ose from the trees first and
jumped out onto the exposed edge of that field that ran with lead,
across which he and his men were to charge. Then he turned to give the
charge order to the men of his platoon--his mates--the men he loved. He
said:

"COME ON, YOU SONS-O'-BITCHES! DO YOU WANT TO LIVE FOREVER?"

CHAPTER XVI

WOUNDED--HOW IT FEELS TO BE SHOT

Just how does it feel to be shot on the field of battle? Just what is
the exact sensation when a bullet burns its way through your flesh or
crashes through your bones?

I always wanted to know. As a police reporter I "covered" scores of
shooting cases, but I could never learn from the victims what the
precise feeling was as the piece of lead struck. For long years I had
cherished an inordinate curiosity to know that sensation, if possible,
without experiencing it. I was curious and eager for enlightenment just
as I am still anxious to know how it is that some people willingly drink
buttermilk when it isn't compulsory.

I am still in the dark concerning the inexplicable taste for the sour,
clotted product of a sweet, well-meaning cow and the buttery, but I have
found out how it feels to be shot. I know it now by experience.

Three Germans bullets that violated my person left me as many scars and
at the same time completely satisfied my curiosity. I think now if I can
ever muster up enough courage to drink a glass of buttermilk, I shall
have bereft myself of my last inquisitiveness.

It happened on June 6th just to the northwest of Chateau-Thierry in the
Bois de Belleau. On the morning of that day I left Paris by motor for a
rush to the front. The Germans were on that day within forty miles of
the capital of France. On the night before, the citizens of Paris, in
their homes and hotels, had heard the roll of the guns drawing ever
nearer. Many had left the city.

But American divisions were in the line between the enemy and their
goal, and the operation of these divisions was my object in hustling to
the front. On the broad, paved highway from Paris to Meaux, my car
passed miles and miles of loaded motor trucks bound frontward. Long
lines of these carried thousands of Americans. Other long lines were
loaded down with shells and cartridge boxes. On the right side of the
road, bound for Paris and points back of the line, was an endless stream
of ambulances and other motor trucks bringing back wounded. Dense clouds
of dust hung like a pall over the length of t