To either flank of this hole, the survivors of the two divisions coming from Second and Twelfth Corps surged onward, in many places storming over the forward edge of the line held by their comrades of the first wave, formations breaking up as men slowed to move around the bodies, which at some points seemed almost to have been laid down in perfect lines.

The charge was getting closer to the Confederate lines, the blaze of rifle fire atop the crest a continual thunder sweeping up and down the length of the parapet On the extreme left, this second wave finally broke over the bastion built around the ruins of the mill complex, the Confederate regiment within swarmed under in a frenzy of clubbed muskets and bayonet thrusts, the survivors scrambling out the back of the bastion and running up to the main line, their enraged attackers coming on behind them.

If someone could have hovered far above the battle and -not seen the minute details, they might have assumed that this charge would indeed break over the top. Yet within the ranks of the charge, the sheer volume of fire coming down upon them was having a deadly effect It seemed that with every step another man went down in every company of every regiment Officers screamed themselves hoarse shouting for the men to keep closing on the colors, to follow the colors, the torn flags in many places nothing more than dim shadows in a surreal Stygian twilight of smoke and fire.

The air actually felt hot from all the fire. Men's legs felt like rubber both from fear and from exhaustion after the long run up the slope. The pace slowed and yet it was so maddeningly close, not fifty yards away in many places; one bulge, led by a couple of Ohio regiments of Carroll's brigade of Hays's division of the Second Corps, literally got up to the edge of the breastworks and there leveled their rifles, firing a scathing volley into the enemy from less than fifteen feet away. This caused a momentary breech in the line, the surviving Confederates diving down for cover, or breaking, pulling back out of the trench.

The flag bearer of one of the Ohio regiments stood atop the breastworks, waving the national colors before going down, struck by three rounds in a matter of seconds. As he fell, the colors dropped into the trench, and the Ohioans piled in, desperate to retrieve their precious colors.

In many places regimental commanders called for volley fire, slower perhaps than independent fire, but far more devastating psychologically when striking into an enemy so close that you literally could catch glimpses of the whites of their eyes.

Along the Confederate front a madness took hold as well. Gone was any sense of compassion, of admiration of the higher ideals that many spoke of. Now it was a killing frenzy, a rage at those who kept pressing in, not letting them rest not letting them breathe just a few gulpfuls of fresh air. Men began to curse wildly, slamming charges down barrels thick with gummy residue after having fired thirty to forty • rounds or more.

Ammunition carriers staggered down the line, passing out packets of ten cartridges, which men stuffed into their pockets. A shell struck one of these carrying parties, the two men dying instantly, the thousand rounds in the heavy wooden box going off like firecrackers.

Out in the open field in front of the trench the volleys came pouring back, men loading, some trying to stagger forward a few more feet, then raising rifles to fire again. In spite of the steady rain now coming down, the blanketing fog of smoke choked the field in blindness.

And then the third wave came up the slope, men of Gibbon's division, tough professionals, men of the First Minnesota, the Nineteenth Maine, the Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania, on their right flank Lockwood's brigade.

They slammed up against the backs of the second wave, swarming in, ranks mingling, men shoving each other to step to the front to fire, others then pushing past them.

Only paces away, men of McLaws's brigades; Pender's division; and Pettigrew's, who had been so badly mauled only three days before in front of Gettysburg; Anderson's division, which had gone in on that final doomed charge up Cemetery Hill, stood in place, firing back. Both sides were screaming defiance, firing blindly, more than one man collapsing when shot in the back of the head by a comrade only a few feet in the rear. The line in front of the battery bastions was nearly swept clean; gunners struggled to swing pieces around to pour canister into the flanks, while shot from Henry's batteries continued to pour down.

A brigade of Early's division, not yet engaged, finally swarmed out of their trenches, moving to enfilade the attacking columns, an action that triggered Sickles to order one of his divisions forward to try and catch this flanking column in its flank, though it would be long minutes before Sickles's men could cross the open meadows and come up the slope to engage.

At several points, to the left of the bastion held by Cabell's gunners, and a quarter mile farther down just to the flank of Poague's old position, the Union charge gained the trench, the Confederates grimly giving the few feet of ground, now standing in the open, firing down into the trench, Union soldiers hugging the muddy ground, loading while lying on their backs, rolling up, half standing to fire, then sliding back down.

Over it all a slow but steady rain was now falling, the ground beneath the feet of the combatants churned to a thick mud, wounded falling into it, those in the bottom of the trench getting trampled under, some of them choking to death before bleeding out

The battle hung poised; seconds were like years, minutes

centuries

The battle was poised on the most delicate of balances. An officer panicking, a flag bearer falling, perhaps even one man turning, screaming that all was lost, could set off a stampede on either side. In turn, a few men were determined to hang on. An officer oblivious of risk and riding forward, a man who could inspire and lead, could make the decisive difference.

For the Confederates, at that moment, there were four profound advantages, which were at that same instant distinct and terrible disadvantages for the Union. The Confederates had not been forced to advance, all they had had to do was wait, saving their already half-depleted strength for the supreme moment. They were on the high ground, with all the natural advantages that implied, and along most of the front Except where several small breaches had been cut into their line, they were still in the trench or the battery bastions, while their foes were downslope and in the open… and finally, they had a commander who at that moment was inspired to lead, to make the decisions that had to be made second by second. The psychological advantage thus gained was tremendous.

The supreme moment was at hand before Union Mills.

Even as the two breakthroughs cracked into the Confederate line, Lee was galloping back to the rear, not in retreat but with orders, his staff at least grateful that for a few minutes he was relatively out of harm's way except for the continual rain of shot arcing down from the Union batteries.

Rodes's heavy division, minus one brigade under O'Neal, which was up on the forward line, had sat out the bombardment and first assault, lying down in a field of waist-high com, four hundred yards away.

The first ranks could see Lee riding up, waving his straw hat, and the men were instantly up.

"Lee! Lee! Lee!"

Rodes, mounted and at the front of his division, snapped off a salute.

"General, send your men in now!" Lee shouted. "Reclose the line and then push those people back!"