Captain Hoxa sat astride the raised #3 gun barrel hour after hour in silence. The air in the valley resonated with the claps of approaching thunder. Fat, cold raindrops began to spatter against hard guns and dirty uniforms. Every eye in the company was on Hoxa. The level of apprehension rose in camp each time he made the slightest move.

"Lower me," he said. He grabbed the end of the barrel for support. "Somebody give me a handful of mud." The members of the third crew looked at each other confused. "Mud. Somebody give me some mud."

"I know what he wants," the breech operator of Vasili's second squad said. He jogged down to the river bank and brought back two handfuls of wet clay mud. Hoxa reached down from his perch and took a small amount with his fingertips. He shaped it into a thumb-sized roll, broke it in two and inserted the mud plugs into his ears. Everyone else immediately imitated.

"Raise me."

The breech operator cranked slowly on the control that gently elevated the barrel.

"Second squad, raise to 23 degrees and load!" Hoxa barked.

Vasili handed a white phosphorus round to the loader, who carefully inserted it up into the open orifice at the back of the barrel. He withdrew his hand and the breech operator closed and locked the 4 inch thick, round breech door. The trigger man wrapped the cord around his hand twice to take the slack out. "Ready Captain."

The wind blew strong from the south, running in front of the storm as a wave rises before a steaming ship. The lightning, thunder, and rain were directly on top of the French camp, exactly where Hoxa wanted them. "Fire for effect!"

Vasili covered his ears with gloved hands. The trigger man jerked hard on the cord that tripped the firing pin. A six-foot tongue of orange flame jumped out of the barrel into the night sky as the shell screamed toward the dying French fires. The echoes from the violent report had died down when the round impacted two miles away. Everyone in the company watched in awe. The exploding phosphorous ignited as soon as it hit the atmosphere, leaving ghostly white smoke trails as the burning fragments fanned up and out in long graceful arcs like some obscene firework.

"Two degrees down," shouted the captain, binoculars still held up to his eyes. The crew reloaded. The breech operator made four quick turns on the pitch crank and the barrel edged closer to the ground. "Ready!"

"Fire!"

The shell impacted after six long eerie seconds.

"Everyone draw a bead on that burst and set for 21 degrees. High explosive rounds except for number two." Hoxa said climbing down off the #3 gun.

"Ready," cried each of the crews in turn.

"Fire."