An American Officer's True Stories of our Latest War.--Brave Men who
Meet Death as Heroes Should.
No two men behave alike when hit in battle. There is just as much
difference in their actions as there is in the behavior of the members
of a volunteer fire brigade at a country-town conflagration. The
look of the mortally wounded is nearly always the same. There is
always that deathly pallor that creeps over the face, and that fixed
stare--horrible look of resignation--that tells so plainly that all
is over with the unfortunate soldier. A few instances will serve to
give a general idea of how the victims of the messengers of death
receive them.
On the 1st of July, a company of regular infantry, in reserve, was
lying flat on their stomachs in a sunken road, a few hundred yards from
the stone block-house of El Caney, Cuba. The men were under a terrific
fire, but were not allowed to reply to it, for ammunition was growing
scarce. For hours they remained in this position. They began to get
restless and to shift about. As long as they kept low, there was no
danger from Spanish fire, for the bank of the road was sufficiently
high to afford security. Curiosity occasionally got the better of a
man, and he would poke his head above the embankment and peer in the
direction from which the bullets were coming. In the company was a
large, muscular German, who had early become restless and curious to
see what was transpiring. He would occasionally break out and swear
because he was not given a chance to fire at the hated Dons. Of
a sudden he ripped out a choice lot of the best in his vocabulary,
raised his head above the bank, and shook his huge fist at the line of
sombreros to be seen just above the Spanish trenches to the right of
the block-house. Ping! ping! thud! "Wasn't that an awful sound?" a
dozen soldiers chimed. There is no other sound produced that can
be compared with it. It stands alone for all that is sickening and
horrible. All knew that some one had been hit. A moment was passed
in suspense. The German whispered, in the tones of death, to his
comrade at his side: "Wipe the blood off of my face!" It was his last
words. He drew his knees to his chin in the agonies of death, turned
over on one side, burrowing his face in the mud, and died without a
groan. A Mauser had hit him squarely between the eyes.
A short time later a sergeant of one of the companies of the same
regiment moved a few yards forward, trying to get a pot-shot at
some Spanish sharpshooters who were snugly perched in the spreading
tops of some royal palm trees, and were hitting some of our men. He
sighted one and had his rifle to his shoulder, taking a fine bead,
when all at once the rifle fell to the ground and his hands dropped
helplessly by his side. He coolly faced about and walked toward the
rear, his arms dangling like pendulums, not even so much as muttering
a word. One of his company officers asked him what was the matter, to
which he laconically replied, "Hit," and continued on his way to the
dressing-station in the rear. He was shot through both shoulders--a
serious wound, but he recovered.
About an hour after the German was killed the same company was
ordered to take a position farther to the right. They walked along,
goose-fashion, single file, moving by the right flank toward their
new position. Next to the last man in the rear was a corporal, a
new man, just a few months in the service. Biff! ping! bang! went the
deadly missiles. One struck a man's rifle-barrel, cutting it almost in
two. Another split the stock of a gun in a man's hand. Then one struck
the recruit corporal's left arm, passing through the biceps. With
an expression of great surprise he for a moment stood still, saying
nothing. His eyes began to dilate, and then of a sudden he threw his
fowling-piece high in the air, grasped his left arm with his right
hand, and started for the rear at a disgraceful gait, yelling so as
to be heard above the din of battle: "I've got it! I've got it! I've
got it!" The last that was seen of him that day he had "it," and was
taking "it" to the rear with him.
On San Juan Ridge, July 2d, just as Chaffee's brigade had reached the
crest, they were ordered to lie down and intrench, using the bayonet
as a pick and the hands for shovels. A dashing young fellow of one of
the companies on the right of the line was some distance in advance
of his fellows when the halt was made. Instead of falling back on the
line with the other men, he stopped where he was. One of the officers
shouted at him several times to fall back, as he was in danger of his
own men shooting him, but he did not hear. The officer then walked
down to where he was, grabbed him by a leg, and started to drag him
back to the line. He had but started when he felt the man's whole body
quiver, and he flopped himself over on his back, saying as he did so,
"I'm done for." Some of the men came to the soldier and assisted the
officer to carry him to a place of security. With a bayonet one of the
men cut off his clothing, when a Mauser hole was seen just above the
heart, where the bullet entered, passing through his body and coming
out between the shoulders, near the spine. The man said no more at
the time. His wounds were bound by sympathetic hands. All except the
wounded man returned to the firing-line. The Spanish fire was heavy,
and kept up for four hours, occasionally a soldier dropping out,
wounded or killed. When all was quiet, the officer and one of his
soldiers returned to see if the young man were yet alive. They found
him sitting against a small tree. His first words were: "Bill, give
me a cigarette." The man is living to-day.
Just about the time this man was wounded a man in the next company on
the right suddenly threw down his bayonet, jumped to his feet, paused
for a second or two, looking in the direction of the Spanish trenches,
then threw both hands to his breast, saying, "I'm hit." He turned about
and walked into the dense thickets of cactus and Spanish bayonet, and
was never seen nor heard of again. He undoubtedly crawled far back into
the heavy tropical growth and died, where the vultures claimed him.
One of the coolest men who ever received a wound was an infantryman
at San Fernando, in the Island of Luzon, on the 16th of June. The
insurgents made a determined effort to retake the town early
on the morning of that day. They opened up simultaneously from
every quarter, and the kind and variety of missiles used would be
beyond the wildest expectations of that sweet-throated midnight
serenader, the Thomas-cat. Out of an old smooth-bore cannon they
threw railroad spikes, horseshoes, old clocks, lemon-squeezers,
and cobble-stones. From their Remingtons they shot large cubical and
irregular-shaped lead slugs. One of these struck this cool man high
in the right groin, deeply imbedding itself. The pain must have been
excruciating, for the man was terribly lacerated. He hobbled to his
company commander, saluted, and asked permission to fall out and lie
down, as he had been hit. He was lying near a road where his comrades
passed to and fro during the entire fight, but no one heard a word
or a groan out of him unless he was spoken to.
During the same fight, in another company of the same regiment, a
battalion sergeant-major was ordered to take two squads and proceed
to a point about 400 yards down the Angeles Road, where there was
a small trench, and defend it. When about half-way down, one of
his men, a green "rookie," received a severe wound in the leg. The
Sergeant endeavored to start him to the rear, with a man to assist
him along, but he protested. Nothing but to continue to the front
with his squad would do. He loaded and fired with the other men till
the fight was over. This man was recommended for a medal of honor by
his captain.--_From Leslie's Weekly, of December 9, 1899_.