He was
completely blinded. Nevertheless, he continued to advance, trying to
grope his way through the night that had fallen upon him. He
encountered something lying on the ground--a something that was a man
just as badly wounded. The blind man besought him for help.
"How can I help you," said the wounded man, "a shell has broken both
my legs."
"What difference does that make," shouted the blinded man, "I am going
to carry you on my back. My legs will be yours, and your eyes will be
mine."
And, one supporting the other, the blinded man and the lamed man
carried on!
* * * * *
That officer knew how to suffer whom one of my brothers met on the
battle field of Lorraine. An artillery officer, his arm was shattered,
a few bits of flesh barely holding it fast to his shoulder. My
brother, when he saw the man painfully dragging himself along, asked
him whether or not he needed help.
"I don't need help," replied the wounded man, "but my battery down
there does. It is retreating."
"If it is retreating, it can't be helped and it is a waste of time for
me to get it ammunition...."
"No," begged the lieutenant, "get the munitions. We Colonials fight
until the last man falls...."
He offered to guide my brother, mounted beside him on the artillery
caisson, and stayed there all day.
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