I grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. "Cheer
up, Billy, cheer up, old pal, how in hell are we going to pull through
if you give way like this?"
"It's no use, Reg, they've got my number," and he moaned half
hysterically as he leaned on me with an arm around my neck. Almost
desperate, I shouted in his ear, "Billy, old pal, think of your mother
and father; what would the old man say if he saw you acting like this?
You know those hounds haven't a shell for either of us."
He roused himself: "I guess I haven't got the guts, Sergeant; I must be
a damned coward."
"No, no, nothing of the kind, old fellow," I shouted, "but these boys
are in my charge and I want you to help me play the game." He braced
himself. "You're right, Sergeant, they haven't got our number and never
will have." "Of course they won't," I answered reassuringly.
Poor Billy! His was a nature that was never intended for the business of
killing; he was in constant dread and his nerves were always on edge
when he was within shelling distance of the enemy, and he couldn't seem
to shake off the terrible fear that was ever present except when in the
top-notch excitement of going over; that was the only moment that he was
able to throw off the blighting shadow that haunted him.
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