"Okay, just be careful not to touch any of the shadows," I said. "Apparently that's where the danger is." Not a shadow moved, not even the one through which Yount had gone to his death. The five of us then, rose and moved straight forward. As we came close I could smell something in the shadows, a vague, pestilential odor, like nothing I had ever experienced. "I smelled its like, sir," said one, Haggerty, I think, "where men lay too long unburied. This is just a far hint, but it's like it, some way." We went around the detached shadow. There was no sound, even in our walkie-talkies, now. It was almost as if, honoring an ancient military custom, the Shadow Men were allowing us to collect our dead. I could not see into or through the shadow. It was still so shapeless, even when I was close enough to touch it, that I could not tell anything of its true nature, or whether it, or any of the Shadow Men behind it, were armed. I could see the result of too much impetuosity, however, in the skeleton--snow-white, as if it were that of a man long dead in the burning desert sands--of PFC Yount. I tried to remember, as the others carefully gathered up the skeleton--Haggerty later said it was still warm!--whether Yount had uttered any sound, but could not remember. Some men said later they were sure they heard a muffled scream, the scream of a man in mortal agony, but I doubt it. I think it was an afterthought, strictly imagination. No attempt was made to keep us from retiring with the skeleton of Yount. As soon as we were back, and had placed it against a side of one of the LCVP's for burial later, the Shadow Men again began their inexorable march. "Sailors!" I called. "Break out the flame-throwers." We surrounded ourselves with a sheet of flame, hot beyond anything used in World War II. We sprayed the stuff into the faces of the advancing Shadow Men; we blotted them out. They were erased as if they had never been. At my command the flames stopped--and the Shadow Men were still coming on. * * * * * Not very hopefully, I gave the command to use the flames again. We still had tricks in the bag, but if they proved no more effective than what we had so far used--I shouted my next command: "Stand by to charge! Hang onto weapons! Go between them! Don't touch one of the shadows! _CHARGE!_" I didn't tell the marines to face in any given direction. I merely wanted as many of them as possible to get through the closing cordon. With a wild, defiant yell the leathernecks charged. As I ran I looked for some opening through the concentric circles. If flesh or skin, clothing or equipment, touched one of the shadows-- It was the queerest ducking and darting game I had ever played. We must not run into one another, we marines, or we might push one another into the shadows--and we knew what had happened to Yount, would never forget it.