"Down that way. You'll overtake a couple of our walking wounded. If you
don't mind going slowly, they'll show you the way to advance dressing
station, and you can hitch a ride on an ambulance from there."

Benson nodded. Off on the left, there was a flurry of small-arms fire,
ending in yells of "Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!"--the World War IV version of
"Kamarad"!

* * * * *

His company was a non-T/O outfit; he came directly under Division
command and didn't have to bother reporting to any regimental or brigade
commanders. He walked for an hour with half a dozen lightly wounded
Scots, rode for another hour on a big cat-truck loaded with casualties
of six regiments and four races, and finally reached Division Rear,
where both the Division and Corps commanders took time to compliment him
on the part his last hunter patrol had played in the now complete
breakthrough. His replacement, an equine-faced Spaniard with an imposing
display of fruit-salad, was there, too; he solemnly took off the
bracelet a refugee Caucasian goldsmith had made for his predecessor's
predecessor and gave it to the new commander of what had formerly been
Benson's Butchers. As he had expected, there was also another medal
waiting for him.

A medical check at Task Force Center got him a warning; his last patrol
had brought him dangerously close to the edge of combat fatigue.
Remembering the incidents of the tank and the unaccountably fast watch,
and the mysterious box and envelope which he had found in his coat
pocket, he agreed, saying nothing about the questions that were puzzling