Ah, me! ah, me!

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.