Having descended the hill, the general after whom Pierre is galloping turns sharply left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, gallops in among ranks of infantry. He tries to pass in front or to either side, but there are soldiers everywhere, all with the same preoccupied expression, busy with some unseen but evidently important task. They gaze with the same dissatisfied look at this stout man in a white hat who for some unknown reason threatens to trample them. Why ride into the middle of the battalion? One prods his horse with a musket butt. Pierre, bending over the saddlebow, hardly able to control the shying horse, gallops to a free space. A bridge is ahead, soldiers firing. Without being aware of it he has come to the bridge across the Kolocha between Gorki and Borodino, which the French, having occupied Borodino, are attacking in the first phase of the battle. Despite incessant firing he has no idea that this is the field of battle. He does not notice bullets whistling, projectiles flying over him, the enemy on the other side, or, for a long time, the killed and wounded, though many fall near him. He looks about with a smile that does not leave his face. To the left! Keep to the right! He unexpectedly encounters one of Raevski's adjutants, who looks angrily, then on recognizing him nods. How have you got here? Still inquisitive? Here it's tolerable, but with Bagration on the left they're getting it frightfully hot. Come along to our knoll. In our battery it is still bearable. Only now Pierre notices wounded staggering or carried on stretchers. On the meadow he rode over yesterday a soldier lies athwart the scented hay, head thrown awkwardly back, shako off. Why haven't they carried him away? He checks himself at the adjutant's stern look. He does not find his groom. The horse lags and jolts. Why, she's wounded! In the off foreleg above the knee. A bullet, no doubt. I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of fire!
They ride in smoke past the Sixth Corps, behind artillery moved forward, deafening them, then dismount in a small wood, cool and quiet with a scent of autumn, and walk up the hill. The general was here a minute ago. Don't trouble about me, Pierre says. I'll go up onto the knoll. They do not meet again, and only much later does Pierre learn that the adjutant lost an arm that day. The knoll is that famous one afterwards known to the Russians as the Knoll Battery or Raevski's Redoubt, and to the French as la grande redoute, la fatale redoute, la redoute du centre, around which tens of thousands fell, and which the French regarded as the key to the whole position. A knoll, trenches on three sides, ten guns firing through openings, other guns in line, infantry a little behind. Because he happens to be there Pierre thinks it one of the least significant parts of the field. He sits at one end of a trench with an unconsciously happy smile, trying not to obstruct men loading, hauling guns, running with bags and charges. In contrast with the dread of the infantrymen in support, here a small number busy at their work, separated by a trench, experience a common family feeling of animation. His nonmilitary figure in a white hat makes an unpleasant impression at first. A tall pockmarked senior officer looks at him with curiosity. A young round-faced officer, quite a boy, just out of the Cadet College, addresses him sternly: permit me to ask you to stand aside. Soldiers shake their heads. But when they see that the man in the white hat does no harm, sits with a shy smile or paces under fire as calmly as on a boulevard, hostile distrust changes into kindly bantering sympathy, such as soldiers feel for dogs, cocks, and goats that live with the regiment. They adopt him, nickname him our gentleman, and make kindly fun of him. A shell tears up the earth two paces away; he brushes earth from his clothes with a smile. And how's it you're not afraid, sir, really now? Are you afraid, then? What else do you expect? She has no mercy. When she comes spluttering down, out go your innards. There's a gentleman for you!
By ten o'clock some twenty men have been carried away, two guns smashed, cannon balls falling more frequently, spent bullets buzzing. Merry voices and jokes continue. A live one! Not this way! To the infantry! Are you bowing to a friend? They've withdrawn the front line. Mind your own business, an old sergeant shouts, shoving a man with his knee. Now then, all together, like bargees! Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman's hat off! Awkward baggage! So this gruel isn't to your taste? Oh, you crows! After every ball that hits, and after every loss, the liveliness increases. As flames from an approaching thundercloud, lightning of hidden fire glows in their faces. Pierre is entirely absorbed in watching this fire, which he feels flaming up in his own soul. Infantry among the bushes along the Kamenka retreat, running back with wounded on muskets. A general gives Pierre an angry look and orders supports to lie down. A drum, shouts of command, ranks move forward. Pierre is particularly struck by a pale young officer who lets his sword hang and walks backwards, glancing uneasily around. A few minutes later crowds of wounded come back. The young officer, hand to his shako, reports that only eight rounds are left. Grapeshot! Suddenly he gasps, bends double, and sits down like a bird shot on the wing. Everything becomes strange, confused, and misty in Pierre's eyes. He now hears nothing but whistling balls. On the right soldiers shouting Hurrah run not forwards but backwards, it seems. A black ball flashes and plumps into something. The sergeant whispers, as a butler tells his master there is no more of some wine, that there are no more charges. The scoundrels! The officer, red and perspiring, yells to bring up the ammunition boxes, angrily avoiding Pierre's eyes. I'll go, says Pierre. The man ordered stumbles against him: Eh, sir, this is no place for you. Pierre runs down the slope, avoiding the young officer. Where am I going? he asks himself near the green ammunition wagons, and halts irresolutely. A terrible concussion throws him backwards. A great flash, a deafening roar, crackling, and whistling. When he comes to himself he is sitting on the ground leaning on his hands. The wagons no longer exist, only charred green boards and rags on scorched grass. A horse, dangling fragments of its shaft, gallops past. Another horse lies, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering prolonged and piercing cries.
