The Colonel was devout but inclined toward mercy. He was not a tyrant, and his smile was a sign that the Captain’s doubts were forgiven, probably even forgotten. But only Culver had seen the Captain’s face: a quick look of both fury and suffering, like the tragic Greek mask, or a shackled slave. Then Mannix flushed. “Yes, sir,” he said. The Colonel walked toward the door. He seemed already to have put the incident out of his mind. “Culver,” he said, “if you can ever make radio contact with Able Company tell them to push off at 0600. If you can’t, send a runner down before dawn to see if they’ve got the word.” He gave the side of his thigh a rather self-conscious, gratuitous slap. “Well, good night.” There was a chorus of “Good night, sirs,” and then the Major went out, too, trailed by O’Leary. Culver looked at his watch: it was nearly three o’clock. Mannix looked up. “You going to try and get some sleep, Tom?” “I’ve tried. It’s too cold. Anyway, I’ve got to take over the radio watch from Junior here. What’s your name, fellow?” The boy at the radio looked up with a start, trembling with the cold. “McDonald, sir.” He was very young, with pimples and a sweet earnest expression; he had obviously just come from boot camp, for he had practically no hair. “Well, you can shove off and get some sleep, if you can find a nice warm pile of pine needles somewhere.” The boy sleepily put down his earphones and went out, fastening the blackout flap behind him. “I’ve tried,” Culver repeated, “but I just can’t get used to sleeping on the ground any more. I’m getting old and rheumatic. Anyway, the Old Rock was in here for about two hours before you came, using up my sack time while he told the Major and O’Leary and me all about his Shanghai days.”