The Battle of Schöngrabern intensifies upon Murat’s breaking of the truce and resultant barrage of cannon fire.

General Bagratión and his contingent reached the highest point of the right flank then rode down to where musketry was heard. On account of smoke, they could barely see. They quickly encountered wounded. One man was dragged by two soldiers after a bullet pierced his throat. He was gurgling and spitting blood. Another walked aimlessly, groaning while swinging a limp arm. Blood streamed over his coat as if it poured from a bottle. His face showed fear rather than suffering.

Some soldiers were ascending the hill Bagration was descending. Despite the general’s presence, most were too disorganized to be deferential. Rows of friendly soldiers became visible through the smoke. One officer catching sight of Bagration shouted at a crowd of retreating soldiers to STOP retreating.

Shots drowned out the sound of voices. The air reeked of smoke. Some men were using their ramrods while others fired. The atmosphere was filled with the whistling of bullets.

The commander of one regiment, a thin, feeble elderly man with a pleasant smile and drooping eyelids, rode up to Bagration and welcomed him as a host does an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had been attacked by cavalry. He was unclear on whether the attack had been repulsed. He could not account for the troops entrusted to him and did know whether his regiment had merely broken up. This is insightful exposition of the Fog of War.

Prince Andrei was struck by the changed expression on Bagration’s face. It expressed a concentrated and happy resolution. That dull, sleepy expression was gone. He now had the steady eyes of a hawk. Bagration turned to an adjunct and ordered the calling up of two battalions of Chasseurs for reinforcement.

Bagration was urged to fall back - as he was in an extraordinarily dangerous situation. He gave another order to cease firing and re-form. While he was speaking, the smoke began to move as if drawn by an invisible hand. It became clear that the French were advancing.

Right near Bagration marched a company commander, a round-faced man, with a silly and happy expression— who had previously rushed out of the shed with Tushin. This fella was thinking of how dashing he would appear as he passed the commander. He was strutting like a peacock, inattentive to the surrounding danger.

A throng of soldiers with knapsacks and muskets marched in step. Each seemed to be repeating to himself, at each alternate step, “Left... left... left...” A cannon ball the flew over the heads of Bagration and his suite, falling into that very column, taking out a high number.

Bagratión rode around the ranks and dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, handed over his felt coat, stretched his legs and set his cap straight. “Well done, lads!” exhorted Bagratión. “Glad to do our best, your ex’len-lency!”. “Forward, with God!” continued Bagratión, in a resolute, sonorous voice. Andrei felt that an invisible power was leading them all forward.

The head of the French column, with its officers at the vanguard, appeared from below the hill. The French were near. Andrei could distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets and even their faces. Bagration gave no further orders and silently continued to walk in front of the ranks.

One shot after another rang out. Several men caught bullets, among them the round-faced officer who had just marched so gaily. One moment he was full of life and pride, the next, like so many through the ages, he was laid to waste.

Bagration looked round and shouted, “Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!!!" came the response, which shouted from the ranks, with men passing Bagration and racing one another on their horses. They rushed in an irregular but joyous manner down the hill at their foe.