except they looked so black and
stick-like. Then I saw they were moving, wiggling, and the rim broke out with
smoke, some of it going straight up and some jetting toward our line, rolling
and jumping with spits of fire mixed in and a humming like wasps past my ears.
I thought: Lord to God, they’re shooting;
they’re shooting at me! And it surprised me so, I stopped to look. The
smoke kept rolling up and out, rolling and rolling, still with the stabs of fire
mixed in, and some of the men passed me, bent forward like they were running
into a high wind, rifles held crossways so that the bayonets glinted and
snapped in the sunlight, and their faces were all out of shape from the
yelling.
When I stopped I begun to hear all sorts of things I hadn’t
heard while I was running. It was like being born again, coming into a new
world. There was a great crash and clatter of firing, and over all this I could
hear them all around me, screaming and yelping like on a foxhunt except there
was something crazy mixed up in it too, like horses trapped in a burning barn.
I thought they’d all gone crazy—they looked it, for a fact. Their faces were
split wide open with screaming, mouths twisted every which way, and this wild
lunatic yelping coming out. It wasn’t like they were yelling with their mouths:
it was more like the yelling was something pent up inside them and they were
opening their mouths to let it out. That was the first time I really knew how
scared I was.
If I'd stood there another minute, hearing all this, I would
have gone back. I thought: Luther, you got no business mixed up in all this
ruckus. This is all crazy, I thought. But a big fellow I never saw before ran
into me full tilt, knocking me forward so hard I nearly went sprawling. He
looked at me sort of desperate, like I was a post or something that got in the
way, and went by, yelling. By the time I got my balance I was stumbling
forward, so I just kept going. And that was better. I found that as long as I
was moving I was all right, because then I didn’t hear so much or even see so
much. Moving, it was more like I was off to myself, with just my own particular
worries.
I kept passing men lying on the ground, and at first I
thought they were winded, like the fat one—that was the way they looked to me.
But directly I saw a corporal with the front of his head mostly gone, what had
been under his skull spilling over his face, and I knew they were down because
they were hurt. Every now and then there would be one just sitting there
holding an arm or leg and groaning. Some of them would reach out at us and even
call us by name, but we stayed clear. For some reason we didn’t like them, not
even the sight of them. I saw Lonny Parker that I grew up with; he was holding
his stomach, bawling like a baby, his face all twisted and big tears on his
cheeks. But it wasn’t any different with Lonny—I stayed clear of him too, just
like I'd never known him, much less grown up with him back in Jordan County. It
wasn’t a question of luck, the way some folks will tell you; they will tell you
it's bad luck to be near the wounded. It was just that we didn’t want to be
close to them any longer than it took to run past, the way you wouldn’t want to
be near someone who had something catching, like smallpox.
We were almost to the rim by then and I saw clear enough
that they weren’t scarecrows—that was a foolish thing to think anyhow. They
were men, with faces and thick blue uniforms. It was only a glimpse, though,
because then we gave them a volley and smoke rolled out between us. When we
came through the smoke they were gone except the ones who were on the ground.
They lay in every position, like a man I saw once that had been drug out on
bank after he was run over by a steamboat and the paddles hit him. We were
running and yelling, charging across the flat ground where white canvas tents
stretched out in an even row. The racket was louder now, and then I knew why.
It was
stick-like. Then I saw they were moving, wiggling, and the rim broke out with
smoke, some of it going straight up and some jetting toward our line, rolling
and jumping with spits of fire mixed in and a humming like wasps past my ears.
I thought: Lord to God, they’re shooting;
they’re shooting at me! And it surprised me so, I stopped to look. The
smoke kept rolling up and out, rolling and rolling, still with the stabs of fire
mixed in, and some of the men passed me, bent forward like they were running
into a high wind, rifles held crossways so that the bayonets glinted and
snapped in the sunlight, and their faces were all out of shape from the
yelling.
When I stopped I begun to hear all sorts of things I hadn’t
heard while I was running. It was like being born again, coming into a new
world. There was a great crash and clatter of firing, and over all this I could
hear them all around me, screaming and yelping like on a foxhunt except there
was something crazy mixed up in it too, like horses trapped in a burning barn.
I thought they’d all gone crazy—they looked it, for a fact. Their faces were
split wide open with screaming, mouths twisted every which way, and this wild
lunatic yelping coming out. It wasn’t like they were yelling with their mouths:
it was more like the yelling was something pent up inside them and they were
opening their mouths to let it out. That was the first time I really knew how
scared I was.
If I'd stood there another minute, hearing all this, I would
have gone back. I thought: Luther, you got no business mixed up in all this
ruckus. This is all crazy, I thought. But a big fellow I never saw before ran
into me full tilt, knocking me forward so hard I nearly went sprawling. He
looked at me sort of desperate, like I was a post or something that got in the
way, and went by, yelling. By the time I got my balance I was stumbling
forward, so I just kept going. And that was better. I found that as long as I
was moving I was all right, because then I didn’t hear so much or even see so
much. Moving, it was more like I was off to myself, with just my own particular
worries.
I kept passing men lying on the ground, and at first I
thought they were winded, like the fat one—that was the way they looked to me.
But directly I saw a corporal with the front of his head mostly gone, what had
been under his skull spilling over his face, and I knew they were down because
they were hurt. Every now and then there would be one just sitting there
holding an arm or leg and groaning. Some of them would reach out at us and even
call us by name, but we stayed clear. For some reason we didn’t like them, not
even the sight of them. I saw Lonny Parker that I grew up with; he was holding
his stomach, bawling like a baby, his face all twisted and big tears on his
cheeks. But it wasn’t any different with Lonny—I stayed clear of him too, just
like I'd never known him, much less grown up with him back in Jordan County. It
wasn’t a question of luck, the way some folks will tell you; they will tell you
it's bad luck to be near the wounded. It was just that we didn’t want to be
close to them any longer than it took to run past, the way you wouldn’t want to
be near someone who had something catching, like smallpox.
We were almost to the rim by then and I saw clear enough
that they weren’t scarecrows—that was a foolish thing to think anyhow. They
were men, with faces and thick blue uniforms. It was only a glimpse, though,
because then we gave them a volley and smoke rolled out between us. When we
came through the smoke they were gone except the ones who were on the ground.
They lay in every position, like a man I saw once that had been drug out on
bank after he was run over by a steamboat and the paddles hit him. We were
running and yelling, charging across the flat ground where white canvas tents
stretched out in an even row. The racket was louder now, and then I knew why.
It was
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