The only sound near the top of 10,000-ft. Mount Alagi one morning last week was the chink of a chisel on stonetwo workmen were carving a name into a crude headstone. Most of the graves were marked only by rough wooden crosses, hacked from ammunition boxes; beside each cross was a half-buried wine bottle, with the deceased's identification papers crammed in. The workmen, glad to be alive, chipped somberly among the graves of men who had done their brave best.
A tall young man stepped into the sunlight from the cavernous door of Fort Toselli...
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