Mellas ran forward, throwing himself behind rocks, scrambling
across exposed patches, and then lunging again for any sort of
cover from the fire pouring down on them. All of his being was
wound up in his pumping heart and the rapidly rising heat of the
blood coursing through his brain and legs. He ran as he’d
never run before—with neither hope nor despair. He ran
because the world was divided into opposites with his side already
chosen for him, his only choice being whether or not to play his
part with heart and courage. He ran because fate had placed him in
a position of responsibility and he’d accepted the burden. He
ran because his self-respect required it. He ran because he loved
his friends and it was the only thing he could do to try and end
the madness that was killing and maiming them. He ran at the bunker
where the grenades from Jake’s M-79 were exploding, the
bullets from the enemy machine gun slamming through the air to his
right, whining like tortured cats, cracking like the bullwhip of
death. He ran, having never felt so alone and frightened in his
entire life.

Excerpted from MATTERHORN: A Novel of the Vietnam War ©
Copyright 2011 by Karl Marlantes. Reprinted with permission by
Atlantic Monthly Press. All rights reserved.