Then I noticed he was making a pitiful effort to talk, and in some way, I can’t explain just how, I got the impression that there was something in his pocket he wished to see. I took out a wallet and found what I knew he wanted. It was a post-card photo of a pretty colored girl holding in her arms a dark, smiling baby. Shells were screeching over. Just then one tore the earth nearby and sprinkled us with dirt. I propped his head against my knee and held the picture close to his eyes. A proud, satisfied look came into them, then a calm, tired smile. He seemed looking farther and farther away. Another terrific, bouncing jar and the bloody, mud smeared form relaxed. Another brave comrade had “gone west.”
A little farther on I saw a big private leaning against the splintered trunk of a tree, his bowels all hanging out. No one else was near. He seemed to be in delirium and was crying pitifully like a little child for “Mamma.” When he saw me he stared for an instant, then jumped up and yelled, “Major Ross is with us! Go to it, boys!” and fell over--dead. Then I thought about all I had heard to the effect that you have to treat soldiers like dogs--especially colored ones--to gain discipline and inspire respect. I thanked God I didn’t have to.
I might tell you how that morning during the advance, I happened to be looking at a non-com. section leader a little way to my left when there was a wicked crack and a blinding flash just above and in front of him, and how I saw his headless body--the blood gushing--actually step and lunge forward against a rock. I could tell you about strong men who went raving mad (and were still insane when I last heard) in that horrible turmoil. I could tell for hours about awful things in Bois Frehaut--let alone previous experiences in other places--the days were bad but the long weird nights. They are too gruesome, too sickening to talk about long at a time even here where we’re all safe, rested and well. No wonder the men who actually, personally underwent such suffering won’t talk about it much. But the memory of those awful things, pass it off as they may, is seared deep into their very souls and will haunt them at times until their dying day.