이것이 전쟁이다! Dawn was just over the horizon. A Marine, perhaps younger, perhaps older than the rest—and it was impossible to say, for the cold had cut into his face and eyes until even the look of an animal survival was gone—a Marine kept prodding with his spoon, trying to break loose a single, frost-coated bean from the others in his can. He could neither move it nor long continue holding the spoon between his gloved but almost rigid fingers. He found one, and slowly raised it to his mouth. He stood unmoving, waiting for it to thaw. When asked what he would have wanted if he could have had any wish, he continued to stand motionless, with empty eyes. Then his lips began to open slightly, and close as though the effort of a word was too great. He tried again, and failed. He stood just looking into his glove holding the can. He tried once more . . . as he tried his eyes went up into the graying sky, and he said, “Give me Tomorrow.” Down the road, Marines at other fires tried to heat their food, but it was more from habit than hunger—for in that cold even hunger itself had died. Finally, on the canyon floor, the column halted once again before making the finishing effort needed to push out through it and into the plain, with its sea beyond. The men of the Division stood, and smoked, and waited, then climbed slowly back upon the road. And that time, as they moved down the road, the wounded and frozen got to ride. The dead also rode—tied upon trucks and trailers. Behind them— the shuffle of their feet following the rising and falling beat of a tragic rhythm— walked the living. They passed the last Chinese ambush where lay crumpled the men soon to be given places on other trucks and trailers farther back in the column—the men never to freeze, or worry, or go hungry . . . or march again. The cliffs lining the canyon opened and fell away, and the column moved out onto the plain. In the distance, shimmering with sunlight, lay the sea. Then they stood upon the beach. They stood there bearded, without feeling, alone among all other men, but alive—alive upon a beach where other men of their kind found them . . . and carried them away in ships, to live, to think, to fight again. Ⅵ. “Retreat, Hell!” l 159
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