CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
     
          The ragged line had respite for some minutes, but during its
     pause the struggle in the forest became magnified until the trees
     seemed to quiver from the firing and the ground to shake from the
     rushing of the men. The voices of the cannon were mingled in a long
     and interminable row. It seemed difficult to live in such an
     atmosphere. The chests of the men strained for a bit of freshness,
     and their throats craved water.
          There was one shot through the body, who raised a cry of
     bitter lamentation when came this lull. Perhaps he had been calling
     out during the fighting also, but at that time no one had heard
     him. But now the men turned at the woeful complaints of him upon
     the ground.
          "Who is it? Who is it?"
          "It's Jimmie Rogers. Jimmie Rogers."
          When their eyes first encountered him there was a sudden halt,
     as if they feared to go near. He was thrashing about in the grass,
     twisting his shuddering body into many strange postures. He was
     screaming loudly. This instant's hesitation seemed to fill him with
     a tremendous, fantastic contempt, and he damned them in shrieked
     sentences.
          The youth's friend had a geographical illusion concerning a
     stream, and he obtained permission to go for some water.
     Immediately canteens were showered upon him. "Fill mine, will you?"
     "Bring me some, too." "And me, too." He departed, laden. The youth
     went with his friend, feeling a desire to throw his heated body
     onto the stream and, soaking there, drink quarts.
          They made a hurried search for the supposed stream, but did
     not find it. "No water here," said the youth. They turned without
     delay and began to retrace their steps.
          From their position as they again faced toward the place of
     the fighting, they could of course comprehend a greater amount of
     the battle than when their visions had been blurred by the hurling
     smoke of the line. They could see dark stretches winding along the
     land, and on one cleared space there was a row of guns making gray
     clouds, which were filled with large flashes of orange-colored
     flame. Over some foliage they could see the roof of a house. One
     window, glowing a deep murder red, shone squarely through the
     leaves. From the edifice a tall leaning tower of smoke went far
     into the sky.
          Looking over their own troops, they saw mixed masses slowly
     getting into regular form. The sunlight made twinkling points of
     the bright steel. To the rear there was a glimpse of a distant
     roadway as it curved over a slope. It was crowded with retreating
     infantry. From all the interwoven forest arose the smoke and
     bluster of the battle. The air was always occupied by a blaring.
          Near where they stood shells were flip-flapping and hooting.
     Occasional bullets buzzed in the air and spanged into tree trunks.
     Wounded men and other stragglers were slinking through the woods.
          Looking down an aisle of the grove, the youth and his
     companion saw a jangling general and his staff almost ride upon a
     wounded man who was crawling on his hands and knees. The general
     reined strongly at his charger's opened and foamy mouth and guided
     it with dexterous horsemanship past the man. The latter scrambled
     in wild and torturing haste. His strength evidently failed him as
     he reached a place of safety. One of his arms suddenly weakened,
     and he fell, sliding over upon his back. He lay stretched out,
     breathing gently.
          A moment later the small, creaking cavalcade was directly in
     front of the two soldiers. Another officer, riding with a skillful
     abandon of a cowboy, galloped his horse to a position directly
     before the general. The two unnoticed foot soldiers made a little
     show of going on, but they lingered near in the desire to overhear
     the conversation. Perhaps, they thought, some great inner
     historical things would be said.
          The general, whom the boys knew as the commander of their
     division, looked at the other officer and spoke coolly, as if he
     were criticizing his clothes. "The enemy's forming over there for
     another charge," he said. "It'll be directed against Whiterside,
     and I fear they'll break through there unless we work like thunder
     to stop them."
          The other swore at his restive horse, and then cleared his
     throat. He made a gesture toward his cap. "It'll be hell to pay
     stopping them," he said shortly.
          "I presume so," remarked the general. Then he began to talk
     rapidly and in a lower tone. He frequently illustrated his words
     with a pointing finger. The two infantrymen could hear nothing
     until finally he asked: "What troops can you spare?"
          The officer who rode like a cowboy reflected for an instant.
     "Well," he said, "I had to order in the 12th to help the 76th, and
     I haven't really got any. But there's the 304th. They fight like a
     lot a mule drivers. I can spare them best of any."
          The youth and his friend exchanged glances of astonishment.
          The general spoke sharply. "Get them ready, then, I'll watch
     developments from here, and send you word when to start them. It'll
     happen in five minutes."
          As the other officer tossed his fingers toward his cap and,
     wheeling his horse, started away, the general called out to him in
     a sober voice: "I don't believe many of your mule drivers will get
     back."
          The other shouted something in reply. He smiled.
          With scared faces, the youth and his companion hurried back to
     the line.
          These happenings had occupied an incredibly short time, yet
     the youth felt that in them he had been made aged. New eyes were
     given to him. And the most startling thing was to learn suddenly
     that he was very insignificant. The officer spoke of the regiment
     as if he referred to a broom. Some part of the woods needed
     sweeping, perhaps, and he merely indicated a broom in a tone
     properly indifferent to its fate. It was war, no doubt, but it
     appeared strange.
          As the two boys approached the line, the lieutenant perceived
     them and swelled with wrath. "Fleming, Wilson---how long does it
     take you to get water, anyhow---where you been to?"
          But his oration ceased as he saw their eyes, which were large
     with great tales. "We're going to charge, we're going to charge!"
     cried the youth's friend, hastening with his news.
          "Charge?" said the lieutenant. "Charge? Well, by God! Now---
     this is real fighting." Over his soiled countenance there went a
     boastful smile. "Charge? Well, by God!"
          A little group of soldiers surrounded the two youths. "Are we,
     sure enough? Well, I'll be darned! Charge? What for? What at?
     Wilson, you're lying."
          "I hope to die," said the youth's friend, pitching his tones
     to the key of angry remonstrance. "Sure as shooting, I tell you."
          And the youth spoke in reinforcement. "Not by a blame sight,
     he ain't lying'. We heard them talking'."
          They caught sight of two mounted figures a short distance from
     them. One was the colonel of the regiment and the other was the
     officer who had received orders from the commander of the division.
     They were gesticulating at each other. The soldier, pointing at
     them, interpreted the scene.
          One man had a final objection: "How could you hear them
     talking?" But the men, for a large part, nodded, admitting that
     previously the two friends had spoken truth.
          They settled back into reposeful attitudes with airs of having
     accepted the matter. And they mused upon it, with a hundred
     varieties of expression. It was an engrossing thing to think about.
     Many tightened their belts carefully and hitched at their trousers.
          A moment later the officers began to bustle among the men,
     pushing them into a more compact mass and into a better alignment.
     They chased those that straggled and fumed at a few men who seemed
     to show by their attitudes that they had decided to remain at that
     spot. They were like critical shepherds struggling with sheep.
          Presently, the regiment seemed to draw itself up and heave a
     deep breath. None of the men's faces were mirrors of large
     thoughts. The soldiers were bent and stooped like sprinters before
     a signal. Many pairs of glinting eyes peered from the grimy faces
     toward the curtains of the deeper woods. They seemed to be engaged
     in deep calculations of time and distance.
          They were surrounded by the noises of the monstrous
     altercation between the two armies. The world was fully interested
     in other matters. Apparently, the regiment had its small affair to
     itself.
          The youth, turning, shot a quick, inquiring glance at his
     friend. The latter returned to him the same manner of look. They
     were the only ones who possessed an inner knowledge. "Mule drivers
     ---hell to pay---don't believe many will get back." It was an
     ironical secret. Still, they saw no hesitation in each other's
     faces, and they nodded a mute and unprotesting assent when a shaggy
     man near them said in a meek voice: "We'll get swallowed."