. . . shots. . . . thunder. . . . The talk of
the angel-protectors it is. . . . Snakes of fire flying upward,
spreading out . . . . shrapnel . . . . bombs a-bursting . . . .
soldiers standing . . . . reeling . . . . falling . . . . crushed,
or lapping their own blood. . . . Thinning lines . . . . breast to
breast. . . . Hellish howls over the field. . . .
Crashing comes the Russian music, drowning all that hellish chorus,
pouring vigor, might, and hope into the hearts of men. . . .
Alas, the music breaks off. . . . Where is the bugle? . . . . The
trumpet is silenced. . . . The trombone breaks off in the middle of
a note. . . . Only one horn is left. . . . Higher and higher rise
its ringing blasts, chanting, as it were, "Yea, thought I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for
Thou art with me!"
In mighty embrace men clasp one another. . . . Stabbing, being
stabbed . . . . killing, being killed. . . . .
I work away right and left, I expect my death-blow at every moment,
but I seem to be charmed: swords and bayonets surround me, but never
touch me.
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