Gradually their
cries became audible and swelled louder and louder like the far barking
of dogs. When they called "Avanti!" it was a piercing cry, and when the
call "Coraggio!" went through their lines, it changed to a dull,
thunderous roll.
The entire company now stood close-packed up against the slope of the
trench, their faces as of stone, restrained, pale as chalk, with lipless
mouths, each man's gun in position--a single beast of prey with a
hundred eyes and arms.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Lieutenant Weixler's voice
yelled without pause through the trench. His command seemed to lay its
grasp on every throat and to hold the fingers moveless that greedily
clasped the triggers. The first hand grenade flew into the trench. The
captain saw it coming, then saw a man loosen from the mass, reel toward
the dugout with outstretched arms, bending over, a veil of blood
covering his face. Then--at last!--it was a relief--came the beating
of the machine guns, and at once the rifles went off, too, like the
raging of an angry pack. A cold, repulsive greed lay on all faces. Some
of the men cried out aloud in their hate and rage when new groups
emerged out there behind the thinning rows. The barrels of the rifles
glowed with heat--and still the rumbling cries of "Coraggio!" came
nearer and nearer.
As though in a frenzy of insanity, the silhouettes hopped about out
there, sprang into the air, fell, and rolled over each other, as though
the war dance had only just reached the climax of its paroxysm.
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