“Wait a minute, Captain, wait a minute,” the Colonel said. Once more the voice--as cool and as level as the marshy ground upon which they were sitting--carefully skirted any tone of reproach and was merely explicit: “I don’t want you to think I’m taking it out on the Battalion merely because of you, or rather H & S Company. But they aren’t reserves. They’re _marines_. _Comprend?_” He arose from the chair. “I think,” he went on flatly, almost gently, “that there’s one thing that we are all tending to overlook these days. We’ve been trying to differentiate too closely between two particular bodies of men that make up the Marine Corps. Technically it’s true that a lot of these new men are reserves--that is, they have an ‘R’ affixed at the end of the ‘USMC.’ But it’s only a technical difference, you see. Because first and foremost they’re _marines_. I don’t want my marines doping off. They’re going to _act_ like marines. They’re going to be _fit_. If they meet an Aggressor enemy next week they might have to march a long, long way. And that’s what I want this hike to teach them. _Comprend?_” He made what could pass for the token of a smile and laid his hand easily and for a lingering second on Mannix’s shoulder, in a sort of half-gesture of conciliation, understanding--something--it was hard to tell. It was an odd picture because from where he sat Culver was the only one in the tent who could see, at the same instant, both of their expressions. In the morbid, comfortless light they were like classical Greek masks, made of chrome or tin, reflecting an almost theatrical disharmony: the Colonel’s fleeting grin sculpted cleanly and prettily in the unshadowed air above the Captain’s darkened, downcast face where, for a flicker of a second, something outraged and agonized was swiftly graven and swiftly scratched out. The Colonel’s smile was not complacent or unfriendly. It was not so much as if he had achieved a triumph but merely equilibrium, had returned once more to that devout, ordered state of communion which the Captain’s words had ever so briefly disturbed. At that moment Culver almost liked the Colonel, in some negative way which had nothing to do with affection, but to which “respect,” though he hated the word, was the nearest approach. At least it was an honest smile, no matter how faint. It was the expression of a man who might be fatuous and a ham of sorts, but was not himself evil or unjust--a man who would like to overhear some sergeant say, “He keeps a tight outfit, but he’s straight.” In men like Templeton all emotions--all smiles, all anger--emanated from a priestlike, religious fervor, throbbing inwardly with the cadence of parades and booted footfalls. By that passion rebels are ordered into quick damnation but simple doubters sometimes find indulgence--depending upon the priest, who may be one inclined toward mercy, or who is one ever rapt in some litany of punishment and court-martial.