A lieutenant stood on a little iron platform at the top of the ladders,
taking the sights and giving the aim, calling in a high, tense,
mechanical voice. Out of the sky came the sharp cry of the directions,
then the warning numbers, then 'Fire!' The shot went, the piston of the
gun sprang back, there was a sharp explosion, and a very faint film of
smoke in the air. Then the other two guns fired, and there was a lull.
The officer was uncertain of the enemy's position. The thick clump of
horse-chestnut trees below was without change. Only in the far distance
the sound of heavy firing continued, so far off as to give a sense of
peace.

The gorse bushes on either hand were dark, but a few sparks of flowers
showed yellow. He noticed them almost unconsciously as he waited, in the
lull. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and the air came chill on his arms.
Again his shirt was slit on the shoulders, and the flesh showed through.
He was dirty and unkempt. But his face was quiet. So many things go out
of consciousness before we come to the end of consciousness.

Before him, below, was the highroad, running between high banks of grass
and gorse. He saw the whitish muddy tracks and deep scores in the road,
where the part of the regiment had retired. Now all was still. Sounds
that came, came from the outside. The place where he stood was still
silent, chill, serene: the white church among the trees beyond seemed
like a thought only.

He moved into a lightning-like mechanical response at the sharp cry from
the officer overhead. Mechanism, the pure mechanical action of obedience
at the guns. Pure mechanical action at the guns. It left the soul
unburdened, brooding in dark nakedness. In the end, the soul is alone,
brooding on the face of the uncreated flux, as a bird on a dark sea.