Of the five members of my
crew four were dead; the remaining man, Bill Clark, had fourteen wounds
in one side of his body from splinters of the tree.
I took him to the dressing station, where his wounds were dressed. As
soon as he recovered consciousness he asked what had happened, and when
I told him that his pals, including his bosom chum, Jim Chandler, had
all been killed, he again lapsed into unconsciousness. He was later
taken to the hospital, where, after a nine-months' battle with the Grim
Reaper hovering constantly over his bed, he at last regained some of his
old-time health. But he will never again be on the firing line.
Every man was now weary, sore and thirsty, and my only grateful
recollection of that day's work was the O.C.'s command that we be given
an extra ration of rum. I am not a constitutional advocate of the brew
that glistens like gold, but that was one time when I thanked the good
Lord for that drink.
Information was conveyed to the wagon lines of the terrible toll that
had been exacted that day and the number of men that were needed to
replace the casualties.
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