The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (184 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Martin.

“Well, now, you just make tracks down that road.”

“Yes, sir.” Martin went meekly off. The doctor had seemed exasperated almost to the point of madness.

The road was at this time swept with the fire of a body of Spanish sharpshooters who had come cunningly around the flanks of the American army, and were now hidden in the dense foliage that lined both sides of the road. They were shooting at everything. The road was as crowded as a street in a city, and at an absurdly short range they emptied their rifles at the passing people. They were aided always by the over-sweep from the regular Spanish line of battle.

Martin was sleepy from his wound. He saw tragedy follow tragedy, but they created in him no feeling of horror.

A man with a red cross on his arm was leaning against a great tree. Suddenly he tumbled to the ground, and writhed for a moment in the way of a child oppressed with colic. A comrade immediately began to bustle importantly. “Here,” he called to Martin, “help me carry this man, will you?”

Martin looked at him with dull scorn. “I’ll be damned if I do,” he said. “Can’t carry myself, let alone somebody else.”

This answer, which rings now so inhuman, pitiless, did not affect the other man. “Well, all right,” he said. “Here comes some other fellers.” The wounded man had now turned blue-grey; his eyes were closed; his body shook in a gentle, persistent chill.

Occasionally Martin came upon dead horses, their limbs sticking out and up like stakes. One beast mortally shot, was besieged by three or four men who were trying to push it into the bushes, where it could live its brief time of anguish without thrashing to death any of the wounded men in the gloomy procession.

The mule train, with extra ammunition, charged toward the front, still led by the tinkling bell-mare.

An ambulance was stuck momentarily in the mud, and above the crack of battle one could hear the familiar objurgations of the driver as he whirled his lash.

Two privates were having a hard time with a wounded captain, whom they were supporting to the rear, He was half cursing, half wailing out the information that he not only would not go another step toward the rear, but that he was certainly going to return at once to the front. They begged, pleaded at great length as they continually headed him off. They were not unlike two nurses with an exceptionally bad and headstrong little duke.

The wounded soldiers paused to look impassively upon this struggle. They were always like men who could not be aroused by anything further.

The visible hospital was mainly straggling thickets intersected with narrow paths, the ground being covered with men. Martin saw a busy person with a book and a pencil, but he did not approach him to become officially a member of the hospital. All he desired was rest and immunity from nagging. He took seat painfully under a bush and leaned his back upon the trunk. There he remained thinking, his face wooden.

V

“My Gawd,” said Nolan, squirming on his belly in the grass, “I can’t stand this much longer.”

Then suddenly every rifle in the firing line seemed to go off of its own accord. It was the result of an order, but few men heard the order; in the main they had fired because they heard others fire, and their sense was so quick that the volley did not sound too ragged. These marksmen had been lying for nearly an hour in stony silence, their sights adjusted, their fingers fondling their rifles, their eyes staring at the intrenchments of the enemy. The battalion had suffered heavy losses, and these losses had been hard to bear, for a soldier always reasons that men lost during a period of inaction are men badly lost.

The line now sounded like a great machine set to running frantically in the open air, the bright sunshine of a green field. To the prut of the magazine rifles was added the under-chorus of the clicking mechanism, steady and swift, as if the hand of one operator was controlling it all. It reminds one always of a loom, a great grand steel loom, clinking, clanking, plunking, plinking, to weave a woof of thin red threads, the cloth of death. By the men’s shoulders under their eager hands dropped continually the yellow empty shells, spinning into the crushed grass blades to remain there and mark for the belated eye the line of a battalion’s fight.

All impatience, all rebellious feeling, had passed out of the men as soon as they had been allowed to use their weapons against the enemy. They now were absorbed in this business of hitting something, and all the long training at the rifle ranges, all the pride of the marksman which had been so long alive in them, made them forget for the time everything but shooting. They were as deliberate and exact as so many watchmakers.

A new sense of safety was rightfully upon them. They knew that those mysterious men in the high far trenches in front were having the bullets sping in their faces with relentless and remarkable precision; they knew, in fact, that they were now doing the thing which they had been trained endlessly to do, and they knew they were doing it well. Nolan, for instance, was overjoyed. “Plug ‘em,” he said: “Plug ‘em.” He laid his face to his rifle as if it were his mistress. He was aiming under the shadow of a certain portico of a fortified house: there he could faintly see a long black line which he knew to be a loop-hole cut for riflemen, and he knew that every shot of his was going there under the portico, mayhap through the loop-hole to the brain of another man like himself. He loaded the awkward magazine of his rifle again and again. He was so intent that he did not know of new orders until he saw the men about him scrambling to their feet and running forward, crouching low as they ran.

