Chaos in the Fog of War — War and Peace

On Bagratión's right flank at nine o'clock the battle has not yet begun. Unwilling to agree to Dolgorúkov's demand to open the action, and wishing to avert responsibility, Bagratión proposes sending to inquire of the commander in chief. He knows the flanks are more than six miles apart: even if the messenger is not killed, and even if he finds Kutúzov, he cannot be back before evening. His sleepy eyes fall first on Rostóv's boyish, breathless face, and he sends him. If he meets His Majesty first, Dolgorúkov interrupts, he may give the message to the Tsar. Rostóv, having snatched a few hours' sleep after picket duty, feels cheerful, bold, and sure that everything is possible. All his wishes are being fulfilled: a general engagement, orderly to the bravest general, a message to Kutúzov, perhaps to the sovereign. He gallops along Bagratión's still motionless line, then past Uvárov's cavalry into a roll of volleys and a roar of cannon from the slopes before Pratzen. Smoke, bayonets, green caissons: he cannot make out who is moving or why, and the sights only stimulate him. "Go on! Give it them!"

Austrian troops, then the Guards already in action. Uhlans return in disorder; one is bleeding; that is no business of his. An enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white uniforms on black horses, the Horse Guards, trot across his path, then gallop. A huge pockmarked Guardsman would bowl him and Bedouin over if Rostóv did not flourish his whip in the black horse's eyes. "Charge!" They mix with foreign cavalry in red epaulets; cannon smoke swallows them. Rostóv later hears that of all those rich youths on thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen were left after the charge that amazed the French themselves. He will not envy them; his chance is not lost. Among the Foot Guards, cannon balls fly; he reads it on soldiers' uneasiness and officers' unnatural solemnity. Borís calls his name, happy as a man under fire for the first time: they thought the troops in front were Austrians until the cannon balls proved otherwise. Berg runs up, wounded in the right hand, sword in the left, all the von Bergs have been knights. Rostóv does not wait.

To avoid the first line he follows the reserves, then hears musketry close in front and behind our troops, where the enemy cannot be. Panic seizes him for himself and for the battle. If all is lost, he must perish with the rest. Behind Pratzen the foreboding is confirmed: confused crowds, Russian, German, Czech, "They've killed everybody!" "Kill the Germans!" "Hang these Russians!" He learns later that Russian and Austrian soldiers have been firing at one another. The idea of defeat cannot enter his head. Though he sees French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights, just where he was ordered to look for the commander in chief, he cannot, and does not wish to, believe it.