And then—
The Earth has opened her mouth ... lightnings, crashes and thunderings, and the Heaven splits in twain and falls down in flame—the earth whirls upwards in shreds ... men and the earth blaze and hurtle through the air like Catharine wheels ... and then ... a crash, a maddening uproar, strikes us full in the chest, so that we reel backward to the ground, and half-consciously struggle for breath in the sand ... and now ... the storm is over ... the pressure of the atmosphere relaxes off our chest ... we breathe deep ... only scattered, dancing flames now and squibs ... fireworks....
But what on earth has happened?——
We peer out fearfully over our earthworks.
Has red Hell opened its mouth:
There rises a noise of screams and yells, an uproar so unnaturally wild and unrestrained that we cringe up closer to one another ... and, trembling, we see that our faces, our uniforms, have red, wet stains, and distinctly recognize shreds of flesh on the cloth. And among our feet something is lying that was not lying there before—it gleams white from the dark sand and uncurls ... a strange dismembered hand ... and there ... and there ... fragments of flesh with the uniform still adhering to them—then we realize it, and horror overwhelms us.
Outside there are lying arms, legs, heads, trunks ... they are howling into the night; the whole regiment is lying mangled on the ground there, a lump of humanity crying to Heaven....
Clouds are arising from the earth ... they are rising crying aloud in the air ... they pass over us in thick drifts, so that we can see the wounds steaming, and can taste blood and bones upon our tongues....
And then a spectral vision rises before my eyes ... I see red Death standing outside there on the plain ... the clouds reveal a face grinning down on the symphony ... and suddenly a clear note detaches itself from the darkness—a tune which enraptured Death is playing to himself till his fiddle splits ... is that a human being coming up, running, here?... he is coming with a rush ... he will leap upon our backs ... halt! halt! halt! He stumbles upright into the trenches, and tumbles sobbing and howling, among our rifles. He strikes out at us with hands and feet ... he is crying and struggling like a child, and yet no man dares go up to him ... for now he is rising on his knee ... and then we see! Half his face has been torn away ... one eye gone ... the twitching muscle of the cheek is hanging down ... he is kneeling, and opening and closing his hands, and is howling to us for mercy.
We gaze at him horror-stricken and are paralyzed ... then at length the yokel—and our eyes thank him for it—raises the butt of his rifle and places the muzzle against the sound temple ... bang!... and the maimed wreckage falls over backward and lies still in his blood....