A vast circle of shadows closed in on us as we formed for defense. Old-timers remembered the ancient "Form for Bolo Attack" as we arranged ourselves in concentric circles, the automatic weapons outside, riflemen behind them with bayonets fixed. There was a rifle and bayonet for each man, including the automatic weaponers, for use if the automatics went out of action.
"No firing until I give the word," I said. "Music!"
"Music," in the Navy, of which the Marine Corps is a proud part, designates a trumpeter or drummer or bugler—whoever beats to quarters or blows the bugle-calls.
"Here, sir," said Trumpeter Krane.
"Blow something," I said, "It doesn't matter what. I'm just curious about what effect it will have."
"How about 'Boots and Saddles', sir?" he asked. There was a snicker, the suggestion of laughter from the marines.
Trumpeter Krane did a good job with "Boots and Saddles". It was a brave sound, but it had no effect whatever on the advancing Shadow Men. As the big circle contracted, every other Shadow Man dropped back, forming an outer circle. One thing that seemed to make clear to us: the Shadow Men had mass. They occupied space. Bullets, then, should have some effect on them.
"Preble!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Scatter some bullets ahead of those things, far enough ahead so that they'll ricochet over them."