Longstreet finally accepted the inevitable and went into the trench, his staff pushing in after him. There was no sense in getting killed in this, he realized. Two of his orderlies were already wounded, one with a leg blown off.
The infantry around him nodded in recognition, one of them grinning. 'Too hot out there for ya, General?"
Pete said nothing, just offered a grin. Leaning up against the parapet, he trained his field glasses on the area below. It was hard to see. Everything was cloaked in smoke every bit as thick as the morning mist
The noise was beyond anything he had ever experienced. His own batteries were pouring it back, unmindful of ammunition spent. The captured Union supplies at Westminster guaranteed that for the first time in the war, the Confederate artillery could fire more intensely and longer than its Union counterpart Alexander finally had a chance to fight an artillery duel without rationing out each round and counting each minute of the engagement against a dwindling supply of ammunition. The effect was amazing to Confederate soldiers used to absorbing more than they hit with the artillery arm. The opposite slope was barely visible in the gloom. The only way to mark the battery position was by the continual ripple of flashes racing along the crest of the slope.
A shot came screaming in, men ducking, a spray of mud and dirt washing into the trench, covering Pete. Spitting, he stood up, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the lenses of his field glasses.
Another shot tore past and he heard anguished cries. From the corner of his eye he saw a body collapsing, the man decapitated, comrades crying out in fear and anger.
Looking beyond the dead man, he saw Porter emerging from the smoke, on foot crouched and running low. Venable stood up, shouting for Porter to come over. The artilleryman slid into the trench, breathing hard.
"How goes it?" Pete asked.
'Twelve guns with Cabell and Poague's battalions are wrecks, sir, guns dismounted, a couple of hundred horses dead; casualties with those batteries are high. Looks like they had every gun aimed at them first. Should I get them out?’
Pete shook his head.
"I want them to stay," his words cut short by an airburst exploding nearly straight overhead. "Sir?"
"I want them to stay."
Porter looked at him, as if ready to voice an objection.
"All this smoke, they can barely see. Tell the surviving gunners they must keep firing."
"It will be a slaughter," Porter objected.
"It will be a slaughter wherever their fire is directed. That's Hunt over there, Porter. He knows counterbattery. You pull out and he'll shift fire to the next target I want you to keep those men at it"
"Yes, sir."
"Ammunition?"
"More than enough. I have reserve caissons and an ammunition train a mile back. I'll begin to move them up when we need them."
"Just make sure you have plenty of canister in reserve."
"We will."
"Keep at it Porter."
The gunner wearily stood up and ran back down the line into the middle of the storm.
The fire continued to thunder and roll, reverberating off the hills, the earth beneath Pete shaking and trembling.