balls tingled acutely. It was exactly the same feeling he used to get as a kid when something like Christmas got him excited. Let's see their faces and--Bugger Stein's when he came back out of this.

In the fact, Stein had almost completely forgotten about his messenger to the 1st Platoon. The stress of newer developments claimed him. With the return of Charlie Dale and the good news about 3d Platoon, he decided not to send for Keck but to go to him. There, behind the third fold with 2d Platoon, he could both mount the attack he planned and observe it. With this in mind he had sent George Band with Sgt Storm and the cook force back around the covered route to join 3d Platoon. Band was to assume command and be prepared to attack the righthand ridge if Stein's attack succeeded. Band, with his weird bloodthirsty grin, constant neat advice and cool calm interest in the wounded, had been getting on Stein's nerves more and more, and this was a good way to get rid of him and at the same time make him useful. Then he put in a call to Col Tall, Battalion Commander.

More and more things had been getting on Stein's nerves, more and more increasingly. In the first place he could never be sure that what he did was right, mightn't have been done better and with less cost in some other way. He felt that way about the attack he was preparing to mount now. In addition there was his own nervous fear and apprehension, which kept eating into his energy more and more. Danger flickered and blinked in the air like a faulty neon tube. Whenever he stood up he might be struck by a bullet. Whenever he moved a few feet he might be moving under a descending mortar shell. Hiding these apprehensions from his men was even more fatiguing. Also, he had already finished off one of his two canteens of water, and was a third through the other, without ever having allayed his thirst. And in addition to all of this that was wearing him down there was something else coming increasingly to attention, and that was inertia. His men would do what he told them to if he told them explicitly and specifically. Otherwise they would simply lie with their cheeks pressed to the ground and stare at him. Except for a few volunteers like Dale; and Doll. Initiative may have been the descriptive word for the Civil War; or enthusiasm. But apparently inertia was the one for this one.

Stein had already talked to Tall about the Japanese evacuation of the lefthand grassy ridge, and had informed him that it was being occupied by C-for-Charlie's 3d Platoon; so he was dumbfounded when the Colonel began to shout at him over the soundpower phone that he was too far to the right. He was not even given an opportunity to explain his proposed attack. The soundpower phone was a great invention for explanations and one-sided conversations, because the listening party could not speak until the other turned it over and released the button; but somehow Tall seemed able to make this work for him, while Stein could not do the same.

"But I dont understand. What do you mean too far to the right? I told you they've evacuated the lefthand grassy ridge. And my 3d Platoon's occupied it. How can I be too far to the right? You agreed to attack from the right across our front. Over."

"God damn it, Stein!" the Col's cold thin angry voice cried. "I'm telling you your left flank's exposed." Because of the phone Stein could not protest that it wasn't, and the Col went on with rhetoric. "Do you know what it is to expose your left flank? Did you ever read in a tactics manual about exposing your left flank? Your left flank is exposed. And damn it, you've got to move down there. You're not moving! Over!"

The moment for protesting was past, lost while Tall's thumb depressed the button. Stein could only defend, harassed fury burning in him. "But God damn it, Colonel, that's why I called you! I'm trying to! I'm preparing to attack the righthand grassy ridge right now!" He stopped, forgetting to say 'over,' and there was a long silence. "Over," he said. "God damn it."

"Stein, I told you you're too far right already," the Col's voice came from the faroff areas of safety. "You're sideslipping to the right alla time. Over."

"Well, what do you want me to do? You want me to withdraw the rest of my company to the lefthand grassy ridge, too? Over." That, he knew, would be insane.

"No. I've decided to commit the reserve company on your left -- with orders to attack. Orders to attack, Stein, you hear? orders to attack. You stay where you are. I'll have Baker Company's commander send your reserve platoon back to you. Over."

"Do you want me to go ahead with my attack?" Stein asked, because it wasn't plain from what he'd heard. "Over."

"What else?" the Col's thin, outraged voice piped at him. "What else, Stein? You're not supposed to be down there on a goddamned asshole vacation. Now, get cracking!" There was a pause and Stein could hear electrical winnings and what sounded like polite mumblings. He heard one distinct, respectful "Yes, sir" in Tall's voice. Then the Colonel's voice came back on again, much kinder now, more jovial. "Get cracking, boy! Get cracking!" Tall said heartily. "Over and out."

This is the first part of James Jones' "The Thin Red Line." Part II will appear in September.