Wymond Carey, "No. 101" (1905)
“ Volley upon volley shivers the advancing files; they tumble in bloody swathes; they stop, [130] recoil, reel. Disorder is spreading, shouts and cries and the pile of dead grow bigger, and yard by yard to those infernal drums roll on the red lines. They are past the earthworks. On they come—a volley—on—on—steady, slow, irresistible. Ten minutes more and we are lost!Fierce trumpets through the smoke, the thunder of cavalry charging. The Maréchal has launched them, and not a moment too soon. The English halt—wait—fire. Horses and men crumble up—dissolve. ”
