Book 10 Chapter 31

THE GENERAL after whom Pierre galloped trotted downhill, turned off sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped into the middle of a battalion of infantry marching ahead of him. He tried to get away from them, turning to left and to right; but there were soldiers everywhere, all with the same anxious faces, preoccupied with some unseen, but evidently serious, business. They all looked with the same expression of annoyed inquiry at the stout man in the white hat, who was, for some unknown reason, trampling them under his horse's feet.

“What does he want to ride into the middle of a battalion for?” one man shouted at him. Another gave his horse a shove with the butt-end of his gun; and Pierre, leaning over on the saddle-bow, and scarcely able to hold in his rearing horse, galloped out to where there was open space in front of the soldiers.

Ahead of him he saw a bridge, and at the bridge stood the soldiers firing. Pierre rode towards them. Though he did not know it, he rode up to the bridge over the Kolotcha, between Gorky and Borodino, which was attacked by the French in one of the first actions. Pierre saw there was a bridge in front of him, and that the soldiers were doing something in the smoke on both sides of the bridge, and in the meadow among the new-mown hay he had noticed the day before. But in spite of the unceasing fire going on there, he had no notion that this was the very centre of the battle. He did not notice the bullets whizzing on all sides, and the shells flying over him; he did not see the enemy on the other side of the river, and it was a long time before he saw the killed and wounded, though many fell close to him. He gazed about him with a smile still on his face.

“What's that fellow doing in front of the line?” some one shouted at him again.

“To the left,” “to the right,” men shouted to him. Pierre turned to the right, and unwittingly rode up to an adjutant of General Raevsky's, with whom he was acquainted. The adjutant glanced wrathfully at Pierre; and he, too, was apparently about to shout at him, but recognising him, he nodded.

“How did you come here?” he said, and galloped on. Pierre, feeling out of place and of no use, and afraid of getting in some one's way again, galloped after him.

“What is it, here? Can I go with you?” he asked.

“In a minute, in a minute,” answered the adjutant, and galloping up to a stout colonel in the meadow, he gave him some message, and then addressed Pierre. “What has brought you here, count?” he said to him, with a smile. “Are you still curious?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pierre. But the adjutant, turning his horse's head, rode on further.

“Here it's all right,” said the adjutant; “but on the left flank, in Bagration's division, it's fearfully hot.”

“Really?” said Pierre. “Where's that?”

“Why, come along with me to the mound; we can get a view from there. But it's still bearable at our battery,” said the adjutant. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes, I'll go with you,” said Pierre, looking about him, trying to see his groom. It was only then for the first time that Pierre saw wounded men, staggering along and some borne on stretchers. In the meadow with the rows of sweet-scented hay, through which he had ridden the day before, there lay motionless across the rows one soldier with his shako off, and his head thrown awkwardly back. “And why haven't they taken that one?” Pierre was beginning, but seeing the adjutant's set face looking in the same direction, he was silent.

Pierre did not succeed in finding his groom, and rode along the hollow with the adjutant towards Raevsky's redoubt. His horse dropped behind the adjutant's, and jolted him at regular intervals.

“You are not used to riding, count, I fancy?” asked the adjutant.

“Oh no, it's all right; but it does seem to be hopping along somehow,” said Pierre, with a puzzled look.

“Ay! … but he's wounded,” said the adjutant, “the right fore-leg above the knee. A bullet, it must have been. I congratulate you, count,” he said, “you have had your baptism of fire now.”

After passing in the smoke through the sixth corps behind the artillery, which had been moved forward and was keeping up a deafening cannonade, they rode into a small copse. There it was cool and still and full of the scents of autumn. Pierre and the adjutant got off their horses and walked on foot up the hill.

“Is the general here?” asked the adjutant on reaching the redoubt.

“He was here just now; he went this way,” some one answered, pointing to the right.

The adjutant looked round at Pierre, as though he did not know what to do with him.

“Don't trouble about me,” said Pierre. “I'll go up on to the mound; may I?”

“Yes, do; you can see everything from there, and it's not so dangerous, and I will come to fetch you.”

Pierre went up to the battery, and the adjutant rode away. They did not see each other again, and only much later Pierre learned that that adjutant had lost an arm on that day.

