BATTLE OF INDOCHINA
A cold rain was falling. On the west bank of the Black River, the French were loading an ambulance with wounded. Into the top shelf went a Frenchman with face wounds; into the middle shelf, a Vietnamese whose left foot had been blown off by a mine. Around his head lay grimy salvage from his pockets: a wallet, a watch, a rosary, bits of candy. Into the bottom shelf went a Moslem with a shattered leg, his bared, shaven head showing the tuft of hair by which Allah would raise him...
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