Free Pages of Promise by Gilbert Morris

what’s right.”
    Bobby looked at his twin with surprise and shock in his eyes; nodding, he said huskily, “Okay.”
    He and his dad hugged, and Jerry held him a long time, unable to speak. Then Richard picked up his bag, shouldered it, and joined the group of marines walking up the gangplank. On board the ship, he paused at the rail and saw them still standing huddled close together. He smiled and waved, and they waved back; then he made his way down the rail. He found his quarters, came back, and saw that they were still there. As he waved again, sailors cast off the lines, the ship shuddered and began to move, gathering speed slowly. Richard stood at the rail waving and smiling, and when the ship swung, cutting them off from view, he turned and, feeling slightly sick, walked to the prow where he watched the water as it curled around the sharp, cutting edge of the transport. It bubbled, green and white and gray, and he looked up and strained his eyes as if he could see all the way across the sea to Korea.

5

D EATH AT H IGH N OON
    C orporal Richard Stuart and Lance Corporal Keller were on their way to pick up supplies from a truck a mile behind the line. Keller was following Richard at a little distance. Richard’s rifle was in the sling over his shoulder, and he smiled to himself. It’s been so quiet nobody would even know there’s a war on, he thought. Information was that the enemy units had pulled back, and for several days there had been no fighting. As he descended a slight slope, he was momentarily out of Keller’s sight.
    Suddenly he was face-to-face with a North Korean soldier, barely twenty feet away, who obviously was expecting trouble no more than Richard was. The enemy, too, had his rifle slung over his shoulder. It was too late to run, there was no place to hide, and both of them grasped at their rifle straps frantically, knowing that the first man to get off a shot would live—and the other would die. Richard’s rifle fell into his hands in the familiar position, but he did not raise it, only fired from the hip. The shot took the North Korean in the chest and knocked him backwards, his rifle flying in the air and landing in the dirt. Looking first to see if the man was alone, Richard went to him. Keller was running up by now, rifle at the ready. Kneeling over the fallen soldier, Richard saw that he was only a boy, probably not over fifteen. His eyes were fluttering and his chest was a bloody blossom. Then he looked up at Richard and smiled.
    Richard woke with a start. Why did he smile? He had no idea what day of the week it was. It was September 1952, he knew that, but for a long time he lay half awake, tugging his filthy blanket around him for warmth, thinking about that soldier, who had died without saying a word. In the boy’s pocket had been pictures of two older people, probably his parents. There were letters written in the language that Richard could not understand, and he had kept them for a while and then wondered, What would I do with them? Write and say “I killed your son”? He had thrown them away, but the incident was engraved on his mind. He’d relived it frequently in his dreams.
    The sun struck him in the face, and with a groan he rolled out of his sodden blanket and poked through his pack for dry socks. Dry socks were almost all the religion he had left. He found a pair of gray socks worn thin by many washings, stripped off his old ones, and pulled the dry ones on over his dirty feet, noting he had no infection or trench foot. As soon as he pulled his boots on and laced them up, he began thinking immediately of a way to wash his extra socks. He would wait until noon, find a muddy stream somewhere, and use the sliver of soap that he hoarded as if it were gold; then he would dry the socks on a rock in the midday sun and have them ready for the next morning.
    Standing to his feet, he saw men stirring, groaning, but too weary to do more than that. He shrugged into his overcoat, and