Where their sharp edges seemed restless as sea waves thrusting themselves upward in angry motion, Papa-san sat glacier-like, his smooth solidity, his very immobility defying all the turmoil about him. "Our objective", the colonel had said that day of the briefing, "is Papa-san". There the objective sat, brooding over all. Gouge, burn, blast, insult it as they would, could anyone really take Papa-san? Between the ponderous hulk and himself, in the valley over which Papa-san reigned, men had hidden high explosives, booby traps, and mines. The raped valley was a pregnant womb awaiting abortion. On the forward slope in front of his own post stretched two rows of barbed wire. At the slope's base coils of concertina stretched out of eye range like a wild tangle of children's hoops, stopped simultaneously, weirdly poised as if awaiting the magic of the child's touch to start them all rolling again. Closer still, regular barricades of barbed wire hung on timber supports. Was it all vain labor? Who would clean up the mess when the war was over? Smiling at his quixotic thoughts, Warren turned back from the opening and lit a cigarette before sitting down. Tonight a group of men, tomorrow night he himself, would go out there somewhere and wait. If he were to go with White, he would be out there two days, not just listening in the dark at some point between here and Papa-san, but moving ever deeper into enemy land- behind Papa-san itself. Was this what he had expected? He hadn't realized that there would be so much time to think, so many lulls. Somehow he had forgotten what he must have been told, that combat was an intermittent activity. Now he knew that the moment illuminated by the vision on the train would have to be approached. It could take place tomorrow night, or it might occur months from now. There was just too much time. Time to become afraid. White's suggestion flattered, but he did not like the identity. He did not spill over with hatred for the enemy. He hadn't even seen him yet. Pressing his cigarette out in the earth, Warren walked to the slit and scanned the jagged hills. He saw no life, but still stood there for a time peering at the unlovely hills, his gaze continually returning to Papa-san. He had come here in order to test himself. While most of his beliefs were still unsettled, he knew that he did not believe in killing. Yet, he was here. He had come because he could not live out his life feeling that he had been a coward. There were ten men on the patrol which Sergeant Prevot led out that next night. The beaming ROK was carrying a thirty-caliber machine gun; another man lugged the tripod and a box of ammunition. Warren and White each carried, in addition to their own weapons and ammo, a box of ammo for the ROK's machine gun. Others carried extra clips for the Browning Automatic Rifle, which was in the hands of a little Mexican named Martinez. Prevot had briefed the two new men that afternoon. "We just sit quiet and wait", Prevot had said. "Be sure the man nearest you is awake. If Joe doesn't show up, we'll all be back here at 0600 hours. Otherwise, we hold a reception. Then we pull out under our mortar and artillery cover, but nobody pulls out until I say so. Remember what I said about going out to get anybody left behind? That still holds. We bring back all dead and wounded". At 2130 hours they had passed through the barbed wire at the point of departure. Then began the journey through their own mine fields. Mines. Ours were kinder than theirs, some said. They set bouncing betties to jump and explode at testicle level while we more mercifully had them go off at the head. Mines. Big ones and little. The crude wooden boxes of the enemy, our nicely turned gray metal disks. But theirs defied the detectors. Mines. A foot misplaced, a leg missing. Mines. All sizes: big ones, some wired to set off a whole field, little ones, hand grenade size. Booby traps to fill the head with chunks of metal. Warren tried to shake off the jumble of his fears by looking at the sky. It was dark. Prevot had said that the searchlights would be bounced off the clouds at 2230 hours, "which gives us time to get settled in position". Because they were new men and to be sure that they didn't get lost, Prevot had placed Warren and White in the center of the patrol as it filed out. His eyes now fixed on White's solid figure, Warren could hear behind him the tread of another. He could also hear the stream which he had seen from his position. They were going to follow it for part of their journey. "It's safe", Prevot had said, "and it provides cover for our noise". Soon they were picking their way along the edge of the stream which glowed in the night. On their right rose the embankment covered with brush and trees. If a branch extended out too far, each man held it back for the next, and if they met a low overhang, each warned the other. Thus, stealthily they advanced upstream; then they turned to the right, climbed the embankment, and walked into the valley again. There was no cover here, only grass sighing against pant-legs. And with each sigh, like a whip in the hand of an expert, the grass stripped something from Warren. The gentle whir of each footstep left him more naked than before, until he felt his unprotected flesh tremble, chilled by each new sound. The shapes of the men ahead of him lacked solidity, as if the whip had stripped them of their very flesh. The dark forms moved like mourners on some nocturnal pilgrimage, their dirge unsung for want of vocal chords. The warped, broken trees in the valley assumed wraith-like shapes. Clumps