The mound—afterwards known among the Russians as the battery mound, or Raevsky's battery, and among the French as “the great redoubt,” “fatal redoubt,” and “central redoubt”—was the celebrated spot at which tens of thousands of men were killed, and upon which the French looked as the key of the position.

The redoubt consisted of a mound, with trenches dug out on three sides of it. In the entrenchments stood ten cannons, firing through the gaps left in the earthworks.

In a line with the redoubt on both sides stood cannons, and these too kept up an incessant fire. A little behind the line of cannons were troops of infantry. When Pierre ascended this mound, he had no notion that this place, encircled by small trenches and protected by a few cannons, was the most important spot in the field.

He fancied, indeed (simply because he happened to be there), that it was a place of no importance whatever.

Pierre sat down on the end of the earthwork surrounding the battery and gazed at what was passing around him with an unconscious smile of pleasure. At intervals Pierre got up, and with the same smile on his face walked about the battery, trying not to get in the way of the soldiers, who were loading and discharging the cannons and were continually running by him with bags and ammunition. The cannons were firing continually, one after another, with deafening uproar, enveloping all the country round in clouds of smoke.

In contrast to the painful look of dread in the infantry soldiers who were guarding the battery, here in the battery itself, where a limited number of men were busily engaged in their work, and shut off from the rest of the trench, there was a general feeling of eager excitement, a sort of family feeling shared by all alike.

The appearance of Pierre's unmartial figure and his white hat at first impressed this little group unfavourably. The soldiers cast sidelong glances of surprise and even alarm at him, as they ran by. The senior artillery officer, a tall, long-legged, pock-marked man, approached Pierre, as though he wanted to examine the action of the cannon at the end, and stared inquisitively at him.

A boyish, round-faced, little officer, quite a child, evidently only just out of the cadets' school, and very conscientious in looking after the two cannons put in his charge, addressed Pierre severely.

“Permit me to ask you to move out of the way, sir,” he said. “You can't stay here.”

The soldiers shook their heads disapprovingly as they looked at Pierre. But as the conviction gained ground among them that the man in the white hat was doing no harm, and either sat quietly on the slope of the earthwork, or, making way with a shy and courteous smile for the soldiers to pass, walked about the battery under fire as calmly as though he were strolling on a boulevard, their feeling of suspicious ill-will began to give way to a playful and kindly cordiality akin to the feeling soldiers always have for the dogs, cocks, goats, and other animals who share the fortunes of the regiment. The soldiers soon accepted Pierre in their own minds as one of their little circle, made him one of themselves, and gave him a name: “our gentleman” they called him, and laughed good-humouredly about him among themselves.

A cannon ball tore up the earth a couple of paces from Pierre. Brushing the earth off his clothes, he looked about him with a smile.

“And how is it you're not afraid, sir, upon my word?” said a broad, red-faced soldier, showing his strong, white teeth in a grin.

“Why, are you afraid then?” asked Pierre.

“Why, to be sure!” answered the soldier. “Why, she has no mercy on you. She smashes into you, and your guts are sent flying. Nobody could help being afraid,” he said laughing.

Several soldiers stood still near Pierre with amused and kindly faces. They seemed not to expect him to talk like any one else, and his doing so delighted them.

“It's our business—we're soldiers. But for a gentleman—it's surprising. It's queer in a gentleman!”

“To your places!” cried the little officer-boy to the soldiers, who had gathered round Pierre. It was evidently the first, or at most, the second time, this lad had been on duty as an officer, and so he behaved with the utmost punctiliousness and formality both to the soldiers and his superior officer.

The roar of cannon and the rattle of musketry were growing louder all over the field, especially on the left, where Bagration's earthworks were, but from where Pierre was, hardly anything could be seen for the smoke. Moreover, watching the little fraternal group of men, shut off from all the world on the battery, engrossed all Pierre's attention. His first unconscious delight in the sights and sounds of the battlefield had given way to another feeling, ever since he had seen the solitary dead soldier lying on the hayfield. Sitting now on the slope of the earthwork, he watched the figures moving about him.

By ten o'clock some twenty men had been carried away from the battery; two cannons had been disabled, and more and more frequently shells fell on the battery, and cannon balls came with a hiss and whir, flying out of the distance. But the men on the battery did not seem to notice this: merry chatter and jokes were to be heard on all sides.

