an awful sound?" a
dozen soldiers chimed. There is no other sound produced that can
be compared with it. It stands alone for all that is sickening and
horrible. All knew that some one had been hit. A moment was passed
in suspense. The German whispered, in the tones of death, to his
comrade at his side: "Wipe the blood off of my face!" It was his last
words. He drew his knees to his chin in the agonies of death, turned
over on one side, burrowing his face in the mud, and died without a
groan. A Mauser had hit him squarely between the eyes.

A short time later a sergeant of one of the companies of the same
regiment moved a few yards forward, trying to get a pot-shot at
some Spanish sharpshooters who were snugly perched in the spreading
tops of some royal palm trees, and were hitting some of our men. He
sighted one and had his rifle to his shoulder, taking a fine bead,
when all at once the rifle fell to the ground and his hands dropped
helplessly by his side. He coolly faced about and walked toward the
rear, his arms dangling like pendulums, not even so much as muttering
a word. One of his company officers asked him what was the matter, to
which he laconically replied, "Hit," and continued on his way to the
dressing-station in the rear. He was shot through both shoulders--a
serious wound, but he recovered.

About an hour after the German was killed the same company was
ordered to take a position farther to the right. They walked along,
goose-fashion, single file, moving by the right flank toward their
new position. Next to the last man in the rear was a corporal, a
new man, just a few months in the service. Biff! ping! bang! went the
deadly missiles. One struck a man's rifle-barrel, cutting it almost in
two. Another split the stock of a gun in a man's hand. Then one struck
the recruit corporal's left arm, passing through the biceps. With
an expression of great surprise he for a moment stood still, saying
nothing. His eyes began to dilate, and then of a sudden he threw his
fowling-piece high in the air, grasped his left arm with his right
hand, and started for the rear at a disgraceful gait, yelling so as
to be heard above the din of battle: "I've got it! I've got it! I've
got it!" The last that was seen of him that day he had "it," and was
taking "it" to the rear with him.

On San Juan Ridge, July 2d, just as Chaffee's brigade had reached the
crest, they were ordered to lie down and intrench, using the bayonet
as a pi