Some paused, doubled over, and then, with iron will, staggered back up, pressing forward, dropping after a dozen feet Those hit but not too bad, perhaps with an arm broken, would stop, look down, and grin. Honor had been fulfilled; they could now walk back past the provost guards to the rear, who would shout the demand, "Show blood," and now blood could be shown and they were safe. Many would be in shock, not even feeling pain until they staggered into the hospital area and saw the surgeons at work.

Some simply sat down, not quite comprehending, looking down at a shattered leg, seeing the bright blood spurting out knowing what it meant and then quietly lying back, gaze fixed on the heavens. More than one would be found later clutching a Bible or a daguerreotype of wife and children.

"Close up! Keep moving! Guide on the colors!"

The line staggered, slowed for an instant and then forged ahead. The front contracted slightly as regiments aligned to their centers, the first gaps opening between formations.

The first wave began to hit the creek, some jumping at the narrow points, others slipping down into the cool, muddy water, churning it up. Dozens of men, hit in the first volley, reached the bank and then collapsed, more than one of them to drown in water so shallow that a toddler could have splashed his way to safety.

Alignment of the first wave began to waver, a few stopping at the stream, ducking down behind the relative safety of the low bank, file closers slapping them across the backs with the flat of swords or musket butts, pushing them up. The flag bearers of the thirty-two lead regiments, almost to a man, pressed forward, caught up in that strange euphoria that seized men of their kind, men who fought for the privilege to carry the sacred totem of their regiment, of their Republic. Colors held high, they defiantly pressed forward.

Directly to their front, through the coiling wisps of smoke from the first volley, they could see arms moving rythmically up and down as the rebel infantry tore open cartridges with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, pushed greased ball into the muzzle, pulled ramrods out from under the barrel, or now, in many cases, retrieved them where the long, thin steel rods had been jammed into the dirt of the earthworks. Arms rose up, then pushed down, ramrod slamming rounds down to the breech of the barrel. Rammers were then stuck back into the earthen bank, rifle raised, half cocked, percussion cap fumbled out of capbox on the belt, cap set on nipple, and then gun raised up to the vertical, signaling that all was ready. After thirty seconds nearly every gun was poised at the vertical.

"Battalions, take aim!"

Again the barrels were leveled. The advancing blue wall now seemed to hunker down, men advancing with heads lowered, leaning forward, as if going into the teeth of a gale.

"Fire!"

A couple of hundred more dropped. Not as many as from the first volley, which was always the most accurate because the field was clear of smoke, and the loading had been done more carefully. In the excitement more than one rebel had pushed the ball down first rather than the powder or had fumbled the percussion cap and now snapped the hammer down on an empty nipple, and the smoke in places obscured the view, but the range was closer as well by forty yards or so.

Men collapsed into the high, wet grass, the dirt starting to chum up, more men losing shoes, some dropping rifles when a comrade in the front rank two feet ahead came slamming back into them. Flags dropped, for always it was the flag bearers who were special targets. Within seconds, though, eager hands grabbed the colors, hoisting them back up.

"Close on the colors! Keep moving, men! For God's sake keep moving!"

To some the assault might appear to be an exercise in madness, men advancing shoulder to shoulder against a deadly fire, standing erect, out in the open… and yet there was a terrible cold logic to it all, the idea of bringing a maximum number of men, in a close compact line, into effective combat range, and then either charge over the opponent with fixed bayonets or drive him back by concentrated musketry. The hard part was to keep the men moving, to keep them moving forward and not let the charge grind to a halt out in the middle of the field.

"On the double, quick time… march!"

The pace accelerated, from 110 yards a minute to twice that. Start it too early and the men would be winded when the climatic moment came, a fine equation balanced against how many would fall getting there at the slower pace.

The forward line surged ahead, those drummer boys allowed to go in on the advance, beating out the tattoo, officers waving swords, flag bearers setting the pace, the steady rulerlike line now beginning to break apart into thirty-two inverted V formations, each regiment closing in on their colors with the flags at the apex, flanks lagging a bit behind.

'Take aim!"

In places the range was down to 30 yards. Over on the right, with Slocum's brigades, the men were still 150 yards short of the enemy line.

"Fire!"

More fell, the charge staggering from the blow, collapsing bodies tumbling into the second line, men tangling up, flags going down.

Finally the tension was too much, and as in nearly every charge, the momentum began to slow. The enemy was so close that in the swirling smoke individual features could be seen, an officer, filled with battle madness, standing atop the low parapet, old men with graying beards standing alongside fresh-faced boys, all of them tearing cartridges, loading.

One of Zook's regiments came to a halt, a few men raising their rifles, firing, and then in seconds the entire Union front, spread across that open plain, leveled rifles and fired, the volley an explosive tearing roar that raced up and down the line, drawn out for long seconds, the shock wave from the discharge thumping across the fields, the sound of it mingling in with Henry's cannons, which had resumed their bombardment, the artillery fire aimed high to pass over the advancing lines and strike the crest of the hill.

Another thunder was adding in as well. The first of the replacement batteries reoccupying the bastions of Poague and Cabell were swinging into action. Gunners unhooking the trail of their pieces from caissons, manhandling the one-ton weapons forward, pulling aside bodies, smashed caissons, and in more than one case simply pulling the gun up and over the prone body of a dead horse. The first of the guns recoiled, throwing case shot down into the third wave of troops, who were still on the downward slope.

The Confederates in the forward trench went into independent fire at will, men loading furiously, barely aiming, just pointing into the clouds of smoke, some trying to sight on the flash of a rifle discharging in the gloom. More than a few loaded, forgot to cap the nipple, pulling the trigger then grounding their weapon and pushing another load in. A tragic few, after doing this half a dozen times, would successfully cap and when they squeezed the trigger, the breech of the gun burst, blinding or killing the man behind it

A searing fire raced up and down the lines, men firing individually, some officers maintaining company volleys, a couple of regiments firing all at once, these volleys of three to four hundred rifles at once a sharp crack above the rolling cacophony. Upward of twelve thousand rifle balls were crisscrossing the held every minute.

Logic would seem to dictate that after a minute no one would be left alive, and yet for each volley of a hundred fired, maybe only three or five rounds would find their target. Rifles were aimed too high or too low; smoke covered the field so that it was rare to clearly see what one was shooting at A strange illusion was created with the high grass. Rifle balls, aimed low, would come zinging through the grass, a line of stalks leaping into the air with its passage, the streak racing straight at a man, sometimes passing between his legs, as if a deadly invisible snake were flying past