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"On the Firing Line"

He did not know it then. Looking backward, he knew
it now. And there had been Cape Town, and Johannesburg, and Cape
Town again. He stumbled into the open mouth of an ant-bear's hole
and came down with a crash, full upon his wounded shoulder. Strange
that his step should be so uncertain! Strange that he should feel so
little inclination to swear! As he picked himself up, he wondered
vaguely whether his pipe would be refreshing; but his wonder
stopped, impotent to lead his dangling hand in the direction of his
pocket. Then his mind took up its interrupted story, its record of
brief, categorical facts.
He had meant to go home, that winter. Instead, Ethel had fanned the
flame of his desire to go back to the front. He had left her, one
evening, to pass a sleepless night, and, the next morning, to take
himself out to enlist for another six months of service. The six
months were nearly ended. Only three weeks remained. And then?
Nothing.
The second night found him still far from Lindley. He had plodded on
mechanically, stumbling often, but halting never, while his mind
went whirling on and on, over and over the same old questions. His
lips were feverish, and his eyes burned hotly, so it was almost with
a sense of relief that he greeted the swift chill which followed the
dropping of the sun.


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