“Not this way, my pretty,” shouted a soldier to a grenade that came whistling towards them.

“Give the infantry a turn!” another added with a chuckle, as the grenade flew across and fell among the ranks of the infantry.

“What, see a friend coming, do you?” another soldier jeered at a peasant, who had ducked low at the sight of a flying cannon ball.

Several soldiers gathered together at the earthwork, looking at what was being done in front.

“And they've taken the outposts, see, they're retreating,” they said, pointing over the earthwork.

“Mind your own business,” the old sergeant shouted to them. “If they have come back, it's because they have something to do further back.” And the sergeant, taking one of the soldiers by the shoulder, gave him a shove with his knee. There was the sound of laughter

“Fifth cannon, roll away!” they were shouting on one side.

“Now then, a good pull, all together!” shouted the merry voices of the men charging the cannon.

“Ay, she almost snatched ‘our gentleman's' hat off,” the red-faced, jocose soldier laughed, showing his teeth. “Hey, awkward hussy!” he added reproachfully to a cannon ball that hit a wheel and a man's leg. “Now, you foxes there!” laughed another, addressing the peasant militiamen, who were creeping in and out among the guns after the wounded. “Don't you care for our porridge, hey? Ah, the crows! that pulls them up!” they shouted at the militiamen, who hesitated at the sight of the soldier whose leg had been torn off. “Oo … oo … lad,” they cried, mimicking the peasants, “we don't like it at all, we don't!”

Pierre noticed that after every ball that fell in their midst, after every loss, the general elation became more and more marked.

The closer the storm cloud swooped down upon them, the more bright and frequent were the gleams of latent fire that glowed like lightning flashes on those men's faces, called up, as it were, to meet and resist their danger.

Pierre did not look in front at the field of battle; he took no more interest in what was going on there. He was entirely engrossed in the contemplation of that growing fire, which he felt was burning in his own soul too.

At ten o'clock the infantry, who had been in advance of the battery in the bushes and about the stream Kamenka, retreated. From the battery they could see them running back past them, bearing their wounded on their guns. A general with a suite came on to the redoubt, and after talking to the colonel and looking angrily at Pierre, went away again, ordering the infantry standing behind the battery guarding it to lie down, so as to be less exposed to fire. After that a drum was heard in the ranks of the infantry, more to the right of the battery, and shouts gave the word of command, and from the battery they could see the ranks of infantry moving forward.

Pierre looked over the earthwork. One figure particularly caught his eye. It was the officer, walking backwards with a pale, boyish face. He held his sword downwards and kept looking uneasily round.

The rows of infantry soldiers vanished into the smoke, but they could hear a prolonged shout from them and a rapid musketry fire. A few minutes later crowds of wounded men and a number of stretchers came back from that direction. Shells fell more and more often in the battery. Several men lay on the ground, not picked up. The soldiers bustled more busily and briskly than ever about the cannons. No one took any notice of Pierre now. Twice he was shouted at angrily for being in the way. The senior officers strode rapidly from one cannon to another with a frowning face. The officer-boy, his cheeks even more crimson, gave the soldiers their orders more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers served out the charges, turned round, loaded, and did all their work with exaggerated smartness. They moved as though worked by springs.

The storm cloud was swooping closer; and more brightly than ever glowed in every face that fire which Pierre was watching. He was standing near the senior officer. The little officer-boy ran up, his hand to his shako, saluting his superior officer.

“I have the honour to inform you, colonel, only eight charges are left; do you command to continue firing?” he asked.

“Grapeshot!” the senior officer shouted, looking away over the earthwork.

Suddenly something happened; the boy-officer groaned, and whirling round sat down on the ground, like a bird shot on the wing. All seemed strange, indistinct, and darkened before Pierre's eyes.

One after another the cannon balls came whistling, striking the breastwork, the soldiers, the cannons. Pierre, who had scarcely heard those sounds before, now could hear nothing else. On the right side of the battery, soldiers, with shouts of “hurrah,” were running, not forward, it seemed to Pierre, but back.

