Night march. Roaring vehicles and swearing men in a world o f unbroken blackness. Enemy shells are dropping with a monotonous regularity on a cross road not far in front. Each vehicle creeps along roads already pock-marked by shell fire. A half- track crew sits sprawled out in the back of the track while in front the driver and the car commander gaze searchingly into the darkness before them. They listen to the shells hitting up front, and the knowledge that they will soon be moving slowly across that cross road tightens their stomachs. There are planes above, and, by the sound o f the motors, they know they aren't friendly planes. That's a plane coming down. Have they spotted the column? Down, down, he comes, his gasping motor becomes a roar. GIs slump in their seats, heads down, and hearts jumping in their throats, waiting. The plane dives down on the road and roars by a hundred feet above, but there are no straf ing guns, no scream of a dropped bomb. Heads come up again. Someone gasps lowly in the night. The shells are getting closer.