of brush that they passed were so many enchained demons straining in anger to tear and gnaw on his bones. Looming over all, Papa-san leered down at him, threatening a hundred hidden malevolencies. Off in the distance a searchlight flashed on, its beam slashing the sky. The sharp ray was absorbed by a cloud, then reflected to the earth in a softer, diffused radiance. Somewhere over there another patrol had need of light. Warren thought of all the men out that night who, like himself, had left their protective ridge and- fear working at their guts- picked their way into the area beyond. From the east to the west coast of the Korean peninsula was a strip of land in which fear-filled men were at that same moment furtively crawling through the night, sitting in sweaty anticipation of any movement or sound, or shouting amidst confused rifle flashes and muzzle blasts. White's arm went up and Warren raised his own. The patrol was stopping. Prevot came up "Take that spot over there", he whispered, pointing to a small clump of blackness. "Give me your machine gun ammo". Warren handed him the metal box and Prevot quietly disappeared down the line. Lying in the grass behind the brush clump, Warren looked about. The others likewise had hidden themselves in the grass and the brush. Over his shoulder he could see Prevot with the machine gun crew. Even at this short distance they were only vague shapes, setting up the machine gun on a small knoll so that it could fire above the heads of the rest of the patrol. Warren eased his rifle's safety off and gently, slowly sneaked another clip of ammunition from one of the cloth bandoleers that marked the upper part of his body with an X. This he placed within quick reach. The walk and his fears had served to overheat him and his sweaty armpits cooled at the touch of the night air. Although the armored vest fitted the upper part of his body snugly, he felt no security. Figures seemed to crouch in the surrounding dark; in the distance he saw a band of men who seemed to advance and retreat even as he watched. Certain this menace was only imaginary, he yet stared in fascinated horror, his hand sticky against the stock of his weapon. He was aware of insistent inner beatings, as if prisoners within sought release from his rigid body. Above, the glowing ivory baton of their searchlight pointed at the clouds, diluting the valley's dark to a pallid light. Then the figures which held his attention became a group of shattered trees, standing like the grotesques of a medieval damnation scene. Even so, he could not ease the tension of his body; the rough surface of the earth itself seemed to resist every attempt on his part to relax. Sensing the unseen presence of the other men in the patrol, he felt mutely united to these nine near-strangers sharing this pinpoint of being with him. He sensed something precious in the perilous moment, something akin to the knowledge gained on his bicycle trip through the French countryside, a knowledge imprisoned in speechlessness. In France he had puzzled the meaning of the great stone monuments men had thrown up to the sky, and always as he wandered, he felt a stranger to their exultation. They were poems in a strange language, of which he could barely touch a meaning- enough to make his being ache with the desire for the fullness he sensed there. Brittany, that stone-gray mystery through which he traveled for thirty days, sleeping in the barns of farmers or alongside roads, had worked some subtle change in him, he knew, and it was in Brittany that he had met Pierre. Pierre had no hands; they had been severed at the wrists. With leather cups fitted in his handlebars, he steered his bicycle. He and Warren had traveled together for four days. They visited the shipyards at Brest and Pierre had to sign the register, vouching for the integrity of the visiting foreigner. He took the pen in his stumps and began to write. "Wait! Wait"! cried the guard who ran from the hut to shout to other men standing about outside. They crowded the small room and peered over one another's shoulders to watch the handless man write his name in the book. "C'est formidable", they exclaimed. "Mais, oui. C'est merveilleux". And then the questions came, eager, interested questions, and many compliments on his having overcome his infirmity. "Doesn't it ever bother you", Warren had asked, "to have people always asking you about your hands"? "Oh, the French are a very curious people", Pierre had laughed. "They are also honest seekers after truth. Now the English are painfully silent about my missing hands. They refuse to mention or to notice that they are not there. The Americans, like yourself, take the fact for granted, try to be helpful, but don't ask questions. I'm used to all three, but I think the French have the healthiest attitude". That was the day that Pierre had told Warren about the Abbey of Solesmes. "You are looking tired and there you can rest. It will be good for you. I think, too", he said, his dark eyes mischievous, "that you will find there some clue to the secret of the cathedrals about which you have spoken". Within two weeks Warren was ringing the bell at the abbey gate. The monk who opened the door immediately calmed his worries about his reception: "I speak English", the old man said, "but I do not hear it very well". He smiled and stuck a large finger with white hairs sprouting on it into his ear as though that might help. Smiling at Warren's protestations, the old monk took his grip from him and led him down a corridor to a small parlor. "Will you please wait in here.