Again we were out of ammunition,
and the O.C. asked me if I would volunteer to go to the wagon lines
after it. "Yes, sir,"--and I mounted the parson's horse and started.
Although it had now started raining, I left the dugout with nothing on
but pants, shirt and boots; I had no gas helmet, no coat, no cap, no
puttees,--there was no time to be lost--and I was covered with grease
and dirt, and must easily have looked like an African.
I had scarcely started when a shell lifted a tree out of its roots and
threw it on the road right in front of me, but the horse cleared it with
a jump. I passed a dressing station and the sight was unspeakably sad;
laid in rows as thickly as they could be placed, the wounded men in all
stages of agony were patiently waiting their turn,--ah, God! how patient
those men were,--and scattered here and there on both sides of the road
were groups of men who had just begun their last sleep, and at sight of
them the horse would shy and balk every few yards. I had no spurs with
which to control the animal, and my work was cut out for me! he was an
ideal parson's horse, for the brute would hardly go faster than a walk.
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