Where their sharp edges seemed restless as sea waves thrusting themselves upward in angry motion, Papa-san sat glacier like, his smooth solidity, his very immobility defying all the turmoil about him. ``Our objective,'' the colonel had said that day of the briefing, ``is Papa-san.'' There the objective sat, brooding over all. Gouge, burn, blast, insult it as they would, could anyone really take Papa-san?

Between the ponderous hulk and himself, in the valley over which Papa-san reigned, men had hidden high explosives, booby traps, and mines. The raped valley was a pregnant womb awaiting abortion. On the forward slope in front of his own post stretched two rows of barbed wire. At the slope's base coils of concertina stretched out of eye range like a wild tangle of children's hoops, stopped simultaneously, weirdly poised as if awaiting the magic of the child's touch to start them all rolling again. Closer still, regular barricades of barbed wire hung on timber supports. Was it all vain labor? Who would clean up the mess when the war was over? Smiling at his quixotic thoughts, Warren turned back from the opening and lit a cigarette before sitting down. Tonight a group of men, tomorrow night he himself, would go out there somewhere and wait. If he were to go with White, he would be out there two days, not just listening in the dark at some point between here and Papa-san, but moving ever deeper into enemy land -- behind Papa-san itself. Was this what he had expected? He hadn't realized that there would be so much time to think, so many lulls. Somehow he had forgotten what he must have been told, that combat was an intermittent activity. Now he knew that the moment illuminated by the vision on the train would have to be approached. It could take place tomorrow night, or it might occur months from now. There was just too much time. Time to become afraid. White's suggestion flattered, but he did not like the identity. He did not spill over with hatred for the enemy. He hadn't even seen him yet.