mon laborers, but with movements more like nervous spasms. Helmer (tall, loose-limbed, flaxen-haired, pretty-faced, long beyond his normal limit of energy, despairing) stood at the end, trying to assimilate the throbbing at the base of his spine into the less organic but even more palpable anguish that goaded him into keeping abreast of the others-exceeding if possible their efforts and pace. Because of the special relationship which existed between Helmer and the others, it was very possible that they noticed his vaulting attempt and its motive, and this may have been why, imperceptibly, gradually, they each moved a fraction apart from one another, thereby extending their line so that Private Bronson eventually ended up too close to Helmer for the two men to work efficiently. Bronson's elbow nudged Helmer in the ribs a few times, but it wasn't until their shovels collided with a dull thunk that the big southerner cursed and looked at Helmer.

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"Look, honey-chile," he said in that incongrously soft drawl, "don't you think this is right silly, us bumping each other this way? You got eyes, and you can see there just ain't room here for both of us, so you get your pretty ass off someplace else."

Humiliation and anger blossomed in Helmer's chest, but there was no question of his offering resistance, for all that had been settled months ago. He moved back from the ditch, allowing Bronson to step into his former position. He moved back until he came to the beginning of the northern slope and the figures of the working men were but the dimmest shadows seen through the fog, and he rested against the handle of the shovel, feeling through his drenched clothing the beginning of a chill, brought about by the fog and the moisture that drooled from the leaves of lumanya trees overhead and the dampness sliding inland from the ocean, two miles away. For a while he concentrated on hating Bronson, then shifted his thoughts back to the camp and anticipated the luxury of getting into his sack and sliding off into that conditional freedom from consciousness.

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He heard a voice, Corporal Elgin's, blaring angrily, "Where is he? Helmer. Where'd that sissy go off to now?" After that some muttering. Silently, Helmer waited. There was no need to call out. Corporal Elgin knew damn well where he was. He, Helmer, had caught Elgin's eye as he'd stepped back from the others, so now he shouted for Helmer not in quest, not for Helmer's benefit, but merely as prologue to the comic interlude; shouting, rather, for the benefit of the others, to show them that even here, over the spot where the flesh of their comrades was already beginning to merge with the soil of a South Pacific island, that even now-their obligation of mass interment fulfilled-they could scrounge about in the chaos and debris of their frantic lives for any available amusement.

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In a moment the Corporal's fat body disengaged itself from the fog, seemmattachine REVIEW

ingly all belly, and he shouted: "So here you are, Helmer. Damn you, why aren't you working with the others?" But, too removed to be seen by the others, not sufficiently interested to keep up all the appearances of the farce-not looking directly at Helmer, but keeping his head turned sideways to insure audibility down to the other end of the line of soldiers. "This ain't no outfit for any goddamn sissies. Every body works here. If you don't want to work, we'll send you somewhere else. All right?" "Yes sir." And then, carried by a surge of hopeless indignation, "I was working, sir. But Bronson shoved me out of line."

Laughter crackled through the layers of fog and inwardly he cursed himself for having let himself get sucked in.

"What's that?" He'd seen that same glittering look in Corporal Elgin's eyes during the endless card games whenever the fat man found himself in. possession of a satisfactory hand. "What's that? You mean you got crowded out? The mean nasty old men didn't let poor little you work?" And then, to the men: "Shame on you, you nasty things!"

More laughter, louder this time, fuzzy with echoes as the sound ricocheted between the opposing slopes. The Corporal's black calloused hand gripped Helmer's arm: "Here, let me help you back to the others." And he, stupefied with the familiar but ever potent humiliation, allowed himself to be half-cajoled, half-dragged back towards the others, but just before he and his tormentor reached them another surge of that despairing rage convulsed him, and though he was aware that by surrendering to it he laid himself open to further abuse, he surrendered nevertheless and savagely jerked his arm out of Corporal Elgin's grasp and strode away, ignoring the "Hey you! You halt! Who the goddamn hell do you think you areEleanor Roosevelt?" But he did not see the foot suddenly darting out beneath him. which caught his hind foot neatly and sent him tumbling sideways onto the freshly-filled grave, his shovel falling beneath him and his head striking against its shank, a transient blow, whose pain somehow merged with the fog and the deafening laughter. They were all around him now, so close that the fog no longer obscured their leering faces. He turned on his back, then moved up into a crouching position before ascending to his feet though, as he anticipated, he never made it, for someone-Campbell-had lunged at him and hurled him back and with a minimum of effort maneuvered himself to a squatting superiority upon Helmer, his knees pressing cruelly and implacably upon Helmer's shoulders, pinning him to the ground, his buttocks bumping up and down on Helmer's chest, threatening to drive the wind out of him, so that even his right to breathe was at their mercy-his impotence now complete, unmistakable. His latest tormentor spoke between audible intakes of breath: "Whassa matter, kid? Didn't you hear the 23