Hanging on

was smeared with long brown streaks of topsoil. What did the girl think? She had seen Danny Dew come off the rubble, across the water, and up the hill as if he were walking across a room-and now she saw Beame floundering like the first legged fish that crawled out of a prehistoric sea. He felt like an ass.
        But she was smiling. And it was not a cruel smile.
        Beame waved and started towards her. The closer he got, the more he saw how beautiful she was. By the time he was standing in front of her, he was numb, speechless in the aura of her radiant beauty. Her hair was really black, not just dark brown. Her complexion was Spanish and flawless, her eyes as large as olives and as black as her hair. Her nose was small, fine-boned, exquisitely arched. Her smile was wide and warm. Her teeth were square and white, her lips two ribbons tied in a sensuous bow.
        "Hello," he said, clearing his throat. "My name's David Beame."
        "Nathalie," she said.
        "What?" He thought she had told him, in French, to get lost. Or worse.
        "That's my name," she said. "Nathalie."
        "You speak English," he said, relieved that she had not been insulting him. "I'm pleased to meet you, Nathalie." She was gorgeous.
        She was flattered by his ill-concealed admiration. She blushed. Beame was happy he had flattered her. He knew he was blushing too, and he wiped his face with one hand, never realizing his hand was muddy.
        "How is it you speak English?" he asked.
        "Father taught me."
        "And who is your father?"
        "Maurice," she said.
        Could this be true? Could greasy, conniving Maurice Jobert give half the seed to make a girl like this? "I've never seen you before. You weren't at the village dance a couple of weeks ago."
        "I had a summer cold. Papa made me stay in bed until the fever broke." She cocked her head and looked at him. "You are staring-so intently."
        Startled, Beame wiped a hand across his face to cover another blush.
        "You're getting mud all over your nose," she said, putting one finger to his face, taking it away, showing him the mud.
        "Oh," Beame said, feeling like an ass. He wiped his muddy nose with his muddy hand. Realizing his error, he used his shirttail next. But that was even muddier than his hands. Suddenly, he wished that he had drowned when he fell into the river.
        "Are you nervous?" Nathalie asked.
        "Me? No. Why should I be nervous?"
        "Father says you are all scared of dying. Father says you are the only soldiers he's ever seen who are aware of their own mortality." She smiled. Just gorgeous. "He likes doing business with you, because you have no illusions."
        "You mean it's good that we're nervous?" Beame asked, surprised.
        "Oh, yes. Very good."
        "Well," Beame said, "I'm very nervous." He let her see how his hands were shaking. "At times, I'm so terrified I'm not functional. I haven't had a good night's sleep since we landed here." When she nodded sympathetically, Beame could not let go of the subject. "I have awful nightmares. I can't eat. I pick at my food and get indigestion, and the worst gas… I've been constipated for three weeks. If I could have one good shit, I think-" He realized what he was saying, and he wanted to leap off the edge of the ravine.
        She looked down at the workers again, embarrassed for him. She presented Beame with a lovely profile which soothed him and made him feel like less of an ass. Indeed, he felt as if he had been transformed into a spirit by the white heat rolling off her. If she turned and touched him, her hand would go straight through.
        After a long silence, he heard himself say, "You're beautiful."
        She looked at him timidly, blushing again. "Thank you."
        Beame's heart rose. She was just what he had thought she was! A flower, an innocent, a girl-woman as precious as anything he had ever wanted. And if he just did not start talking about his constipation again, he might be able to win her.

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    2
        
        Sergeant Emil Hagendorf had a voice like a 78 rpm phonograph record playing on a turntable forever moving at 60 rpm, and he always sounded morose. "You don't know what it's like," he said, morosely.
        Major Kelly sat down on one of the rec room chairs. "What what's like?"
        "Chaos," Hagendorf said. His pasty face grew paler at the word.
        "I live in chaos,"