“Ay, she almost snatched ‘our gentleman’s’ hat off,” the red-faced, jocose soldier laughed, showing his teeth. “Hey, awkward hussy！” he added reproachfully to a cannon ball that hit a wheel and a man’s leg. “Now, you foxes there！” laughed another, addressing the peasant militiamen, who were creeping in and out among the guns after the wounded. “Don’t you care for our porridge, hey？ Ah, the crows！ that pulls them up！” they shouted at the militiamen, who hesitated at the sight of the soldier whose leg had been torn off. “Oo … oo … lad,” they cried, mimicking the peasants, “we don’t like it at all, we don’t！”
Pierre noticed that after every ball that fell in their midst, after every loss, the general elation became more and more marked.
The closer the storm cloud swooped down upon them, the more bright and frequent were the gleams of latent fire that glowed like lightning flashes on those men’s faces, called up, as it were, to meet and resist their danger.
Pierre did not look in front at the field of battle; he took no more interest in what was going on there. He was entirely engrossed in the contemplation of that growing fire, which he felt was burning in his own soul too.
At ten o’clock the infantry, who had been in advance of the battery in the bushes and about the stream Kamenka, retreated. From the battery they could see them running back past them, bearing their wounded on their guns. A general with a suite came on to the redoubt, and after talking to the colonel and looking angrily at Pierre, went away again, ordering the infantry standing behind the battery guarding it to lie down, so as to be less exposed to fire. After that a drum was heard in the ranks of the infantry, more to the right of the battery, and shouts gave the word of command, and from the battery they could see the ranks of infantry moving forward.
Pierre looked over the earthwork. One figure particularly caught his eye. It was the officer, walking backwards with a pale, boyish face. He held his sword downwards and kept looking uneasily round.
The rows of infantry soldiers vanished into the smoke, but they could hear a prolonged shout from them and a rapid musketry fire. A few minutes later crowds of wounded men and a number of stretchers came back from that direction. Shells fell more and more often in the battery. Several men lay on the ground, not picked up. The soldiers bustled more busily and briskly than ever about the cannons. No one took any notice of Pierre now. Twice he was shouted at angrily for being in the way. The senior officers strode rapidly from one cannon to another with a frowning face. The officer-boy, his cheeks even more crimson, gave the soldiers their orders more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers served out the charges, turned round, loaded, and did all their work with exaggerated smartness. They moved as though worked by springs.
The storm cloud was swooping closer; and more brightly than ever glowed in every face that fire which Pierre was watching. He was standing near the senior officer. The little officer-boy ran up, his hand to his shako, saluting his superior officer.
“I have the honour to inform you, colonel, only eight charges are left; do you command to continue firing？” he asked.
“Grapeshot！” the senior officer shouted, looking away over the earthwork.
Suddenly something happened; the boy-officer groaned, and whirling round sat down on the ground, like a bird shot on the wing. All seemed strange, indistinct, and darkened before Pierre’s eyes.
One after another the cannon balls came whistling, striking the breastwork, the soldiers, the cannons. Pierre, who had scarcely heard those sounds before, now could hear nothing else. On the right side of the battery, soldiers, with shouts of “hurrah,” were running, not forward, it seemed to Pierre, but back.
A cannon ball struck the very edge of the earthwork, before which Pierre was sitting, and sent the earth flying; a dark, round mass flashed just before his eyes, and at the same instant flew with a thud into something. The militiamen, who had been coming into the battery, ran back.
“All with grapeshot！” shouted the officer.
The sergeant ran up to the officer, and in a frightened whisper （just as at a dinner the butler will sometimes tell the host that there is no more of some wine asked for） said that there were no more charges.
“The scoundrels, what are they about？” shouted the officer, turning to Pierre. The senior officer’s face was red and perspiring, his piercing eyes glittered. “Run to the reserves, bring the ammunition-boxes！” he shouted angrily, avoiding Pierre with his eyes, and addressing the soldier.
“I’ll go,” said Pierre. The officer, making no reply, strode across to the other side.
“Cease firing … Wait！” he shouted.
The soldier who had been commanded to go for the ammunition ran against Pierre.
“Ah, sir, it’s no place for you here,” he said, as he ran away.
Pierre ran after the soldier, avoiding the spot where the boy-officer was sitting.
One cannon ball, a second and a third flew over him, hitting the ground in front, on each side, behind Pierre as he ran down. “Where am I going？” he suddenly wondered, just as he ran up to the green ammunition-boxes. He stopped short in uncertainty whether to go back or forward. Suddenly a fearful shock sent him flying backwards on to the ground. At the same instant a flash of flame dazed his eyes, and a roar, a hiss, and a crash set his ears ringing.
When he recovered his senses, Pierre found himself sitting on the ground leaning on his hands. The ammunition-box, near which he had been, had gone; there were a few charred green boards and rags lying scattered about on the scorched grass. A horse was galloping away with broken fragments of the shafts clattering after it; while another horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering a prolonged, piercing scream.