A cannon ball struck the very edge of the earthwork, before which Pierre was sitting, and sent the earth flying; a dark, round mass flashed just before his eyes, and at the same instant flew with a thud into something. The militiamen, who had been coming into the battery, ran back.

“All with grapeshot!” shouted the officer.

The sergeant ran up to the officer, and in a frightened whisper (just as at a dinner the butler will sometimes tell the host that there is no more of some wine asked for) said that there were no more charges.

“The scoundrels, what are they about?” shouted the officer, turning to Pierre. The senior officer's face was red and perspiring, his piercing eyes glittered. “Run to the reserves, bring the ammunition-boxes!” he shouted angrily, avoiding Pierre with his eyes, and addressing the soldier.

“I'll go,” said Pierre. The officer, making no reply, strode across to the other side.

“Cease firing … Wait!” he shouted.

The soldier who had been commanded to go for the ammunition ran against Pierre.

“Ah, sir, it's no place for you here,” he said, as he ran away.

Pierre ran after the soldier, avoiding the spot where the boy-officer was sitting.

One cannon ball, a second and a third flew over him, hitting the ground in front, on each side, behind Pierre as he ran down. “Where am I going?” he suddenly wondered, just as he ran up to the green ammunition-boxes. He stopped short in uncertainty whether to go back or forward. Suddenly a fearful shock sent him flying backwards on to the ground. At the same instant a flash of flame dazed his eyes, and a roar, a hiss, and a crash set his ears ringing.

When he recovered his senses, Pierre found himself sitting on the ground leaning on his hands. The ammunition-box, near which he had been, had gone; there were a few charred green boards and rags lying scattered about on the scorched grass. A horse was galloping away with broken fragments of the shafts clattering after it; while another horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering a prolonged, piercing scream.

皮埃尔追随的那个将军，下山以后陡然向左转，从皮埃尔的视线中消失了，皮埃尔驰进前面的步兵行列里。他时左时右地想从他们中间走过去，但到处都是士兵，他们脸上的表情都一样，都显得心事重重，好像在想着一件看不见的，然而看起来是很需要的事情。他们都带着不满的疑问目光看着这个戴白帽子的胖子，不知道他为什么要骑马来踩他们。

“干吗骑着马在队伍里乱闯！”一个人对他喊道。又有一个人用枪托捣他的马，皮埃尔差点儿控制不住受惊的马，俯在鞍桥上，奔驰到士兵前头比较宽敞的地方。

他前面是一座桥，桥旁站着的另外一些士兵在射击。皮埃尔驰到他们跟前，又不知不觉来到科洛恰河桥头，这座在戈尔基和波罗底诺之间的桥，是法国人在战役的第一仗（在占领波罗底诺之后）进攻的目标。皮埃尔看见前面那座桥，在桥两旁和他昨天看见的放着一排排干草的草地上，有些士兵在烟雾中做什么事；这儿虽然枪炮声不断，但是皮埃尔怎么也没想到这个地方就是战场。他没听见四面八方呼啸的子弹声和从他头上飞过的炮弹声，也没看见河对岸的敌人，好久也没注意到离他不远的地方躺着许多死伤的人。他脸上老流露笑容，四处张望着。

“那个人在前沿干什么？”又有人对他喊道。

“靠左走，靠右走。”有些人对他喊道。

皮埃尔向右走去，意外地碰见他认识的拉耶夫斯基将军的副官。这个副官怒目瞥了皮埃尔一眼，显然也想喝斥他，但是认出他后，向他点点头。

“您怎么到这儿来了？”他说了一句，就向前驰去。

皮埃尔觉得这不是他待的地方，且无事可做，又怕妨碍别人，就跟着副官驰去了。

“这儿怎么啦？我可以跟着您吗？”皮埃尔问。

“等一等，等一等。”副官回答，他驰到一个站在草地上的胖上校跟前，向他传达了几句话，然后才转向皮埃尔。

“您怎么到这儿来了？”他含笑对皮埃尔说，“您对什么都好奇啊？”

“是的，是的。”皮埃尔说。那副官勒转马头，向前去了。

“这儿还算好，”副官说，“左翼巴格拉季翁那儿，打得不可开交。”

“真的吗？”皮埃尔问。“那在什么地方？”

“来，咱们一起到土岗上去，从那儿看得很清楚。我们的炮兵阵地还行。”副官说，“怎么，来不来？”

