s hear them
coming, and the bullets slipped up and passed you in a sneaking way
with a noise like rustling silk, or if some one had torn a silk
handkerchief with a sharp pull. One shell struck three feet from me
and knocked me over with the dirt and stones and filled my nose and
mouth with pebbles. I went back and dug it out of the ground while it
was still hot and have it as a souvenir. I swore terribly at the
bullets and Bass used to grin in a sickly way. It made your hair creep
when they came very close. One man next me got a shot through the
breast while he was ramming his cleaner down the barrel, and there were
three killed within the limits of our fifty yards. We could not get
back because there was a cross fire that swept a place we had to pass
through, just about the way the wind comes around the City Hall in the
times of a blizzard. We called it Dead Man's Curve, after that at
Fourteenth Street and Union Square, because it was sprinkled with dead
ammunition, mules and soldiers. We came through it the first time
without knowing what we were getting into and we had no desire to go
back again. So we waited until the sun set. I took some of the finest
photographs and probably the only ones ever taken of a battle at such
close range. Whenever the men fired, I would shoot off the camera and
I expect I have some pretty great pictures. Bass took some of me so if
there is any question as to whether I was at the Coronation, there will
be none as to whether I was at Velestinos.

Our house was hit with two shells and bullets fell like the gentle rain
from heaven all over the courtyard, so we would have been no safer
there than behind the trenches. We sent off the first account of the
battle written by anybody by midday, and stayed on until the next day
at four when the place was evacuated in good order because, as usual,
the Crown Prince was running away--from Pharsalia this time.

They say in Greece "Lewes, the peasant, won the race from Marathon, but
Constantine the prince, won the race from Larissa."

I was all right until I got to Volo when my right leg refused
absolutely to do its act and I had to be carried on a donkey. A Greek
thought I looked funny sitting groaning on the little donkey; which I
did--I looked ridiculous. So he laughed, and Bass and a French
journalist batted him over the face and left me clinging to the
donkey's neck and howling to them to come back and hold me up. But
they prefer