He heard a shout. “Come on, boys! We can’t be last! We’re going up! We’re going up.” He sprang to his feet and, stooping, ran with the others. Something fine, soft, gentle, touched his heart as he ran. He had loved the regiment, the army, because the regiment, the army, was his life, — he had no other outlook; and now these men, his comrades, were performing his dream-scenes for him; they were doing as he had ordained in his visions. It is curious that in this charge he considered himself as rather unworthy. Although he himself was in the assault with the rest of them, it seemed to him that his comrades were dazzlingly courageous. His part, to his mind, was merely that of a man who was going along with the crowd.

He saw Grierson biting madly with his pincers at a barbed-wire fence. They were half-way up the beautiful sylvan slope; there was no enemy to be seen, and yet the landscape rained bullets. Somebody punched him violently in the stomach. He thought dully to lie down and rest, but instead he fell with a crash.

The sparse line of men in blue shirts and dirty slouch hats swept on up the hill. He decided to shut his eyes for a moment because he felt very dreamy and peaceful. It seemed only a minute before he heard a voice say, “There he is.” Grierson and Watkins had come to look for him. He searched their faces at once and keenly, for he had a thought that the line might be driven down the hill and leave him in Spanish hands. But he saw that everything was secure, and he prepared no questions.

“Nolan,” said Grierson clumsily, “do you know me?”

The man on the ground smiled softly. “Of course I know you, you chowder-faced monkey. Why wouldn’t I know you?”

Watkins knelt beside him. “Where did they plug you, old boy?”

Nolan was somewhat dubious. “It ain’t much. I don’t think but it’s somewheres there.” He laid a finger on the pit of his stomach. They lifted his shirt, and then privately they exchanged a glance of horror.

“Does it hurt, Jimmie?” said Grierson, hoarsely.

“No,” said Nolan, “it don’t hurt any, but I feel sort of dead-to-the-world and numb all over. I don’t think it’s very bad.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Watkins.

“What I need is a drink,” said Nolan, grinning at them. “I’m chilly — lying on this damp ground.”

“It ain’t very damp, Jimmie,” said Grierson.

“Well, it is damp,” said Nolan, with sudden irritability. “I can feel it. I’m wet, I tell you — wet through — just from lying here.”

They answered hastily. “Yes, that’s so, Jimmie. It
is
damp. That’s so.”

“Just put your hand under my back and see how wet the ground is,” he said.

“No,” they answered. “That’s all right, Jimmie. We know it’s wet.”

“Well, put your hand under and see,” he cried, stubbornly.

“Oh, never mind, Jimmie.”

“No,” he said, in a temper. “See for yourself.” Grierson seemed to be afraid of Nolan’s agitation, and so he slipped a hand under the prostrate man, and presently withdrew it covered with blood. “Yes,” he said, hiding his hand carefully from Nolan’s eyes, “you were right, Jimmie.”

“Of course I was,” said Nolan, contentedly closing his eyes. “This hillside holds water like a swamp.” After a moment he said, “Guess I ought to know. I’m flat here on it, and you fellers are standing up.”

He did not know he was dying. He thought he was holding an argument on the condition of the turf.

VI

“Cover his face,” said Grierson, in a low and husky voice afterwards.

“What’ll I cover it with?” said Watkins.

They looked at themselves. They stood in their shirts, trousers, leggings, shoes; they had nothing.

“Oh,” said Grierson, “here’s his hat.” He brought it and laid it on the face of the dead man. They stood for a time. It was apparent that they thought it essential and decent to say or do something. Finally Watkins said in a broken voice, “Aw, it’s a dam shame.” They moved slowly off toward the firing line.

In the blue gloom of evening, in one of the fever-tents, the two rows of still figures became hideous, charnel. The languid movement of a hand was surrounded with spectral mystery, and the occasional painful twisting of a body under a blanket was terrifying, as if dead men were moving in their graves under the sod. A heavy odour of sickness and medicine hung in the air.

“What regiment are you in?” said a feeble voice.

“Twenty-ninth Infantry,” answered another voice.

“Twenty-ninth! Why, the man on the other side of me is in the Twenty-ninth.”

“He is?… Hey, there, partner, are you in the Twenty-ninth?”

A third voice merely answered wearily. “Martin of C Company.”

“What? Jack, is that you?”

“It’s part of me…. Who are you?”

“Grierson, you fat-head. I thought you were wounded.”

There was the noise of a man gulping a great drink of water, and at its conclusion Martin said, “I am.”

“Well, what you doin’ in the fever-place, then?”