nd me to him very closely. He bore his
sufferings with heroic fortitude. When the time came to remove the
wounded, and they were being hurried away in ambulances and rough army
wagons, I went to Dr. Lyon and told him of the case. He went with me to
an ambulance and ordered room reserved in it for him. I then had him
carried to it, made him as comfortable as possible, bade him good-bye
and God speed, and saw him no more on earth. He died from his wound some
time in June.

May 11th, Lewis Grossman, of Company C, was brought in, terribly wounded
by a shell. One arm and leg were crushed, and he was otherwise bruised.
I did not see him until after the arm and leg were amputated. He was a
young man of great physical endurance, or he would never have rallied
from the shock. He was as pale as a corpse when first brought into the
tent, but rallied in a little while, and was able to take some
refreshment. When left to himself his mind wandered, and he would talk
as if he were engaged in the quiet pursuits of peace. Unless prevented,
he would remove the bandages from the stumps of his amputated limbs.
When spoken to, however, he would refrain from this, and talk rationally
of the present circumstances. Dr. Lyon finally told me to give my
attention entirely to him. This I did until he was sent away. He told me
how his wound was received. He was in front, skirmishing. He was in the
road in front of a rebel battery, and in the act of loading his gun.
Perceiving they were about to fire, he still delayed a moment, thinking
to get in another shot before leaping to the shelter of a large tree
that stood near. It was a costly delay.

The shell came screaming toward him, burst, and dashed him stunned and
mangled to the ground. As he concluded this narrative, he added, with
the utmost seriousness: "But they haven't made much off me, after all.
I've peppered them in almost every battle the Potomac army has fought
since the war began."

He got along finely, and there seemed every prospect of recovery. When
some of the boys called on him at Washington, on their way home in June,
he requested them to say nothing to his friends about the extent of his
wounds. But from some cause--perhaps gangrene--he died August 3d, and
is buried in the National Cemetery at Arlington.

Nearly opposite Lewis lay a young man of very fine face and attractive
appearance. He was mortally wounded. Most of the time his sufferings
were very great, but no earthly ski