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self-respect he found everywhere. He found himself straining to look the part of a strong commander, to sound the right note of firmness and encouragement in his conversations, to flatter when it was due, and to correct, but not harshly, when it was warranted. He felt the men respond to him, the almost 1,000 of them who constituted his task force with all of its attachments, as if they picked up his personality, and he theirs. By evening his desire to not let them down had surpassed his desire to get himself out of Purgatory. If he achieved the first, the second would follow, but it was the first consideration that stressed itself to him. Concern for his unit and its people had overtaken his concern for himself.Somehow, the burden of the responsibility eased the disquiet Always had known since awakening that morning at the gates of Purgatory.
    As Always arrived back at his TOC, Major Rogers hurried out to meet him. “Sir, we’ve just received our warning order from Brigade. We’ll be making a night road march tomorrow night up to a tactical assembly area south and west of Hill 931, to be followed by a dawn attack onto Objective BLUE, north of Hill 826.”
    Always looked at the map. Plenty of time, he thought to himself, and the terrain doesn’t look that rough, at least not from the map. “Do we know what’s up there?”
    “No, sir,” Rogers answered. “The S-2 has put in an intelligence request to higher headquarters. We’re hoping to get a quick answer to that question.”
    “Very good. Work me up a road march order. The attack doesn’t look that tough. After I meet with the commanders tonight have the XO get the staff together and work me up some options. We’ll mull things over, make a decision, and get the word out to the subordinate elements in the morning. In the meantime, keep that helicopter on order for me so I can make an early reconnaissance.”
    “Very good, sir. By the way, our observers are due momentarily.”
    A cold chill went down Always’ spine. During the afternoon he had become wrapped up in the myriad of details of commanding a battalion readying itself for action. Now he was reminded that this was to be no ordinary operation. A commander enjoys being king to his own soldiers. He didn’t want any godforsaken souls coming in to throw their weight around in his unit.
    But wanting and getting are two different things, and in an instant the roar of scores of jeep engines and a wave of dust engulfed the placid scene of operations officer and commander having a civil discussion. Like so many jackals, the dreadedobservers descended upon the headquarters, each one seeking his counterpart, with a sneer upon his lips and an air of contemptuous disdain for the hapless victims. A harder bitten lot would be difficult to imagine—faces seared by the desert sun, eyes glaring with sadistic eagerness, hands calloused and chapped from the writing of so many long and derogatory reports.
    In their midst strode the most savage looking of the lot, a bull-necked demon emitting unmitigated callousness.
    “Are you Lieutenant Colonel Always?” he bellowed.
    “Yes,” answered Always, trying to deepen his voice and sound unintimidated.
    “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Drivon. I’m here to help you.” The dreaded words passed through his thick lips with a menacing, guttural snarl.
    “I’m glad you’re here.” Always was trying to hold his ground.
    In such manner the two of them sparred for several minutes, but it was clear that Drivon had the upper hand. Already his assistants were cornering their victims, admonishing them to attempt no subterfuge, to confess their sins openly, to display their mistakes unashamedly for all to see, and to appreciate gratefully all the wonderful advice they were about to receive from their benefactors (read “observers”).
    Always made a mental note to settle down his people later from this disquieting experience, to point out that there was no good to come of resistance to the