Blues on the Gray Line

It seemed to Cletus that his turn would never come. It was very crowded here, he knew, but it had been hours now. Three, four, five, he wasn't sure. He had slept part of the time. He wished it would hurry up and be his turn, but he was afraid of when it would be. A man down the row had been moaning all day and it was really getting on Cletus' nerves. Someone else hollered for the man to shut up and Cletus hollered for the shouter to get off it. Earlier there had been a moaner lying next to Cletus, but he had been covered up and carried out about an hour ago. Cletus wanted his turn, but he was afraid of it.

Things had been going well before he came here; in fact it was as good as over, so he really shouldn't be here at all. It had been hell most of the day, like boxing a buzz saw, but just before he came here things picked up and everyone knew it was nearly over. Longstreet had been pushing hell out of 'em on the left all afternoon and they were finally breaking down and running out Rossville Pike. The blue was disappearing everywhere down the line and Cletus knew it was won. Everybody was just sort of milling around, taking a few pot shots here and there, and Cletus was gathering up canisters before the order came to head back to regiment when the shellburst hit square on top of Mashburn, not more than five paces to his right. Sure, Cletus got it in the elbow, and it hurt like hell, but poor ole Mashburn, he was still out there, scattered over half an acre.

Someone said they were out of whiskey and all they had now were rags to bite on. Cletus didn't care if they even gave him a rag, if they would just give him his turn. He tried to look at his elbow, but the sleeve was all tangled up in it and he couldn't tell much. It hurt like hell, was all he knew.

Cletus was in the Villetoe House, he thought, right near where the front line had been, but he wasn't sure. Everything was kind of muddy after the shellburst. The doctors were working out in the kitchen and Cletus was in the front hall so there were a lot of people coming and going by him. He'd been stepped on twice already. It was well after dark and they were still bringing folks in. As soon as there was room on the floor somebody filled it up.

"Lord sweet Jesus!" someone cried from the parlor. The wailing and moaning never stopped, especially from the kitchen.

"Son of a mother biter!" yelled someone else. Cletus was getting used to it, but it still got on his nerves. His arm hurt real bad, but at least it wasn't getting any worse.

Finally a couple of orderlies walked up to him and bent to pick up his stretcher. So it was his turn at last. "That feller over yonder's pretty bad," said Cletus.

"Don't you never mind him," said the orderly at his feet.

It hurt when they carried him because it bounced his arm. Up here he could see better; the men jammed everywhere; more blood than ticks on a stray hound; the writhers and the dead still. Cletus turned his head back up and watched the ceiling.

They sloshed a bucket of water on the table before they set him on it. Cletus looked at the doctor.