push
them— with bulLet’s and bayonets of course, and of
course I knew there were going to be men killed: I even thought I might get
killed myself; it crossed my mind a number of times. But it wasn’t the way they
said. It wasn’t that way at all. Because even the dead and dying didn’t have
any decency about them—first the Yankees back on the slope, crumpled and muddy
where their own men had overrun them, then the men in the field beyond the
tents, yelping like gut-shot dogs while they died, and now this one, this big
fellow running straddle-legged and stone cold dead in the face, that wouldn’t
stop running even after he'd been killed.
I was what you might call unnerved, for they may warn you
there's going to be bleeding in battle but you don’t believe it till you see
the blood. What happened from then on was all mixed up in the smoke. We formed
again and went back through the tents. But the same thing happened: they were
there, just as before, and when they threw that wall of smoke and humming bulLet’s at us, we came running back down the slope. Three
times we went through and it was the same every time. Finally a fresh brigade
came up from the reserve and we went through together.
This trip was different—we could tell it even before we got
started. We went through the smoke and the bulLet’s ,
and that was the first time we used bayonets. For a minute it was jab and slash,
everyone yelling enough to curdle your blood just with the shrillness. I was
running, bent low with the rifle held out front, the way they taught me, and
all of a sudden I saw I was going to have it with a big Yank wearing his coat
unbuttoned halfway, showing a red flannel undershirt. I was running and he was
waiting, braced, and it occurred to me, the words shooting through my mind:
What kind of a man is this, would wear a red wool undershirt in April?
I saw his face from below, but he had bent down and his
eyebrows were drawn in a straight line like a black bar over his eyes. He was
full-grown, with a wide brown mustache; I could see the individual hairs on
each side of the shaved line down the middle. I'd have had to say Sir to him
back home. Then something hit my arm a jar—I stumbled against him, lifting my
rifle and falling sideways. Ee ! I'm killed! I
thought. He turned with me and we were falling, first a slow fall the way it is
in dreams, then sudden, and the ground came up and hit me: ho! We were two feet
apart, looking at each other. He seemed even bigger now, up close, and there
was something wrong with the way he looked. Then I saw why.
My bayonet had gone in under his jaw, the hand-guard tight
against the bottom of his chin, and the point must have stuck in his head bone
because he appeared to be trying to open his mouth but couldn’t. It was like he
had a mouthful of something bitter and couldn’t spit—his eyes were screwed up,
staring at me and blinking a bit from the strain. All I could do was look at
him; I couldn’t look away, no matter how I tried. A man will look at something
that is making him sick but he can’t stop looking until he begins to vomit
—something holds him. That was the way it was with me. Then, while I was
watching him, this fellow reached up and touched the handle of the bayonet
under his chin. He touched it easy, using the tips of his fingers, tender-like.
I could see he wanted to grab and pull it out but he was worried about how much
it would hurt and he didn’t dare.
I let go of the rifle and rolled away. There were bluecoats
running across the field and through the woods beyond. All around me men were kneeling
and shooting at them like rabbits as they ran. Captain Plummer and two
lieutenants were the only officers left on their feet. Two men were bent over
Colonel Thornton where they had propped him against a tree with one of his legs
laid crooked. Captain Plummer wasn’t limping now—he'd forgotten his blisters, I
reckon. He wasn’t even hurt, so far as I could see, but the
them— with bulLet’s and bayonets of course, and of
course I knew there were going to be men killed: I even thought I might get
killed myself; it crossed my mind a number of times. But it wasn’t the way they
said. It wasn’t that way at all. Because even the dead and dying didn’t have
any decency about them—first the Yankees back on the slope, crumpled and muddy
where their own men had overrun them, then the men in the field beyond the
tents, yelping like gut-shot dogs while they died, and now this one, this big
fellow running straddle-legged and stone cold dead in the face, that wouldn’t
stop running even after he'd been killed.
I was what you might call unnerved, for they may warn you
there's going to be bleeding in battle but you don’t believe it till you see
the blood. What happened from then on was all mixed up in the smoke. We formed
again and went back through the tents. But the same thing happened: they were
there, just as before, and when they threw that wall of smoke and humming bulLet’s at us, we came running back down the slope. Three
times we went through and it was the same every time. Finally a fresh brigade
came up from the reserve and we went through together.
This trip was different—we could tell it even before we got
started. We went through the smoke and the bulLet’s ,
and that was the first time we used bayonets. For a minute it was jab and slash,
everyone yelling enough to curdle your blood just with the shrillness. I was
running, bent low with the rifle held out front, the way they taught me, and
all of a sudden I saw I was going to have it with a big Yank wearing his coat
unbuttoned halfway, showing a red flannel undershirt. I was running and he was
waiting, braced, and it occurred to me, the words shooting through my mind:
What kind of a man is this, would wear a red wool undershirt in April?
I saw his face from below, but he had bent down and his
eyebrows were drawn in a straight line like a black bar over his eyes. He was
full-grown, with a wide brown mustache; I could see the individual hairs on
each side of the shaved line down the middle. I'd have had to say Sir to him
back home. Then something hit my arm a jar—I stumbled against him, lifting my
rifle and falling sideways. Ee ! I'm killed! I
thought. He turned with me and we were falling, first a slow fall the way it is
in dreams, then sudden, and the ground came up and hit me: ho! We were two feet
apart, looking at each other. He seemed even bigger now, up close, and there
was something wrong with the way he looked. Then I saw why.
My bayonet had gone in under his jaw, the hand-guard tight
against the bottom of his chin, and the point must have stuck in his head bone
because he appeared to be trying to open his mouth but couldn’t. It was like he
had a mouthful of something bitter and couldn’t spit—his eyes were screwed up,
staring at me and blinking a bit from the strain. All I could do was look at
him; I couldn’t look away, no matter how I tried. A man will look at something
that is making him sick but he can’t stop looking until he begins to vomit
—something holds him. That was the way it was with me. Then, while I was
watching him, this fellow reached up and touched the handle of the bayonet
under his chin. He touched it easy, using the tips of his fingers, tender-like.
I could see he wanted to grab and pull it out but he was worried about how much
it would hurt and he didn’t dare.
I let go of the rifle and rolled away. There were bluecoats
running across the field and through the woods beyond. All around me men were kneeling
and shooting at them like rabbits as they ran. Captain Plummer and two
lieutenants were the only officers left on their feet. Two men were bent over
Colonel Thornton where they had propped him against a tree with one of his legs
laid crooked. Captain Plummer wasn’t limping now—he'd forgotten his blisters, I
reckon. He wasn’t even hurt, so far as I could see, but the
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