i was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought captain waskow down. the moon was nearly full and you could see far up the trail and even part way across the valley. soldiers made shadows as they walked. dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed on the backs of mules. they came lying belly down on the saddle, their heads hanging, their legs sticking awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked. the italian mule skinners were afraid to walk by dead men. so americans had to lead the mules down. even the americans were afraid to unlash the bodies, so an officer had to do it and ask others to help. the first one came early in the morning. they slipped him down from the mule, stood him on his feet for a moment. in half-light, he might have merely been a sick man standing there, leaning on another. then they laid him in the shadow of a stone wall along the road. i don't know who that person was. you feel small in the presence of dead men and you don't ask silly questions. we left him there by the side of the road