It looked like something new in shadow-play, or motion pictures. The
shadows looked like men falling in in close formation, save that there
was an uncanny shapelessness about them. We could tell that they walked
like other men, for we could see the swinging of their legs. But for
the rest of their bodies, well, somebody had worked out a great system
of camouflage. Heads were just black blobs rising out of shoulders that
were stooped and round. We could not tell whether the group had formed
facing us or with their backs to us.
A chill crept over and through the dome as the formations fell in. The
sounds in our walkie-talkies grew in volume. I think we all sensed
menace in the words that were not human words, in tones that were not
human tones. We could sense growing menace, and intonations of command.
We could make out nothing resembling any weapons we knew, but never
once did we doubt that the shadows were forming against us. We forgot,
while the shadows closed ranks, that we had been fed, watered, kept
warm. This was no friendly demonstration.
The Shadow Men started closing in. I gave the command for which my men
had been waiting, and for the first time the sailors came out of the
landing craft to take part.
A vast circle of shadows closed in on us as we formed for defense.
Old-timers remembered the ancient "Form for Bolo Attack" as we arranged
ourselves in concentric circles, the automatic weapons outside,
riflemen behind them with bayonets fixed. There was a rifle and bayonet
for each man, including the automatic weaponers, for use if the
automatics went out of action.
"No firing until I give the word," I said. "Music!"
"Music," in the Navy, of which the Marine Corps is a proud part,
designates a trumpeter or drummer or bugler--whoever beats to quarters
or blows the bugle-calls.
"Here, sir," said Trumpeter Krane.
"Blow something," I said, "It doesn't matter what. I'm just curious
about what effect it will have."
"How about 'Boots and Saddles', sir?" he asked. There was a snicker,
the suggestion of laughter from the marines.
Trumpeter Krane did a good job with "Boots and Saddles". It was a brave
sound, but it had no effect whatever on the advancing Shadow Men. As
the big circle contracted, every other Shadow Man dropped back, forming
an outer circle. One thing that seemed to make clear to us: the Shadow
Men had mass. They occupied space. Bullets, then, should have some
effect on them.
"Preble!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Scatter some bullets ahead of those things, far enough ahead so that
they'll ricochet over them."
Preble stood up and let go with his ultramodern fast-firer. For a few
seconds, as he played the weapon's muzzle like a hose, the Shadow Men
were obscured by the cloud of kicked-up sand. The sand fell at once, of
course--and the Shadow Men were coming directly on! Moreover, there was
a grimmer note in our walkie-talkies.
"One fast-firer at each cardinal point of the compass," I said.
Marines in action are something to see. In a split second the Shadow
Men from all sides were being warned by bullets. But they came right on.
"No other choice," I said quietly. "Shoot into them. Fire at will!"
Thousands of steel-jacketed slugs poured into the Shadow Men. But not
one fell, and not for so much as an instant did they hesitate in their
advance. Now other men had fallen back so that four concentric circles
of Shadow Men closed in on us. They were quite close when they halted.
I was just preparing to order our new explosives to be hurled among
them, when, directly in front of me, a shadow detached itself from
other shadows. It strode forward a few paces and halted. The clumsy
arms seemed to gesticulate. The sounds of whispering came louder in
our walkie-talkies. I think we all felt that in some way we were being
challenged.
"Someone is to go forward," I said. "I don't know what it wants,
but--Hold your fire, now--not that it seems to be worth much!"
I rose and started forward, conscious that there wasn't a movement
among the marines, nor among the Shadow Men. I wondered as I
approached the foremost shadow, how we would make ourselves understood
to each other. The other entity must have some idea or there would be
no suggestion of a parley.
I must have been halfway there when I was aware of running footfalls
behind me. I didn't turn--and by failing to turn I saved my own life at
the expense of PFC Yount's. The footfalls were right behind me, but I
wasn't expecting what happened. Arms went around my legs in as neat a
tackle as ever a leatherneck footballer pulled. I was thrown on my face
so hard I couldn't breathe. I don't remember when I've been downed so
hard.
By the time I got to my knees Yount was almost in contact with the
detached shadow. He had a trench knife in his hand; drew it right after
tackling me. I could see everything that happened.
PFC Yount flung himself straight at the shadow. I saw him disappear
_into_ the shadow, emerge on the other side. But there was a
difference: _he went in a marine in full battle dress; he came out a
completely articulated skeleton_. He had been stripped of clothes,
shoes, weapons, skin, flesh and life--so quickly that his forward
impetus carried his skeleton on through the shadow.
[Illustration: He went in a Marine in full battle dress; he came out a
skeleton....]
Now four marines were beside me. A growl rose from the others. I had to
yell at them, over my shoulder: "Stand fast! Do you want the same thing
to happen to you?"
The four men beside me--I didn't look to see who they were--simply
waited.
"Okay, just be careful not to touch any of the shadows," I said.
"Apparently that's where the danger is."
Not a shadow moved, not even the one through which Yount had gone
to his death. The five of us then, rose and moved straight forward.
As we came close I could smell something in the shadows, a vague,
pestilential odor, like nothing I had ever experienced.
"I smelled its like, sir," said one, Haggerty, I think, "where men lay
too long unburied. This is just a far hint, but it's like it, some way."
We went around the detached shadow. There was no sound, even in our
walkie-talkies, now. It was almost as if, honoring an ancient military
custom, the Shadow Men were allowing us to collect our dead. I could
not see into or through the shadow. It was still so shapeless, even
when I was close enough to touch it, that I could not tell anything of
its true nature, or whether it, or any of the Shadow Men behind it,
were armed. I could see the result of too much impetuosity, however, in
the skeleton--snow-white, as if it were that of a man long dead in the
burning desert sands--of PFC Yount. I tried to remember, as the others
carefully gathered up the skeleton--Haggerty later said it was still
warm!--whether Yount had uttered any sound, but could not remember.
Some men said later they were sure they heard a muffled scream, the
scream of a man in mortal agony, but I doubt it.