I’ll swallow my blood before I swallow my pride.
I didn’t cry after learning Skip Muck was dead. That would come later. Much later. Not that it didn’t hurt. Hell, I’d never felt pain so deep. He was like my brother. No, closer than my brother. But by January 9, when he’d died in a shelling about one hundred yards east of where I was, I was too mentally numb to really react. Too tired. I didn’t sleep a wink for two nights after Roe broke the news to me. And after seeing Toye and Guarnere carted off, and Compton leaving, it was like dumping ice on a guy who was already frozen stiff.