Mortars at Martini Time
A line of G.I.s snakes cautiously through the underbrush. The sudden chatter of a machine gun sends them scrambling for cover, and for several long tense minutes there is a furious exchange of small-arms fire. Then, just as suddenly, all is quiet, and out there in the elephant grass a young recruit lies twisted in the grotesque posture of death. He had been with the company for a month, someone recalls, but sadly, no one can remember his name. Says one G.I.: "He had freckles ... I think."
The...
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