There were tamed mountains to the north, where Che Ajah's plane would land in the morning. There were higher, wilder mountains in Korea where a million men lay buried, and it did not matter to them now who had held the high ground. Such a mountain was refuge to Ben Corbin, then, with the dark folds of its ridges indelibly stained. He could crouch in some forgottne defensive position and look out upon rusted wire, see the brush-healed scars of desperate attacks, and listen to a mocking wind imitate the sounds of a soldier's transient glories.

1967.