cal1981

@@@@@His limbs ached and his sleep seemed to have done him no goodThe character of the dawn changed, left him shuddering in his blanket, damp and cold from the night's dew There was still his child, the boy he had never seen, but that did not cheer himHe believed he would never live to see him, and the knowledge was almost without pain, a dour certainty in his mindToo many men had been killedWith a sick fascination, he envisioned a factory, watched his bullet being made, packed into a carton If only I could see a picture of the kidIt wasn't so much to askIf only he could get back from this patrol and live long enough for some mail to come with a picture of his kid But he was miserable again, certain he had tricked himselfHe shivered from fright, looking about him uneasily at the mountains reared on every side He knew he was guiltyHe remembered the momentary power and contempt he had felt as he bawled at Roth to jump, the quick sure pleasure of itHe twisted uncomfortably on the ground, recalling the bitter agony on Roth's face as he missed the stepGallagher could see him falling and falling, and the image scraped along his spine like chalk squeaking on a blackboardHe had sinned and he was going to be punishedMary was the first warning and he had disregarded it The mountain peak before them seemed so highGone now were the gentle outlines of the dawn; Anaka mounted before him, turret above turret, ridge beyond ridgeNear the peak he could see a bluff which encircled the crestIt was almost vertical and they would never be able to ascend itHe shuddered once moreHe had never seen country like this; it was so barren, forbiddingEven the slopes of jungle and brush above them were cruelHe would never be able to make it today; already his chest ached, and when he slung his pack and began the climb again he would be exhausted in a few minute