After the fever had left his veins, the youth
thought that at last he was going to suffocate.
He became aware of the foul atmosphere in
which he had been struggling. He was grimy
and dripping like a laborer in a foundry. He
grasped his canteen and took a long swallow of
the warmed water.
A sentence with variations went up and down
the line. "Well, we 've helt 'em back. We 've
helt 'em back; derned if we haven't." The men
said it blissfully, leering at each other with dirty
smiles.
The youth turned to look behind him and off
to the right and off to the left. He experienced
the joy of a man who at last finds leisure in which
to look about him.
Under foot there were a few ghastly forms
motionless. They lay twisted in fantastic contortions.
Arms were bent and heads were turned
in incredible ways. It seemed that the dead men
must have fallen from some great height to get
into such positions. They looked to be dumped
out upon the ground from the sky.
From a position in the rear of the grove a battery
was throwing shells over it. The flash of
the guns startled the youth at first. He thought
they were aimed directly at him. Through the
trees he watched the black figures of the gunners
as they worked swiftly and intently. Their labor
seemed a complicated thing. He wondered how
they could remember its formula in the midst of
confusion.
The guns squatted in a row like savage chiefs.
They argued with abrupt violence. It was a
grim pow-wow. Their busy servants ran hither
and thither.
A small procession of wounded men were going
drearily toward the rear. It was a flow of
blood from the torn body of the brigade.
To the right and to the left were the dark
lines of other troops. Far in front he thought he
could see lighter masses protruding in points
from the forest. They were suggestive of unnumbered
thousands.
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