over Wilhelm Strasse and scream as it whizzed over Bavaria. There
never was another such shell. And we ducked--all of us. Henry said
he never saw me make such a duck--it was the duck of a life-time.
And then that shell landed. It was a wholesale hardware store
that hit--no retail affair. The sound was awful. And then something
inside of me or outside tore with an awful rip. We had been reading
Dr. Crile's book on the anesthesia of fear, and suddenly it occurred
to me that the shell had hit me and torn a hole in me and that fear
had deadened the pain. Slowly and in terror my right hand groped
back to the place of the wound, expecting every moment to encounter
blood and ragged flesh. We were still crouched over, waiting for
the fountain of junk to cease spraying. Nearer and nearer came the
shrinking fingers to the wound. They felt no blood, but something
more terrible! There, dangling by its apex, hung that pie-shaped
slice of shirt from those cotton khaki trousers--ripped clear out!
And Paris fifty miles away!

Slowly we unfolded ourselves from the duck. And as we came up--sping!
went a sharp metallic click on Norton's helmet. A bit of shrapnel
had hit it. Under a hat he would have been killed! So we went back
to the first aid post--me holding those khaki trousers up by sheer
force of will, and both hands!

So long as Norton and the Major had led the way from the dugout,
it simultaneously flashed over Henry and me that we should lead the
way back, and not leave all the exertion to our companions. So we
set the pace back.

At the first aid post we stopped for breath. The French welcomed
us back, and we rested a moment under their hospitality. Our own