Had the Colonel entertained any immediate notions of retribution, he held them off, for at a quarter past four that morning--halfway through the march, when the first green light of dawn streaked the sky--Culver still heard Mannix’s hoarse, ill-tempered voice, lashing his troops from the rear. For hours he had lost track of Mannix. As for the Colonel, the word had spread that he was no longer pacing the march but had gone somewhere to the rear and was walking there. In his misery, a wave of hope swelled up in Culver: if the Colonel had become fagged, and was walking no longer but sitting in his jeep somewhere, at least they’d all have the consolation of having succeeded while their leader failed. But it was a hope, Culver knew, that was ill-founded. He’d be back there slogging away. The bastard could outmarch twenty men, twenty raging Mannixes. The hike had become disorganized, no slower but simply more spread out. Culver--held back by fatigue and thirst and the burning, enlarging pain in his feet--found himself straggling behind. From time to time he managed to catch up; at one point he discovered himself at the tail end of Mannix’s company, but he no longer really cared. The night had simply become a great solitude of pain and thirst, and an exhaustion so profound that it enveloped his whole spirit, and precluded thought. A truck rumbled past, loaded with supine marines, so still they appeared unconscious. Another passed, and another--they came all night. But far to the front, long after each truck’s passage, he could hear Mannix’s cry: “Keep on, Jack! This company’s walking in.” They pushed on through the night, a shambling horde of zombies in drenched dungarees, eyes transfixed on the earth in a sort of glazed, avid concentration. After midnight it seemed to Culver that his mind only registered impressions, and these impressions had no sequence but were projected upon his brain in a scattered, disordered riot, like a movie film pieced together by an idiot. His memory went back no further than the day before; he no longer thought of anything so unattainable as home. Even the end of the march seemed a fanciful thing, beyond all possibility, and what small aspirations he now had were only to endure this one hour, if just to attain the microscopic bliss of ten minutes’ rest and a mouthful of warm water. And bordering his memory was ever the violent and haunting picture of the mangled bodies he had seen--when? where? it seemed weeks, years ago, beneath the light of an almost prehistoric sun; try as he could, to dwell upon consoling scenes--home, music, sleep--his mind was balked beyond that vision: the shattered youth with slumbering eyes, the blood, the swarming noon.