Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer Page B

campaign.
    â€œHe’ll be all right,” Broda said to the other two apologetically. “Once he’s in out of this sun.” But still they squatted around him, watching his narrowed eyes, the perspiration streaking his face and throat, the way his hand kept hovering over the wound, pressing the thigh above it delicately. It was as if in the next second—the very next second—they would learn something of incalculable value from this bloody, groaning voyager from a terribly distant country.
    â€œWhat are you men waiting for?” Captain Parrish called to them sharply. “Get him into that wagon and be smart about it …”
    They leaped into action, then—picked him up, muttering and protesting, and bore him over to the wagon. It stopped, and they lifted Gurney over the tailboard and eased him onto a pile of tarpaulins.
    â€œThere you go, Walt,” Broda said. “You’ll be all right in here.”
    â€œWait—” Gurney panted. “Wait—a minute—”
    They paused. It was stifling under the taut canvas; the tarps smelled of creosote and damp rot. Damon hung on the edge of the tailboard, feeling the jolt and joggle as the wagon started up again.
    â€œI want to tell you, mate,” Gurney cried softly, “I want to tell you, there’s a whole …” Then he stopped, gazing at Damon, shaking his head in slow confusion, his eyes wide.
    â€œCome on, Sam!” Devlin called.
    They had to run to catch up with their place in the column. Damon was furious with himself for letting the trooper drink from his canteen. Now he had even less than anyone else, and God knew when they’d get any more. He’d always been a water drinker—at home he was always pumping a dipper full whenever he passed through the kitchen, loving the cool, silken rush of water against his throat—and maintaining water discipline on the march was a continual torture. Why the devil had he done it? The fellow had spilled more than he’d drunk, anyway …
    As they caught up with their squad Sergeant Kintzelman said, “What’d he do, stop one?”
    â€œYes,” Damon said. He felt irritable and sullen.
    â€œWhere’d he get it?”
    â€œIn the leg, Sarge,” Devlin answered. “The upper leg.”
    â€œOh, then it’s nothing much.”
    The two privates glanced at each other. Damon didn’t see how a hole like that in your body, a hole that could have you groaning and bleeding like that, was nothing much; but he put it out of his mind. They were going to be in it now, for sure. The thing was to be alert, keep your wits about you and not get rattled no matter what might happen. He’d know what to do when the time came … But the moment in the wagon with Gurney still bothered him.
    They marched on, more rapidly now, passed through a bone-dry riverbed covered with dense thickets, began to ascend a long slope to where a ridge ran back in the shape of a horseshoe. Great clouds came up, all black and silver like some mighty artist’s painting of storm clouds, and the wind blew harder, whipping dust in their faces until it stung.
    â€œChrist, it isn’t going to rain, is it?” Devlin exclaimed. Corporal Thomas laughed. “Rain like you’ll never hope to see again, if it does. And then gumbo! Boy …”
    The bugles were blowing now—sweet, sharp, windblown sounds. They were on a little table of ground, with the ridge on their left, the stony creekbed down and away to the right. The wagons were pulling into a tight clump, the mules tossing their heads and neighing. Captain Parrish was riding hard at the head of the column, gesticulating; his campaign-hat brim flipped up and down with the gusts of wind. Damon felt almost dizzy with impatience.
    â€œWhat do they want us to do?” he demanded. “What do they want? ”
    Big Kintzelman grinned at him. “Take it easy, younker. The