swept to one side by the rush of men. I saw all this, and no more; it was like a flash on the screen —and then everything became an indistinct blur. They were upon us, jammed in the narrow doorways, each man fighting for life. I used gun and revolver, fist and stock; I knew not who stood, who fell; in the red mist before me were black shapes, hateful faces, and I struck to kill. Twice I lost foot and fell, but was up again, fronting them. I stepped on dead bodies, slipped in pools of blood; falling men caused me to stagger; a slug of lead tore burning through my shoulder; a glancing knife blade ripped my forearm. I had no time, no room, in which to reload; my hands gripped the hot carbine barrel, and I swung the stock like a flail.
It was stifling—I could hardly breathe; the room choked with smoke, our bodies reeking with sweat. A gripping hand ripped my shirt open, clutching for the throat, and I jabbed carbine barrel into the bearded face. Yet we could not hold; could not stand against that torrent—there were not enough of us. Inch by inch they won through the door; we could kill, but not stop them, and they hurled us back, stumbling over the dead, clambering across overturned benches, but unable to stem the increasing tide. We were all together now—Harwood, Wharton, O'Hare—the sole handful left, and
