The Eleventh is formed at the foot of the hill; the commander rides to its front:
"Colour--bearer--twelve--paces--to the front--MARCH! Bat-tal-ion--pre-sent--ARMS!"
Then, with drawn sword, the colonel also salutes the flag--and cries, DIES BY IT!
A mortal cold goes to the marrow of my bones; my comrades' faces are white as death.
"Bat-tal-ion--fix--BAYONETS!
"For-ward--guide centre--MARCH!"
Slowly we move up the hill; the line sways in curves; we halt and re-form.
We lie down near the crest; shells burst over us; shells fly with a dreadful hissing beyond us. I raise my head; right-oblique is a battery; ... it is hidden in smoke; again I see the guns and the horses and the men; they load and fire, load and fire.
A round shot strikes the ground in our front ... rises ... falls ... rises--goes over. We fire at the smoke.
Down flat on your face! Do you hear the singing in the air? Thop! Johnson is hit; he runs to the rear, bending over until his height is lost.