With both wounded and prisoners the little platoon returned and Grout immediately sent in a report, which brought Major Anderson again to visit the boys back in their old camp, which they had left hardly ten hours before. The officer went with Grout into the shed tent to see the wounded; when they came out the two stood talking of many things.
“You’ll get a commission for this bit of work and you’ll deserve it! Every one of your boys ought to have a D. S. M.!” exclaimed the Major.
“I wish that messenger—Morgan his name is—could have had one,” said the sergeant sadly.
“Yes, isn’t it a pity? And after such heroic work. That fellow is the real stuff. But enemy lead is no respecter of persons. He can’t live.”
“No, but heaven be praised, he doesn’t suffer any,” Grout asserted. “Poor chap; only a kid, too. A pluckier, cooler one never drew breath. I found this paper on him; his name and his home. Wm. T. Morgan; sounds like a fighting name.”
“Yes, I suspect the T stands for Tecumseh. Named after old General Sherman, I judge.”
“Likely. And I found this on him, too; pinned on his shirt. You’ll take charge of them, Major, and send them to headquarters.”
The Major held his bull’s-eye to shine on the thing that dropped into his hand; it was a bronze bar without much ornament; across it ran some letters and figures.
Alma Mater
Brighton Academy
Class of 1919
Truly the chances of battle are not governed by what we deem as befitting in a world of needful justification, else this bright and brave lad would have been spared. Amidst those scenes of carnage many such an one went down; others less worthy were spared. Many brave deeds had their only reward in death. Often it was quite the reverse.