Though at first his hands kept shaking. “It was different kind of gunning from what I was used to, I was mad with myself that I acted so like a coward.” But as soon as they let him lie down and fight on his own, He felt all right. He had nineteen cartridges now. The first five each killed a man⁠—he was a good shot⁠— Then the rifle fouled. He began to get up and fix it, Mechanically. A bullet went through his lung. He lay on the field all day. At the end of the day He was captured, sent to prison, paroled after weeks, Died later, because of the wound. That was his war⁠—