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Men in War by Andreas Latzko
page 131 of 139 (94%)
nothing but iodoform and lysol and seen nothing but roofs and walls. His
lungs drew in the aroma of the blossoming meadows with deep
satisfaction, and the soles of his boots tramped the ground sturdily, as
if he were again marching in regular order.

This was the first walk he had taken since he was wounded, the first
road he had seen since those wild marches on Russian soil. At moments he
seemed to hear the cannons roaring. The short struggle with the humpback
had set his blood coursing, and his memories of the war, for a time
stifled as it were beneath a layer of dust by the dreary monotony of the
hospital life, suddenly came whirling back to him.

He almost regretted having let that damned blackguard go so soon. One
moment more, and he would never have opened his blasphemous mouth again.
His head would have fallen back exhausted to one side, he would once
again have embraced the air longingly with outspread fingers, and then
in a flash would have shrunk together, exactly like the fat, messy
Russian with the large blue eyes who was the first man to present
himself to St. Peter with a greeting from John Bogdan. Bogdan had not
let _him_ loose until he had altogether quit squirming. He had
choked him dead as a doornail. And still he was a comical fellow, not
nearly so disgusting as that rascally humpback. But he was the first
enemy soldier whom he had got into his grasp, his very first Russian. A
magnificent array of others had followed, though the fat man was the
only one Bogdan had choked to death. He had smashed scores with the
butt-end of his gun and run his bayonet through scores of others. He had
even squashed with his boots the wretch who had struck down his dearest
comrade before his very eyes. But never again did he choke a man to
death. That was why the little fat fellow stuck in his memory. He had no
recollection of the others whatever. All he saw now in his mind was a
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