We have ways of making you tour, presents The Cauldron by Zeno, read by Almari.

Chapter 19 The air hung nearly as thickly as the puffs of

spoke which drifted heavily around the edges of the perimeter.

Harking its limits as clearly as a crayoned line on a map.

In shattered buildings and from the holes dug in the gardens of the houses,

from the borders positions in the fields, and from those of the glider pilots under the

trees the division fought on.

Patallians reduced to tens of men, companies to single figures.

Platoon positions held by five or six men, section posts, manned by pairs, and sometimes

by a single soldier.

Each man alone, no man in Ireland, all tied together by the thread of the general's

command.

The despair in their hearts hidden or at worst partially concealed from each other.

The dead blankness of exhaustion masking their faces to a uniform, dirty grey yellowness.

The independent company clung to its houses and used to beek, the approach roads into

its positions cluttered with burned out tanks and half tracks.

Bridgman walked and crawled his rounds from post to post, fatigue bitten us and anger fighting

for first place in the turmoil of discontent which sucked at his rationality, urging him

constantly to some cause of action which would upset the status quo.

Death for himself or his men was now something relatively unimportant.

What mattered more was the manner in which it would come.

He felt a great need to be free if only for a few minutes from the encircling grip of

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