“好，跟您去。”皮埃尔说，他环顾四周，找他的马夫。皮埃尔这才第一次发现受伤的人。他们有的吃力地步行着，有的被抬在担架上。就在他昨天骑马经过的，摆着一排排芳香的干草的草地上，一个士兵一动不动地横躺在干草旁，不自然地歪扭着头，军帽掉在一旁。“为什么不把这个抬走？”皮埃尔刚要问，就看见了也正朝这个方向回头看的副官脸上严厉的表情，他不再问了。

皮埃尔没有找到马夫，他和副官沿着山沟向拉耶夫斯基土岗走去。皮埃尔的马一步一颠地落在副官后面。

“看来您不习惯骑马，伯爵？”副官问。

“不，没什么，不知为什么它老一蹦一蹦的。”皮埃尔莫名其妙地说。

“咳！……它受伤了，”副官说，“右前腿，膝盖上方。大概中弹了。祝贺您，伯爵，”他说，“le　baptême　du　feu．”①

他们在硝烟中经过第六兵团，向前移动了的大炮在后面震耳欲聋地射击着，他们走到一座不大的森林。森林里清凉，寂静，颇有秋意。皮埃尔和副官下了马，徒步走上山岗。

“将军在这儿吗？”登上山岗时，副官问，

“刚才还在这儿，刚走。”人们指着右方，回答道。

副官回头看了看皮埃尔，好像不知现在怎样安排他才好。

“不必费心，”皮埃尔说，“我到土岗上去，可以吗？”

“去吧，从那儿什么都看得见，也不那么危险。过一会儿我去找您。”

皮埃尔向炮兵阵地走去，那副官骑着马走开了。他们再没有见面，很久以后皮埃尔才知道，那个副官在当天失去了一只胳膊。

皮埃尔上去的那个土岗是一处鼎鼎有名的地方（后来俄国人称之为土岗炮垒，或者称为拉耶夫斯基炮垒，法国人称之为la　grande　redoute，la　fatale　redoute，la　redoute　du　centre②），在它周围死了好几万人，法国人认为那是全阵地最重要的据点。

①法语：火的洗礼。

②法语：大多面堡，到命的多面堡，中央多面堡。

这个多面堡就是一座三面挖有战壕的土岗。战壕里设有十门大炮，这时正伸出土墙的炮眼发射着。

由岗两旁的防线另外有一些大炮，也在不断地射击。炮后不远的地方有步兵。皮埃尔登上这座土岗，怎么也没想到，这条挖得不深的壕沟，安置着几门正在发射的大炮，是这次战役中最重要的地点。

相反，皮埃尔觉得，这个地方（正因为他在这个地方）是这次战役中最不重要的地点之一。

皮埃尔登上土岗，在围绕着炮垒的战壕末端坐下，带着情不自禁快活的微笑望着周围发生的事情。皮埃尔有时带着那同样的微笑站起来，尽可能不妨碍那些装炮、转炮、拿着口袋和火药不断在炮垒里从他身边跑过的士兵。这个炮垒的大炮接连不断地射击，震耳欲聋，硝烟笼罩着周围。

与在掩护部队中间的恐怖感觉相反，这儿的炮兵连只有为数不多的人忙碌着，它被一道战壕与别的作战部队分隔开来，——有一种大家都感觉到的有如家庭般的欢乐气氛。

戴着白帽子的皮埃尔，这个非军人装束的人出现，起初使这些人感到不愉快。士兵从他面前走过时，都奇怪地、甚至吃惊地斜着眼看他那副样子。一个高个子、长腿、麻脸的炮兵军官，好像在查看末尾那门大炮的发射情况，走到皮埃尔面前，好奇地看了看他。

一个圆脸膛的小军官，还完全是个孩子，显然是刚从中等军校毕业的，他对交给他的两门大炮指挥得特别起劲，对皮埃尔的态度很严厉。

“先生，请您让开点，”他对他说，“这儿不行。”

