KILLING A MAN. [DETROIT FREE PRESS.]

Evening Post, Volume XLIII, Issue 61, 12 March 1892, Page 2 (Supplement)

KILLING A MAN. [DETROIT FREE PRESS.]

They do not call it murder when ( men meet to slaughter each other in j battle. They simply report so many I dead, wounded, or missing. When you fire into snioke concealing the other battle line you firo in the hopes to kill and wound. It is your duty, j Battles cannot be won without kill- I ing, and the results of battles change j the whole system of Governments, j You load and fire— move to the right j or left — advance or retreat, and ' when the battle is over, you may j have fired fifty rounds, and yet you j have not had a near sight of the ' enemy : you have simply fired at them, and you cannot vouch that one single one of your bullets has found a living target. Here is a brigade of us in battle line across an old meadow; our right and left join other brigades. We have thrown down the rail fence, gathered logs and brush and sods, and erected a breastwork. It is only a slight one, but enough to shelter us while lying down. A division of the enemy breaks cover half a mile away, and comes marching down upon us. The field-pieces behind us open on their solid columns, but they I are not checked. "Under the smoke we can see the work of the shells, but they cannot halt that mass of men. The grape and canister does awful execution, but there should be a dozen guns behind us instead of six. They are going to charge us. The guns cannot prevent that. Orders run along the line, and we are waiting until every bullet, no matter if fired by a soldier with his eyes shut, must hit a foe. I select my man while he is yet beyond range. I have eyes for no other. He is a tall, soldierly fellow, wearing the-cstripes of a sergeant. As he comes nearer I imagine that he is looking as fixedly at me as lam at him. I admire his coolness. He looks neither to the right nor to the left. The man on his right is hit and goes down, but he does not falter. lam going to kill that man. I have a rest for my gun on the breastwork, and when the order comes to fire I cannot miss him. He is living his last moments on earth ! Wo are calmly waitings until ovir volley shall prove a veritable flame of death. Now they close up the gaps, and we can hear the shouts of their officers as they make ready to charge. My man ia still opposite me. He still seems to be looking at me and no one else. I know the J word is coming in a few seconds more, and I aim at his chest. I could almost be sure of hitting him with a stone when we get the word to fire. There is a billow of flame — a billow of smoke — a fierce crash, and 4000 bullets are fired into that compact mass of advancing men. Not one volley alone, though that worked horrible destruction, but another and another, until there was no longer a living man to fire at. The smoke drifted slowly away, men cheer and yell, we can see the meadow before us heaped with dead and dying men. We advance our line. As we go forward I look for my victim. He is lying on his back, eyes half shut, and fingers clutching at the grass. He gasps, draws up his legs, and straightens them out again, and is dead as I pass on. I have killed my man. My bullet alone struck him, tearing that ghastly wound in his breast, and I am entitled to all the honour. Do I swing my cap and cheer ? Do I point him out and expect to be congratulated ? No ! I have no cheers. I feel no elation. I feel that I murdered him, war or no war, and that his agonised face will haunt me through all the years of my life.