His leg was bothering him, his limp pronounced. As he helped another wounded marine into the underground bunker for medical treatment, he saw Alex sitting down in the corner, her hand pressed against her eyes. Delivering the marine to Peters, Jim walked between rows of men already in battle dressings, either lying down or sitting against the walls of the shuddering bunker as they waited stoically for a medevac. For the last hour, the battle had raged nonstop outside. Jim had delivered ammunition, helped relay messages to the front line when communications broke down and taken wounded out of the line of fire and to the safety of the bunker for medical attention. Just as he was about to check on Alex, a runner gripped his arm. “Captain Johnson wants to see you pronto,” he gasped, breathing hard. Nodding, Jim reluctantly turned away, heading out of the humid, dank tunnel and back into the main area of the huge underground bunker. Captain Johnson was hovering over the radio operators. Inwardly, Jim thought of his own skipper, Matt Breckenridge, who would have been up in the trenches with his men, not down here taking cover in a bunker.
