Chapter: 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 yeh?"  "Bring me some, too."  "And
me, too." He departed, ladened.  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 the 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 criticising
his clothes.  "Th' enemy's formin' over there for another charge," he
said.  "It'll be directed against Whiterside, an' I fear they'll break
through there unless we work like thunder t' 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 t' pay stoppin' 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 th' 12th to help th' 76th, an' I haven't
really got any.  But there's th' 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 'em ready, then.  I'll watch
developments from here, an' send you word when t' 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 yeh to git
water, anyhow--where yeh been to."

But his oration ceased as he saw their eyes, which were large with
great tales.  "We're goin' t' charge--we're goin' t' charge!" cried the
youth's friend, hastening with his news.

"Charge?" said the lieutenant.  "Charge? Well, b'Gawd!  Now, this is
real fightin'."  Over his soiled countenance there went a boastful
smile.  "Charge?  Well, b'Gawd!"

A little group of soldiers surrounded the two youths.  "Are we, sure
'nough?  Well, I'll be derned!  Charge?  What fer?  What at?  Wilson,
you're lyin'."

"I hope to die," said the youth, pitching his tones to the key of angry
remonstrance.  "Sure as shooting, I tell you."

And his friend spoke in re-enforcement.  "Not by a blame sight, he
ain't lyin'.  We heard 'em talkin'."

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 yeh hear 'em talkin'?"  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 bended 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 t'
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 git swallowed."

 As the battle ends, Henry and Wilson volunteer to go for water. Unfortunately, they can't find the stream, and the two start back to their lines. In the distance, they see a group of officers riding in a hurry. The officers include the commander of their division. As the two infantrymen slowly walk past the officers, they listen to the discussion and hear that the enemy is forming another charge. They hear the general ask the other officers what troops could be spared for launching an offensive against the enemy. When the two infantrymen hear that their regiment has been chosen for the charge, they hurry back to their company with the news. The lieutenant is upset with their dallying, but when they announce that their company is going to charge the enemy, the officer is very excited for the opportunity. Henry and Wilson, however, don't tell the final words which they hear the general say: ""I don't believe many of your mule drivers will get back." The officers begin organizing the troops for the charge. The soldiers realize what they need to do; they are not hesitant. They simply await the command. Just as they are ready to charge, one of the soldiers makes the prophetic statement, "We'll git swallowed."

