imbing slowly to the high infantry position, peza was amazed to meet a soldier whose jaw had been half shot away, and who was being helped down the sheep track by two tearful comrades. the man's breast was drenched with blood, and from a cloth which he held to the wound drops were splashing wildly upon the stones of the path. he gazed at peza for a moment. it was a mystic gaze, which peza withstood with difficulty. he was exchanging looks with a spectre; all aspect of the man was somehow gone from this victim. as peza went on, one of the unwounded soldiers loudly shouted to him to return and assist in this tragic march. but even peza's fingers revolted; he was afraid of the spectre; he would not have dared to touch it. he was surely craven in the movement of refusal he made to them. he scrambled hastily on up the path. he was running away.
at the top of the hill he came immediately upon a part of the line that was in action. another battery of mountain guns was here firing at the streaks of black on the plain. there were trenches filled with men lining parts of the crest, and near the base were other trenches, all crashing away mightily. the plain stretched as far as the eye can see, and from where silver mist ended this emerald ocean of grass, a great ridge of snow-topped mountains poised against a fleckless blue sky. two knolls, green and yellow with grain, sat on the prairie confronting the dark hills of the greek position. between them were the lines of the enemy. a row of trees, a village, a stretch of road, showed faintly on this great canvas, this tremendous picture, but men, the turkish battalions, were emphasized startlingly upon it. the ranks of troops between the knolls and the greek position were as black as ink.
the first line of course was muffled in smoke, but at the rear of it battalions crawled up and to and fro plainer than beetles on a plate. peza had never understood that masses of men were so declarative, so unmistakable, as if nature makes every arrangement to give information of the coming and the presence of destruction, the end, oblivion. the firing was full, complete, a roar of cataracts, and this pealing of connected volleys was adjusted to the grandeur of the far-off range of snowy mountains. peza, breathless, pale, felt that he had been set upon a pillar and was surveying mankind, the world. in the meantime dust had got in his eye. he took his handkerchief and mechanically administered to it.
an officer with a double stripe of purple on his trousers paced in the rear of the battery of howitzers. he waved a little cane. sometimes he paused in his promenade to study the field through his glasses. "a fine scene, sir," he cried airily, upon the approach of peza. it was like a blow in the chest to the wide-eyed volunteer. it revealed to him a point of view. "yes, sir, it is a fine scene," he answered. they spoke in french. "i am happy to be able to entertain monsieur with a little practice," continued the officer. "i am firing upon that mass of troops you see there a little to the right. they are probably forming for another attack." peza smiled; here again appeared manners, manners erect by the side of death.
the right-flank gun of the battery thundered; there was a belch of fire and smoke; the shell flung swiftly and afar was known only to the ear in which rang a broadening hooting wake of sound. the howitzer had thrown itself backward convulsively, and lay with its wheels moving in the air as a squad of men rushed toward it. and later, it seemed as if each little gun had made the supreme effort of its being in each particular shot. they roared with voices far too loud, and the thunderous effort caused a gun to bound as in a dying convulsion. and then occasionally one was hurled with wheels in air. these shuddering howitzers presented an appearance of so many cowards always longing to bolt to the rear, but being implacably held to their business by this throng of soldiers who ran in squads to drag them up again to their obligation. the guns were herded and cajoled and bullied interminably. one by one, in relentless program, they were dragged forward to contribute a profound vibration of steel and wood, a flash and a roar, to the important happiness of man.
the adjacent infantry celebrated a good shot with smiles and an outburst of gleeful talk.
"look, sir," cried an officer to peza. thin smoke was drifting lazily before peza, and dodging impatiently he brought his eyes to bear upon that part of the plain indicated by the officer's finger. the enemy's infantry was advancing to attack. from the black lines had come forth an inky mass which was shaped much like a human tongue. it advanced slowly, casually, without apparent spirit, but with an insolent confidence that was like a proclamation of the inevitable.
the impetuous part was all played by the defensive side. officers called, men plucked each other by the sleeve; there were shouts, motions, all eyes were turned upon the inky mass which was flowing toward the base of the hills, heavily, languorously, as oily and thick as one of the streams that ooze through a swamp.
peza was chattering a question at every one. in the way, pushed aside, or in the way again, he continued to repeat it. "can they take the position? can they take the position? can they take the position?" he was apparently addressing an assemblage of deaf men. every eye was busy watching every hand. the soldiers did not even seem to see the interesting stranger in the white helmet who was crying out so feverishly.
finally, however, the hurried captain of the battery espied him and heeded his question. "no, sir! no, sir! it is impossible," he shouted angrily. his manner seemed to denote that if he had sufficient time he would have completely insulted peza. the latter swallowed the crumb of news without regard to the coating of scorn, and, waving his hand in adieu, he began to run along the crest of the hill toward the part of the greek line against which the attack was directed.
