I never knew what hit me, a fist or a weapon. I only
felt the crash, and a sensation of reeling, and a series of blows
and kicks like a storm about me.
I ask you to believe that I did not run away in the Argonne. I did
my job, and got my wound, and my honorable record. But there I had a
fighting chance, and here I had none; and maybe I was dazed, and it
was the instinctive reaction of my tormented body--anyhow, I ran. I
staggered along, with the blows and kicks to keep me moving. And
then I saw half a dozen broad steps, and a big open doorway; I fled
that way, and found myself in a dark, cool place, reeling like a
drunken man, but no longer beaten, and apparently no longer pursued.
I was falling, and there was something nearby, and I caught at it,
and sank down upon a sort of wooden bench.
IV
I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear
I cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying.
I don't think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with
it, I think it was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that
I, who had helped to win a war, should have been made to run from a
gang of cowardly rowdies.
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