I know that I had a most pressing desire to run--anywhere, so
long as I was moving. As I was looking down I glanced at my wrist watch
about every thirty seconds and lived minutes between each glance. No one
spoke--it was as if we had suddenly been turned to wood. Then after
fifteen minutes of observation the Hun plane circled away from us--and
we had lived several lifetimes in that short time.
[Sidenote: Army trucks take us back to the village.]
It was the fog that got me--and sent me back to the United States. Two
years before, coming home from drill at the armory (I was then a member
of the National Guard) I fell asleep on the train and contracted a
severe cold. The cold never seemed to leave me, and now, after a week of
fog, after sleeping in a gun pit, I grew hoarse and developed a nasty
cough. I was not really sick when I left the firing line after my six
days and returned to the billet, but I felt pretty miserable. I can
remember being glad when, after a several miles' walk back of the lines,
we found the army trucks ready to carry us to the village where we were
quartered.
[Sidenote: A month at the base hospital.]
I spent four days in the billet receiving further instruction from my
French officer, and then after ten days I started back to the training
camp, where I was to help in the instruction of the fellows of my
division who had not as yet been under fire. By the time I reached the
camp I was what might be termed all in, down and out.
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