Summary

James R. Driscoll The Brighton Boys at St. Mihiel

Often with Harper, and with Ollie Ogden, too, Tom Walton had played football on a sometimes soggy field at Brighton, but never, he was repeating to himself bitterly, had it been anything like this.
But pessimism or drooping spirits cannot for long grip a lad in perfect health and possessed of the knowledge that eventually, soon or late, and probably at no far distant date, he has a great mission to perform. And so, with the first thoughts of good old Brighton, the mood of Tom Walton began to change, even the weather did not seem quite so dreary, the outlook not so glum.
Source: Gutenberg

James R. Driscoll The Brighton Boys at St. Mihiel

But once past that point where they might hit or run down their own men, the tanks proceeded with all the power and speed they possessed straight for the sapling wood and the wire entanglements in front of it. Machine gun bullets pelted against their tops and sides as harmlessly as drops of rain upon a roof. Invincible to everything but the larger guns, which had not yet made their range, so viciously did the Americans in the skies fight off the enemy observers, they plodded on, barbed wire twisting and snapping, trees cracking off and falling before their terrible assault.
Source: Gutenberg

James R. Driscoll The Brighton Boys at St. Mihiel

Tom, too, looked sharply at his friend, but with other reason. For an instant he feared that the low laugh was the first hysteria which is the forerunner of one phase of shell shock—that dreaded punishment when taut nerves break, the mind snaps, and a strong man temporarily is transformed into a cowering, jabbering, pitiful hulk of his former self, actuated by one thought, escape from the thing that caused his mental wreck.
Source: Gutenberg

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