Tim drew his sword and raced forward, motioning for his men to follow. The ground was covered with dead and dying, great shell holes loomed suddenly in their path, and some of the men pitched headlong into the yawning cavities.
The figures of the charging men were punched in black against the brilliance of enemy fire. As Tim moved into the choking, blinding haze a shell hit close. The familiar bulk of Sergeant Fitch spun around, suspended for a moment, then crumpled in a gesture of death. Fear cut into Tim like a knife of ice. His knees were numb but he moved in a crescendo of speed for the outer work, a soundless screaming tearing at his throat.
A dozen or so men had halted just behind the man-made ridge of sand.
“Don’t stop to fire!” Tim yelled.
In the light of the exploding shells he caught sight of Captain Dawson just to the left. Dawson was rocking a man in his arms, rocking and sobbing in a ghastly burlesque. Tim scrambled over to Dawson’s side. The light of a following shell showed him that the man Dawson was holding was dead. Tim wrenched the dead man free, grasped the front of Dawson’s blouse and hit him full force in the face with the flat of his hand. “Move on,” he shouted.
Dawson shook his head in confusion and got to his feet.
With the shriek of shells splitting his ears Tim grasped his sword and dashed across the trembling sand toward the water of the moat where it reflected the flashes of cannon fire.
A wounded soldier lay at the water’s edge, struggling to rise. Tim grabbed the man’s blouse and dragged him clear so that he wouldn’t drown.
As Tim straightened up he saw a half-familiar figure dashing toward him.
“It’s Private Greene,” he said aloud.