LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD
perceive nothing clearly; all I remember was that we were firing canister, the deflected guns leaping madly back with the recoil, growing hot to the hand. I trod on bodies as I toiled; I heard through the stifling volume of smoke, the infernal uproar, a hoarse shouting of unrecognizable orders, the wild scream of a wounded horse, a single mad oath, an agonized voice yelling from behind, "Where in hell is the infantry?" Yet all that I actually realized then were those distorted black shapes springing back and forth from that gun muzzle, and the lanyard grasped in my hand. That alone was my work, my duty, and I must stand to it until I died. Two years of iron discipline had made me into a machine.
Something burned my shoulder like a sudden spurt of flame; I felt sick from the shock, and clung desperately to the breech to keep from falling; I saw faces here and there amid the brown whirls of smoke, strange, unknown repulsive faces, rendered hideous from the strain of conflict; my gun toppled over, one wheel smashed into splinters; I saw Wyatt turn and run for the rear, and Parkhurst flung backward as though shot from a catapult; I jerked the rammer out of his dead, clutching hands, and began striking fiercely at that crush of gray figures leaping toward me. Then everything went blank, and I pitched over under the wreck.
It was dark when I slowly reopened my eyes, and endeavored to look about, dark and still, except for a faint gleam of distant stars, and the awful gurgling of some desperately wounded man lying not far away. My head throbbed feverishly from pain, and my right side ached
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