士兵们望着皮埃尔，不以为然地摇摇头。但是当大家都相信这个戴白帽子的人不仅不会做什么坏事，而且他或者会安安静静地坐在土堤的斜坡上，或者会带着怯生生的微笑彬彬有礼地给士兵们让路，在炮垒里像在林荫道上似的安闲地在弹雨中散步，这时，对他的敌意的怀疑渐渐变为亲热和调笑的同情，正像士兵们对他们的小狗、公鸡、山羊，总之，是对生活在军队里的动物的同情一样。士兵们很快在心里把皮埃尔纳入他们的家庭，当作自家人，给他起外号。“我们的老爷”，他们这样叫他，在他们中间善意地拿他开玩笑。

一个炮弹在离皮埃尔两步远的地方开了花。他掸掸身上的尘土，微笑着环顾四周。

“您怎么不害怕，老爷，真行！”一个红脸、宽肩膀的士兵露出满嘴磁实的白牙，对皮埃尔说。

“难道你害怕吗？”皮埃尔问。

“哪能不怕？”那个士兵回答。“要知道它是不客气的。扑通一声，五脏六腑就出来了。不能不怕啊。”他笑着说。

有几个士兵带着和颜悦色的笑脸站在皮埃尔身边。他们好像没料到他会像普通人一样说话，这个新发现使他们大为开心。

“我们当大兵的是吃这行饭的。可是一位老爷，真怪。这才是个老爷！”

“各就各位！”那个青年军官对聚集在皮埃尔周围的士兵喊道，这个青年军官不是头一次就是第二次执行任务，对待士兵和达官特别认真和严格。

整个战场枪炮声越来越密，特别是在巴格拉季翁的凸角堡所在的左翼，但在皮埃尔这儿，硝烟弥漫，几乎什么都看不见。而且，皮埃尔正在全神贯注地观察炮垒里这个小家庭的人们（与其他家庭隔绝）。最初由战场的景象和声音引起的兴奋的感情，现在却为另外一种感情所取代，特别是在看见一个孤独地躺在草地上的士兵以后。他现在正坐在战壕的斜坡上观察他周围的人们的脸孔。

快到十点种的时候，有二十来人被抬出炮垒；两门炮被击毁，炮弹越来越密集地落地炮垒上，远方飞来的炮弹发出嗡嗡的呼啸声。但是炮垒里呆久了的人们好像不理会这些，到处都听见谈笑声和戏谑声。

“馅儿饼，热的！”一个士兵对呼啸而飞来的炮弹喊道。

“不是到这儿！是冲步兵去的！”另一个士兵观察到炮弹飞过去，落到掩护的部队里，哈哈地笑着又说。

“怎么，是你的熟人吗？”又一个士兵对那个炮弹飞过时蹲下去的农夫讥笑说。

有几个士兵聚集在胸墙边上观看前面发生了什么事。

“散兵线撤了，瞧，往后退了。”他们指着胸墙外说。

“管自己的事，”一个老军士喝斥他们，“往后撤退，当然是后边有事。”那个军士抓住一个士兵的肩膀，用膝盖顶了他一下，引起一阵哄笑。

“快到五号炮位，把它推上来！”人们从一边喊道。

“一下子来，齐心协力，来个纤夫式的。”传来更换炮位的欢快的喊声。

“哟，差一点把我们老爷的帽子打掉了。”那个红脸的滑稽鬼呲着牙嘲笑皮埃尔。“咳，孬种。”他对着一颗打在炮轮上和一个人腿上的炮弹骂道。“看你们这些狐狸！”另一个士兵嘲笑着那些弓着身子进炮垒里来抬伤员的后备军人说。“这碗粥不合你们的胃口？哼，简直是乌鸦，吓成那个样子！”他们对后备军人们喊道，那些后备军人站在被打掉一条腿的士兵面前犹豫起来。

“这呀，那呀，小伙子呀，”他们学那些后备军人说话，“很讨厌这个！”

