In that race through that bullet-swept zone I felt a
common bond of kinship with the Irish soldier who was running as fast as
his legs could carry him from the Battle of the Wilderness in the
American Civil War and General Sherman, noticing him, turned his horse
in the direction of the fleeing soldier and halted him up.
"Here, you soldier, what are you running away for?"
"Because, Gineral--because I can't fly."
How I longed for wings! The Colonel later recommended me for a
commission and many times since have I wondered how he would feel about
that recommendation if he ever learned the real state of my feelings at
that moment. He did me the honor of requesting Colonel Morrison to
permit me to enter his unit and Colonel Morrison did me the additional
honor of refusing to let me go. I had gotten a somewhat painful scalp
wound on the way over, and I made my way to the French dressing station
in a half-unconscious condition. The French doctor nearly completed
matters by spilling the iodine in my eye and nearly blinding me. Some
dope was then administered that brought me to my full senses shortly
after.
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