I saw the Garita fall, a flaming shambles; I saw an airplane swoop low over breastworks hastily flung up at the Puenta de Los Hidalgos and wipe out a company of Americans. I heard the biting rasp of machine g*n fire, the staccato bark of anti-aircraft; once the visiplate before us whirled giddily for an instant as the plane in which our broadcaster rode narrowly escaped disaster.
I saw the last great moment of Fort Marcy; the fall of the gates and the horde of snarling Toties that rushed in, bayonetting all before them; I saw the bayonet wielded that slashed the rope holding the American flag to the flagpost. I saw the man who turned and raced to that flagpost, grasped the ropes and held them taut as, for a moment longer, the tattered ensign whipped out through the smoke and flame.
Then