皮埃尔看出，每当落下一颗炮弹，受到损失，大家就越发活跃，越发激动。

在这些人脸上，正如从即将到来的暴风雨的乌云里，越来越频繁，越来越明亮地爆发出隐藏在内心的熊熊烈火时闪电，仿佛要与正在发生的事相对抗。

皮埃尔不看前面的战场，对那儿发生的事也不关心了，他全神贯注地观察越来越旺的烈火，他觉得他的灵魂里也在燃烧着同样的烈火。

十点钟时，原来在炮垒前面矮林里和在长缅长河沿岸的士兵撤退了。从炮垒上可以看见，他们用步枪抬着伤员，从炮垒旁边向后跑。有一个将军带着随从登上土岗，同上校谈了一会儿，忿忿地看了看皮埃尔，就走下去了，他命令站在炮垒后面的士兵卧倒，以减少危险。接着从炮垒右方步兵队伍中，可以听见擂鼓和发口令的声音，从炮垒上可以看见那些步兵正在向前移动。

皮埃尔从土墙往外望去，有一个人尤其引起了他的注意。这是一个面色苍白的年轻军官，他提着佩刀，一边往后退，一边不安地向四处张望。

步兵队伍被浓烟淹没了，传来拉长的喊声和密集的步枪射击声。几分钟后，成群的伤员和抬担架的后备军人从那儿走过来。落到炮垒上的炮弹更密了。有几个躺着的人没被抬走。大炮近旁的士兵更忙碌，更活跃了。已经无人注意皮埃尔了。有一、两次人们愤怒地喝斥他挡了路。那个年长的军官沉着脸，迈着急促的大步，从一门大炮到另一门大炮来回地走动。那个年轻军官脸更红了，更起劲地指挥士兵。士兵们传递炮弹，转动炮身，装炮弹，把自己份内的事做得紧凑而且干净利落。他们来回奔忙，像是在弹簧上跳跃似的。

预示着暴风雨的乌云降临了，所有人的面孔都燃烧着熊熊的烈火。皮埃尔正注视着这越烧越旺的烈火。他所在那个年长的军官身旁。那个年轻的军官跑到年长的军官跟前，把手举到帽檐上。

“上校先生，我有幸向您报告，只有八发炮弹了，还继续发射吗？”他问。

“霰弹！”那个正看着土墙外的年长军官没有答话，喊了一声。

突然发生了什么事：那个年轻军官哎哟一声，弯着腰，坐到了地上，有如一只中弹的飞鸟。在皮埃尔眼里，一切都变得奇怪、模糊、暗淡。

炮弹一个接一个飞来，打到土墙上，打到士兵身上，大炮上。皮埃尔原先没有理会这些声音，现在听到的只有这一种声音了。炮垒右侧，士兵一边喊着“乌拉”，一边跑，皮埃尔觉得他们仿佛不是向前，而是在向后跑。

一颗炮弹打在皮埃尔面前的土墙边上，尘土撒落下来，他眼前有一个黑球闪了一下，只一瞬间，扑通一声，打到了什么东西上。正要走进炮垒来的后备军人，往后跑了。

“都用霰弹！”一个军官喊道。

一个军士跑到军官面前，惊慌地低声说，已经没有火药了（好像一个管家报告说，宴会上需要的酒已经没有了）。

“一班强盗，都在干什么！”军官一面喊，一面转向皮埃尔。那个年长的军官脸通红，冒着汗，皱起眉头，眼里闪着光。“快跑步到后备队去取弹药箱！”他对他的士兵大喝一声，愤愤地把目光避开皮埃尔。

“我去。”皮埃尔说。那个军官没答理他，迈开大步向另一边走去。

“不要放……等着！”他喊道。

那个奉命去取弹药箱的士兵，撞了皮埃尔一下。

“唉，老爷，这不是您待的地方。”他说着就跑下去了。皮埃尔绕过那青年军官坐着的地方跟着他跑了。

一颗、两颗、三颗，炮弹从他头上飞过，落在他四周。皮埃尔跑到下面。“我到哪儿去？”忽然想起的时候，他已经跑到绿色弹药箱前面。他犹犹豫豫地停下来，不知是退回去还是向前去。突然，一个可怕的气浪把他抛到后面地上。就在那一瞬间，一团火光对他一闪，同时：轰鸣、爆炸、呼啸，震得他的耳朵嗡嗡作响。

皮埃尔清醒过来，用两手撑着地坐在那儿；他身旁的那个弹药箱不见了；只有烧焦的碎木片和破布散落在烧焦的草地上，一匹马拖着散了架的车辕，从他身旁飞跑过去，另一匹马，也像皮埃尔一样，躺在地上，发出凄厉的长啸。