Presently he began to feel the effects of the war atmosphere--a
blistering sweat, a sensation that his eyeballs were about to
crack like hot stones. A burning roar filled his ears.

Following this came a red rage. He developed the acute exasperation
of a pestered animal, a well-meaning cow worried by dogs. He had a
mad feeling against his rifle, which could only be used against one
life at a time. He wished to rush forward and strangle with his fingers.
He craved a power that would enable him to make a world-sweeping gesture
and brush all back. His impotency appeared to him, and made his rage
into that of a driven beast.

Buried in the smoke of many rifles his anger was directed not
so much against the men whom he knew were rushing toward him as
against the swirling battle phantoms which were choking him,
stuffing their smoke robes down his parched throat. He fought
frantically for respite for his senses, for air, as a babe being
smothered attacks the deadly blankets.

There was a blare of heated rage mingled with a certain
expression of intentness on all faces. Many of the men were
making low-toned noises with their mouths, and these subdued
cheers, snarls, imprecations, prayers, made a wild, barbaric
song that went as an undercurrent of sound, strange and chantlike
with the resounding chords of the war march. The man at the
youth's elbow was babbling. In it there was something soft and
tender like the monologue of a babe. The tall soldier was swearing
in a loud voice. From his lips came a black procession of curious
oaths. Of a sudden another broke out in a querulous way like a man
who has mislaid his hat. "Well, why don't they support us?