There was a fight, or a riot, or something like it going on near the
head of our line of autos. The first two or three had come to a
standstill; several in the middle of the line were trying to wheel
outward and bolt for it behind the fleeing cavalry, and those at the
tail end were blocked by one that had broken down. Of course everybody
was yelling at the top of his lungs and the hurrying shreds of blown
mist further confounded the confusion.
So Jeremy and I ran forward, plunging through the mud and knocking over
whoever blocked our way. It was rather fun--like the football field at
school. But one man--a Syrian officer--stood near the last of the
forward cars with the evident purpose of standing off interference. He
took careful aim at me with a revolver, fired point-blank, and missed.
I forgot all about my own pistol and went for him with a laugh and a
yell of sheer exhilaration. There's an eighth of a ton of me, mostly
bone and muscle, so it isn't a sinecure to have to stop my fist when the
rest of the bulk is under way behind it. I landed so hard on his nose,
and with such tremendous impetus, that he hadn't enough initial
stability to take the impact and bring me up on my feet.
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