Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1891-12-17
KILLING A MAN.
A Soldier Tells of One Thing
Required of Him by Duty.

They do not call it murder when men
meet to slaughter each in battle. They
simply report so many dead, wounded,
and missing. When you fire into the
smoke concealing the other battle line
you fire in hopes to kill or wound. 1t is
your duty. Battles cannot be won with
out killing. You load and fire-load and
fre-move to the right or left-advance
or retreat. and when the battle is over
you may have fired fifty yards and yet
you have not had near sight of the
enemy; you have simply fired at him,
and you cannot vouch that single one
of your bullets has found a living tar
get.
Here is brigade of us in battle line
across an old meadow; our right and left
down the rail fence, gathered logs and
brush and sod, and erected breastwork.
1t is only a slight one, but enough to
shelter us while laying down. A divis-
ion of the enemy breaks cover half
mile away and comes marching down
upon us. The field pieces behind us
open upon their solid columns, but they
are not checked. Under the smoke we
can see the work of the shells, but they
cannot halt that mass of men. The
grape and canister does awful execution,
but there should be dozen guns instead
of six.
They are going to charge us. The
guns cannot prevent that. Orders run
along the line, and we are waiting until
every bullet, no matter if fired by SOL
dier with his eyes shut, must hit foe.
| select my man while he is yet beyond
range. have eyes for no other. He is
a tall, soldierly fellow wearing the stripes
of sergeant. AS he comes nearer
imagine that he is looking as fixedly at
me as | am at him. | admire his cool
ness. He looks neither to the right nor
to the left. The man on his right is hit
and goes down, but he does not falter.
am going to kill that man! l have a
rest for my gun on the breastwork, and
when the order comes to fire cannot miss
him. He is living his last minute on
earth! We are calmly waiting until our
volley shall prove veritable fame of
death. Now they close up the gaps, and
we can hear the shouts of their officers
as they make ready to charge. My man
is still opposite me. He still seems to
be looking at me and no one else. know
the word is coming in few seconds
more, and | aim at his chest could al
most be sure of hitting him with a stone
when we get the word to fire. There is
billow of fame-a billow of smoke-a
fierce crash, and 1000 bullets are fired
into that compact mass of advancing
men. Not one volley alone, though that
worked horrible destruction, but another
and another, until there was no longer q
living man to fire at.
The smoke drifts slowly away-men
cheer and yell-we can see the meadow
beyond heaped with dead and dying men.
We advance our line. As we go forward
| look for my victim. He is lying on his
back, eyes half shut and fingers clutching
at the grass. He gasps, draws up his
legs and straightens them out again, and
is dead as l pass on. | have killed my
man! My bullet alone struck him. tear
ing that ghastly wound in his breast, and
l am entitled to all the honor. Do L
swing my cap and cheer? DO point
him out and expect to be congratulated?
No! | have no cheers. feel no elation.
feel that l murdered him, war or no
war, and that his agonized face will
haunt me through all the years of my
life Detroit Free Press.