The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1911-11-28
w ar Story
A Tisdeah Ammiversary
By RANDALL PARRISH
COPYRIGHT. 1909. BY. A. C. MccLURc & co.

blinding my eyes, the mad lust of the fight throbbing through my veins. 1 With one bound backward I was at | the breech, the slim muzzle defiected l downward into the valley. I marked | the vague figure of a man, unrecogniz. | able, spring hastily back from the
 mouth of the gun, crouching down, rammer in hand; over that deadly smoothed barrel I caught one glimpse of low tangled bushes, of drifting smoke clouds, of a solid gray mass breaking through, of sunlight shina- mering along a front of leveled steel; then jerked the lanyard and mingled smoke and flame burst forth.
 All that followed was pandemonium, rush, roar, leaping, shapeless figures. I could perceive nothing clearly; all remember was that we were firing canister, the defected guns leaping madly back with the recoil, growing hot to the hand.
 through the stifing volume of smoke, the internal uproar, hoarse shouting of unrecognizable orders, the wild scream of a wounded horse, a single mad oath, ain agonized voice yelling from behind, "Where the devil is the infantry?" Yet all that actually rea- lized then were those distorted black shapes springing back and forth from that gun muzzle, and the lanyard grasped in my hand. That alone was my work, my duty, and I must stand to it until died. Two years of iron discipline had made me into a ma- chine
 | Something burned my shoulder like a sudden squirt of flame; I felt sick from the shock and clung desperately to the breech to keep from falling. l brown whirls of smoke, strange, un- known repulsive faces, rendered hide ] Ous from the strain of conflict. My gun toppled over, one wheel smashed 1 into splinters. saw Wyatt turn and run for the rear, and Parkhurst flung backward as though shot from a cata- putt. I jerked the rammer out of his dead, clutching hands, and began strik- ing f1ercely at the crush of gray figures leaping toward me. Then everything
 went blank, and I pitched over under the wreck.
 It was dark when slowly reopened my eyes and endeavored to look about, dark and still, except for a faint gleam of distant stars, and the awful gur- gling of some desperately wounded man lying not far away. My head I fhrohho6 my right side ached horribly as first attempted to move my body. Above me was the black breech of the gun, and my extended hand touched the single wheel upholding it, the spokes ragged from splinters. It hurt me so desperately to turn over that remain ed motionless for long time, staring straight up at the sky, listening intent l ly for each sound, and endeavoring to think. In measure the situation soon became sufficiently clear-that fiefce charge of the enemy had reached us
 unchecked, and we had lost the guns
 Had we also lost the battle?
 How deadly still the night was, not a shot echOing anywhere, not a foot step, not voice; only that awful gurgling breathing yonder to the left! One of my feet pressed against body, and I moved it carefully, although even this slight action resulted in a sharp twinge of pain. I could per- ceive another form huddled in a shapeless heap against the wheel, and as my hand reached out groping to- ward the right it touched an ice cold face. I was afraid to ascertain the truth. Had I been badly injured? Was I crippled for life?
 At length, my teeth clinched in final determination to know the worst, endeavored to feel along my side where the twinges of pain seemed | most severe, but only to discover my rough woolen shirt stiff from con- gealed blood. My lips were dry and cracked, my tongue parched and swol- len. Suddenly in the stiffness I dis tinguished the sound of some one ap- preaching and sank down again, mo- tionless, listening.
 They came sinking toward me from out the night much as jackals might, creeping along from body to body, mumbling to each other as they grop- ed around in the darkness, occasion ally lifting their heads to listen, like hunted wild beasts. I recognized them as the scourge of the battlefield-hu-
 man Scavengers, foul vultures, what
 ever uniform they might wear to hide their cSime-midnigh robbers of the dead. lay there silent, almost breath less, while they swiftly rifed the
 pockets of that shapeless, hideous thing upheld by the wheel. They saw