PIERRE, beside himself with terror, jumped up and ran back to the battery as the one refuge from the horrors encompassing him.

Just as Pierre ran up to the redoubt, he noticed that there was no sound of firing from the battery, but that there were men there doing something or other. He had not time to make out what men they were. He caught sight of the senior officer lying with his back towards him on the earth wall, as though gazing intently at something below; and he noticed one soldier, who, tearing himself away from the men who were holding him, shouted “Mates!” and he saw something else that was strange.

But before he had time to grasp that the colonel had been killed, that the soldier shouting “Mates!” was a prisoner, another soldier was stabbed in the back by a bayonet before his eyes. He had hardly run up into the redoubt when a thin man with a yellow, perspiring face, in a blue uniform, ran up to him with a sword in his hand, shouting something. Pierre, instinctively defending himself, as they came full tilt against each other, put out his hands and clutched the man (it was a French officer) by the shoulder and the throat. The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by the collar.

For several seconds both gazed with frightened eyes at each other's unfamiliar-looking faces, and both were bewildered, not knowing what they were doing or what they were to do. “Am I taken prisoner or am I taking him prisoner?” each of them was wondering. But the French officer was undoubtedly more disposed to believe he was taken prisoner, because Pierre's powerful hand, moved by instinctive terror, was tightening its grip on his throat. The Frenchman tried to speak, when suddenly a cannon ball flew with a fearful whiz close over their heads, and it seemed to Pierre that the Frenchman's head had been carried off by it, so swiftly had he ducked it.

Pierre, too, ducked and let go with his hands. Giving no more thought to the question which was taken prisoner, the Frenchman ran back to the battery, while Pierre dashed downhill, stumbling over the dead and wounded, who seemed to him to be clutching at his feet.

But before he had reached the bottom he was met by dense crowds of Russian soldiers, who, stumbling against each other and tripping up, were running in wild merriment towards the battery. (This was the attack of which Yermolov claimed the credit, declaring that it was only his valour and good luck that made this feat of arms possible; it was the attack in which he is supposed to have strewn the redoubt with the St. George's crosses that were in his pocket.)

The French, who had captured the battery, fled. Our soldiers pursued them so far beyond the battery that they were with difficulty stopped. They were bringing the prisoners down from the battery, among them a wounded French general, surrounded by officers. Crowds of wounded, both French and Russians—among them men Pierre recognised—walked, or crawled, or were borne on stretchers from the battery, their faces distorted by suffering.

Pierre went up into the battery, where he had spent over an hour; and found no one left of that little fraternal group that had accepted him as one of themselves. There were many dead there, whom he had not seen before. But several he recognised. The boy-officer was still sitting huddled up in a pool of blood at the edge of the earth wall. The red-faced, merry soldier was still twitching convulsively; but they did not carry him away.

Pierre ran down the slope.

“Oh, now they will stop it, now they will be horrified at what they have done!” thought Pierre, aimlessly following the crowds of stretchers moving off the battlefield.

But the sun still stood high behind the veil of smoke, and in front, and even more so to the left, about Semyonovskoye, there was still a turmoil seething in the smoke; and the roar of cannon and musketry, far from slackening, grew louder and more desperate, like a man putting all his force into one deafening outcry as a last despairing effort.

皮埃尔吓掉了魂，跳起来就向炮垒跑，好像从包围他的恐怖中逃回唯一的避难所似的。

皮埃尔一进战壕就发现炮垒里已经没有射击声了，只是有些人正在那儿做着什么。皮埃尔没搞懂这是些什么人。他看见老上校背对着他趴在土墙上，仿佛在察看地下什么东西似的，他还看见他曾经见过的一个士兵一边向前想挣脱那几个抓住他胳膊的人，一边喊道：“弟兄们！”他还看见另外一些奇怪的事情。

但是，他还来不及明白上校就被打死了，那个喊“弟兄们”的士兵也被俘虏，他亲眼看着刺刀捅进了另一个士兵的后背。他刚跑进战壕，就有一个又瘦又黄、汗流满面，身穿制服，手持军刀的人，喊叫着向他冲过来。由于对方的冲撞，皮埃尔本能地自卫起来，他们彼此都没有看清楚，就撞到一起，皮埃尔伸出两手，一只抓住那人的肩头（那人是法国军官），另一只掐住他的喉咙。那个军官丢掉军刀，抓住皮埃尔的脖领。

有好几秒钟，他们俩都用惊慌的目光打量对方陌生的面孔，都不明白他们在做什么，也不知道应当怎么办。“是我被俘了呢，还是他被我俘虏了？”他们俩都这样想。但很显然，那个法国军官比较倾向于认为他是被俘了，因为皮埃尔那只有力的手，由于本能的恐惧的驱使，把他的喉咙掐得越来越紧。那个法国人正想说话，忽然，在他们的头上低低地，可怕地飞过一颗炮弹，皮埃尔仿佛觉得法国军官的脑袋被削掉了似的，因为他很快把头低了下去。

皮埃尔也低下头，松开两手。那个法国人不再思索谁俘虏了谁，就跑回炮垒去了，皮埃尔跑下山岗，在死伤的人身上磕磕绊绊，好像那些死伤的人老想抓住他的腿似的。但是他还没来得及下去，迎面就跑来一大群密密麻麻的俄国士兵，他们呐喊着，快活地，拼命地、跌跌绊绊地往炮垒上跑。（这就是叶尔莫洛夫邀功的一次冲锋，据他说，多亏他的勇敢和幸运，才发动那次冲锋，为了激励士气，据说在冲锋时，他把衣袋里所有的圣乔治勋章都扔到土岗上让士兵去拿。）

一度占领炮垒的法国人逃跑了。我们的队伍喊着“乌拉”驱逐法国人，追得远远地离开了炮垒，没法叫住他们。

从炮垒上带下来一群俘虏，其中有一个负伤的将军，军官们把他围起来。成群的伤员，有皮埃尔认识的，也有不认识的，有俄国人，也有法国人，他们走着，爬着，用担架抬着，从炮垒上下来，他们的面孔由于痛苦都变了形。皮埃尔登上他刚才在那儿呆了一个多小时的土岗，从那个他被接纳进去的家庭小圈子里，已经找不到一个人了。这里有许多他不认识的死人。但他也认出了几个。那个青年军官仍旧弯着腰坐在土墙边一摊血泊里。那个红脸的士兵还在抽搐，但没有人来抬他。

皮埃尔跑下了土岗。

“不，现在他们该住手了，现在他们该为他们做过的事感到恐惧了！”皮埃尔想道漫无目的地朝着那撤离战场的成群的担架队走去。

被浓烟遮着的太阳仍高高地照耀着，在前面，特别是在谢苗诺夫斯科耶村的左方，有什么东西在烟雾里沸腾着，隆隆的枪炮声、炮弹的爆炸声，不但没有减弱，反而加强了，正像一个人竭尽全力地拼命叫喊一样。