“We’ll spear any of them who has the luck to get this far!” whispered Stransky to his rifle.  The sentence was spoken in the midst of a salvo of shrapnel cracks, which he did not hear.  He heard nothing, thought nothing, except to kill.

The Gray batteries on the plain, having taken up a new position and being reinforced, played on the crest at top speed instantly the Gray line rose and started up the slope at the run.  With the purpose of confusing no less than killing, they used percussion, which burst on striking the ground, as well as shrapnel, which burst by a time-fuse in the air.  Fountains of sod and dirt shot upward to meet descending sprays of bullets.  The concussions of the earth shook the aim of Dellarme’s men, blinded by smoke and dust, as they fired through a fog at bent figures whose legs were pumping fast in dim pantomime.

But the guns of the Browns, also, have word that the charge has begun.  The signal corporal is waiting for the gesture from Dellarme agreed upon as an announcement.  The Brown artillery commander cuts his fuses two hundred and fifty yards shorter.  He, too, uses percussion for moral effect.

Half of the distance from the foot to the crest of the knoll Fracasse’s men have gone in face of the hot, sizzling tornado of bullets, when there is a blast of explosions in their faces with all the chaotic and irresistible force of a volcanic eruption.  Not only are they in the midst of the first lot of the Browns’ shells at the shorter range, but one Gray battery has either made a mistake in cutting its fuses or struck a streak of powder below standard, and its shells burst among those whom it is aiming to assist.

The ground seems rising under the feet of Fracasse’s company; the air is split and racked and wrenched and torn with hideous screams of invisible demons.  The men stop; they act on the uncontrollable instinct of self-preservation against an overwhelming force of nature.  A few without the power of locomotion drop, faces pressed to the ground.  The rest flee toward a shoulder of the slope through the instinct that leads a hunted man in a street into an alley.  In a confusion of arms and legs, pressing one on the other, no longer soldiers, only a mob, they throw themselves behind the first protection that offers itself.  Fracasse also runs.  He runs from the flame of a furnace door suddenly thrown open.

The Gray batteries have ceased firing; certain gunners’ ears burn under the words of inquiry as to the cause of the mistake from an artillery commander.  Dellarme’s men are hugging the earth too close to cheer.  A desire to spring up and yell may be in their hearts, but they know the danger of showing a single unnecessary inch of their craniums above the sky-line.  The sounds that escape their throats are those of a winning team at a tug of war as diaphragms relax.