buddies . . . to be buried and watched over by other men like those with whom they had been when they died. Ambulance jeeps crawled slowly over the muddy road winding through the lonely valley to the rear, as their drivers tried to give some comfort to the litter-bound men behind them. Outside the emergency aid station a tiny group of Marines always stood. They were men who had come down the hill, from the firing line above, as soon as other men had been found who could take their weapons and places facing the enemy. They were men who had almost nothing to say. They just stood outside the crude little hut which was the aid station. They were waiting. When their time was up, and they had to go back up on the hill, other men, other men just like them came down to take their places. They, too, were waiting. They were waiting to learn whether their buddies were still alive . . . or dead. 88 l Ⅳ. The Hill This is War!
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