The pitch of the barrels rose steadily, heralding the approach of the French infantrymen. The Cherna river had risen even higher, eliminating any idea of retreat. The gun angle rose from fifty degrees through sixty to seventy-five degrees. Each shell they fired exploded closer to their position. The white phosphorous trails jumped out from the center like a blooming flower. Three and four at a time, the ghostly patterns leaped to life in front of them like giant white spiders, devouring everything caught underneath them.

Captain Hoxa continued to adjust fire while looking through the binoculars. "Up two degrees! Up one! Up one!" The operators raised the pitch until the guns were fully erect. Topped out, the shells arced a mile upward but landed a mere three-hundred yards away. Hoxa turned and looked up against the rain at the raised muzzles, disgusted that they would go no higher. He looked up to heaven as though he wished he could shoot the shells straight up.

"Ready!" shouted the four breech men at once. The hair stood up on the back of Vasili's neck. His eyes locked with Hoxa's just as a flash hit the number three barrel behind the captain’s head, illuminating everything. Hoxa's face contorted as he mouthed the command to fire, his speech stolen. The deafening crash of thunder that immediately followed the lightning seemed to jump out of his open mouth. Vasili stood transfixed by the scene, studying every detail of Hoxa's menacing face; the caked mud on his unwavering brow, the lean jaw of determination, the steady eye of wrath.

The blast knocked the breech operator and trigger man back several feet. The loader and ordnance handler were miraculously unaffected. They stood stunned and confused about what hit them.

"Reload and fire at will!" Hoxa shouted before turning to monitor the exploding shells. "Hurry boys! Hurry!" he shouted while looking through the field glasses. "It's going to be close!"

The explosions held three hundred yards out for several minutes as the neighboring companies brought all guns to bear on those pitiful acres. The captain scanned the hellish horizon, slowly panning back and forth with the binoculars. Vasili looked up and noticed the captain's attention had fixed on something. Hoxa dropped the glasses, whipped out his pistol and took off running toward the curtain of fire, screaming and aiming with his pistol as he went. Vasili was the only one who noticed Hoxa leave. The other soldiers kept loading and unloading at the same feverish pace.

The storm eased just as dawn broke over the ridge. The rate of fire slowed due to sheer exhaustion, then stopped altogether. The soldiers that still had their earplugs in removed them. It was quiet and the scent of gunpowder lingered in the morning air. Survivors silently milled around the camp surveying the damage and the dead. Several minutes passed before anyone spoke. "Where's the captain?" asked a soldier. He was nowhere in sight.