The copper era and Morenci leader., 1915-01-01
PENS VIVID CLASSIC
Unknown Stretcher Bearer De-
 scribes Horror of Horrors.
Farmhouse, the Refuge of Wounded and Dying, Is Bombarded by Artil- Iery = GhsstIy the Scenes
 That Ensue.

London.-The Chronicle publishes the following account of the lombard ment of a farmhouse, situated between the French and German lines and tenn porarily a refuge for the wounded The article is a translation from the notes of French corporal stretcher- bearer. The Paris Temps says the work of the unknown author may be compared with the most striking pages of some Russian writer's:
 We now heard the whiz-z-z that those who have once heard can never forget. The shell was coming straight toward us. We fell flat, in the twin kling of an eye, our. noses to the ground. Happy he who finds drain or ditch at such moment Yet we had time to ask ourselves whether 1t would pass over or catch us in this ridiculous position; and saw the past and the future.
 We got up, muddy and peevish- A faint smell of dynamite filled the air We passed through the gateway The yard, surrounded on three sides by the farmhouse and servants quarters. was quiet and trim.
 We entered the kitchen and three ground floor rooms were full of wound ed-French and German. Many of the unfortunates, lying on the blood marked straw, had horrible wounds A soldier asks for drink; as he rises, with hand stretched out for the glass of water, a bullet comes through the window and strikes him full in the heart The poor fellow sinks without a sigh.
 Most of the wounded are taken away in a Iull of the combat. It is three o'clock in the afternoon. Firing recommences. more violent than ever. The shells whistle ceaselessly- An adjutant, terribly wounded, begs to be put into the cart, which seems to him a guaranty that he will be among the next to be removed Scarcely is he laid there than shrapnel bursts over the cart, killing him. The firing sounds more clearly.
 "A wounded man in the kitchen calls me. Struck by a ball in the chest, the poor fellow pants for breath He is supporting himself by one arm, which slips on the bloody straw With the other hand he feels in his oYercoat pocket, which is glued up withI congealed blood, for letter which he hands to me, his eyes full of tears My sweetheart ,' he murmurs. And see in his fingers little lock of black hair which he presses tenderly to his lips
 Raising my eyes to the ceiling. see the plaster break into a huge star, and through a gaping hole the end of great shell appears. The ceiling sinks funnel-wise; at the same moment the roof cracks and the shell explodes Then all is dark Presently I come to myself. half suffo- cated with dust and the fumes of dy- namite
 "The house is riven from top to bot tom, and we can see the calm, blue sky through the broken roof The least seriously wounded men disen- gage their fellows. Nearly all of us are bleeding The poor lover is dead. disfgured Shells have struck the house on two sides.
 They manage to get into the cellar. and here the German wounded. hungry and desperate, burst out into com plaints of this war of immeasurable agony into which they have been driven
 "'My poor wife! My poor 'children,' cries one of them.J wounded in the ' stomach by fragment of shell.
 "At this moment, in dark corner, we heard sob and womans. voice rose out of the shadow. All of my own children are dead and my hus- band was killed up there in the yard It was the farmers wife. She had watched, helpless, the work of de struction. Children, husband. goods. she had lost everything. And I saw once more the emaciated dog up there paying in the yard before the clotted blood of his master