A staff officer stepped up to me as we joined the main body.
'You ve been shot, young man,' he said, pointing to my left hand.
Before he could turn I felt a rush of air and saw him fly into
pieces, some of which hit me as I fell backward. I did not know
what had happened; I know not now more than that I have written.
I remember feeling something under me, like a stick of wood,
bearing hard upon my ribs. I tried to roll off it, but somehow, it
was tied to me and kept hurting. I put my hand over my hip and
felt it there behind me - my own arm! The hand was like that of a
dead man - cold and senseless. I pulled it from under me and it lay
helpless; it could not lift itself. I knew now that I, too, had become
one of the bloody horrors of the battle.
I struggled to my feet, weak and trembling, and sick with nausea. I
must have been lying there a long time. The firing was now at a
distance: the sun had gone half down the sky. They were picking
up the wounded in the near field. A man stood looking at me.
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