“Where’s Jot?” I asked. Then, seeing that they didn’t understand I added, “Lieutenant Nickerson, I mean?”
No reply was given.
“Can you walk?” some one asked.
“I guess I can,” I answered; “I came over here with a man over my shoulder. I can walk.”
“I think,” said Sutherland, “that I had better carry you pig-a-back; these trenches are too narrow for a stretcher. There’s a bullet hole in the breast of your coat. You are shot.”
“Nonsense!” I said, “I can walk; but I have an awful sore spot under my vest pocket; something knocked the breath out of me for a spell.”
Arriving at the first aid station, with Sutherland’s help, my upper clothing was stripped off and out fell a bullet! It had struck my watch, broken the crystal, smashed the works, and left a big dent in the case, almost half as deep as a thimble. It was directly over my heart. The watch had saved my life. It had been my father’s watch, presented to him by his company in the Civil War.
“Carry him to the Clearing Station,” I heard some one say.
In attempting to get up from my seat after the examination, I fell again. I fancied that I heard the Surgeon say, “Collapse!” Then, once more, everything faded, and next I found myself in a white still place with many cots. It was a hospital.
“What’s the matter, doctor?” I inquired; “what’s happened to me?”