“Our gang was gettin’ it pretty hot ’round the gun-pits and there was so many of the fellows wounded and lyin’ out beyond the pits that the Sanitary guys couldn’t drag ’em in fast enough. Most of these wounded had been on the ammunition details and were hit on the way to the guns with shells. Every forty-five minutes a few of us would get relieved and crawl into the dug-out for a minute’s rest. The Sanitary men asked for volunteers to help ’em get the wounded in. Every man who was on relief at that minute jumped up and went out to bring the boys in. That’s the kind of spirit they had.
“A chap by the name of Wilson from F Battery had gone out to bring in some other lad and he got both of his own legs blown off. My old pal, Frank Gordon, heard Wilson moanin’ out there and he ran out to get him.
“I’ll never forget what happened just as Frank got on top of the little trench that ran ’round our gun. He had Wilson’s legless body slung over his back. Shrapnel screamed like a hell-cat and good old Gordon’s left arm and part of his head were jerked right out of socket and went flyin’ over our heads. Gordon and Wilson toppled out of sight. I saw it all and couldn’t stop myself. I jumped the trench, grabbed the first moanin’ body I come to. Couldn’t see ’em as there wasn’t so much flares goin’, and ran for the dug-out that they was usin’ as a first-aid station. I found out that I had brought Ray Mason in.”
CHAPTER VIII—“GUESS I DIDN’T HAVE THE GUTS”
“That dug-out was sure one hell-hole. See we had been gettin’ gas right along and it poured in the dug-out, as they had to keep openin’ the door to let ’em in with wounded. There was nine fellows, naked and smeared all up with iodine and blood, stretched out on bunks. Most of ’em were so torn up and badly hurt that their wounds had made ’em numb. Consequently they were darn quiet—except one little Greek boy. He was alive to pain all right. Both his eyes were hangin’ to strings of flesh and his body was like an old flour-sieve. He couldn’t keep from moanin’, and I’ll be damned if I could keep from listenin’ to him.
“The first thing a wounded man generally does is to jerk his mask off, if he’s got one on. That’s what the boys were doin’ in the dug-out. You had to battle with some of ’em to keep the things on. Those that did get the masks off got sick and vomited all over. Gosh, O. D., it was kinda bad down there. The big thing that appealed to me was how all the guys acted. Those that wasn’t wounded worked along pretty cool and didn’t show much signs of breakin’. The wounded showed a lot of guts the way they kept still and didn’t let the old hurts get the best of ’em.
“While I was down there givin’ ’em a hand a doughboy that had been captured crawled into the dug-out with his tongue cut out. The Boches did that to scare us, and they drove him back into our lines with a bayonet. Hines, one of the gun crew, went crazy, he got so mad when he heard that, and tore out of the place for Seicheprey, where he got fightin’ hand to hand with the Germans.
“I went back to the gun and was fixin’ to try and get Frank when Lieutenant Davis gave us orders to fire again, and said there was no use tryin’ to bring him in, as he was dead.
“The ammunition was comin’ mighty slow and when a man came in with a shell I told him to make it snappy and get ’em comin’ faster. He said, ‘All right, Jimmy.’ I looked at him hard, and be damned if it wasn’t Father Farrell, our chaplain. Say, that was one brave little guy. He ain’t any bigger than a small kid, but he was luggin’ shells for a long time before he let anybody know it was him.
“Course, every time one o’ the boys would get it he would run to him toot sweet and do what he could—brought the wounded in and buried the dead right under the hardest kind of a fire. Father Farrell got nicked in the arm with a shell splinter on his way back to the rear the next day. So did I. On recommendation of our general the French gave him a Craw de Guerre. I never could say that thing right, but it’s a War Cross for pullin’ hero stuff.