Suddenly a flare shot up from someplace to the right of the little band. Its eerie glare picked out unexpected shadows among the trees above. One of the soldiers, facing the prospect of near and immediate personal death for the first time in his life, panicked and began spraying the tree-line with his grease gun. Branches and splinters of wood kicked out, until the Sergeant reached out and slapped the gun from the boy's arms. * * * * * The men waited until an unheard signal sounded; then the Sergeant waved them on up the hill. Slowly, cautiously at first, they made progress through the protecting trees. But then they reached the timber-line and froze. Cursing, the Sergeant moved from man to man, shoving them out of the false protection. At last he came to the boy who had fired earlier. Just as the older man placed his hand on the boy's shoulder, the boy twisted and broke away, running madly down the hill.... "That's enough, damn you!" Cavendish turned off the picture and came back to Johnson's side. "They court-martialed you, didn't they?" "You know they did," he said, dully. "You were unlucky, that's all. Many a soldier spooks his first time under fire. A lot of them run away." "How many of them run right into the arms of their Commanding General?" "Unlucky," said Cavendish. "They kicked me out," said Johnson, bitterly. "A dishonorable discharge--'cowardice in the face of enemy action'. Said I was lucky I didn't face the firing squad." "Officers are human, too," said Cavendish. "In times of stress, they tend to panic." "They were 'making an example of me'," said Johnson. He laughed, a humorless sound that grated on the ears. "Some example. It took me twenty years to live it down." "But people do forget, eventually." "Not all of them." "Shall we get on with it?" "Of course, man. This is what I have been waiting for!" His words were sharp and impatient. * * * * * "Hey, Art! Got a butt?" "Yeah, sure." Art Johnson scrabbled around inside his jacket and came out with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He passed them over. "Thanks, buddy. God, but it's cold here!" He stripped off one glove and warmed the palm of his hand over the glowing coal of the cigarette. "Now I know what they mean when they call a place Godforsaken." "Ease off there, you two!" Sergeant Stebbins glowered their way. "You want every chink in Korea to hear you?" "Sorry, Sarge," muttered the cigarette-bummer. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Hey, Artie! I hear some of the guys in Fox company are making book on how many of us live through the day." "Yeah?" Johnson shook his head. "Some characters'll bet on their own mother's funeral." "Or their own." The boy giggled. "Wouldn't it be funny if the winners couldn't collect because they were all dead?" "A real scream," said Johnson, sourly. "Look, let's change the subject, huh?" The boy shrugged. "Sure, Art. Anything you say."