They were fighting their way through the deep loose snow, the wreck of the wire entanglements. The staff-captain floundered in a white shell-crater pitilessly illumined by an overhanging flare. The loose ends of the barbed wire tore at his clothes, clutched round his legs like tentacles that would hold him for death to strike. In front the spurts of flame sprang from a wall of darkness above the white, high up. Near him was the company commander, extricating himself from the shell-hole, the last of the wire safely passed. He had a sense of tensely struggling figures all around him. He, too, got clear of the wire. He saw the company commander throw up his hands, roll sideways over the snow, still shouting "_Avanti! Avanti! Italia!_" He passed him, took up the cry: "_Avanti! Avanti! Italia! La più grande Italia!_" leading the company that yelled behind him like a pack of mountain wolves. He topped the snow parapet, saw a fierce face glaring up at him in a strange light, a rifle-barrel levelled. His revolver seemed to go off of itself, a sharp autonomous detonation. The face opened a black mouth, sank out of vision. He sprang into the trench, shouting like a madman. Behind him came the Italians, tumbling down in fierce onslaught. One of them struck him violently on the back as he slid down, knocked him face forward into the snow. As he went he heard a sudden heavy crash, saw a flare of lurid light. A bomb! He picked himself up, only half realising his escape, fired at once into a dark body that wrestled with a white-clad soldier. There was a confusion of blows, of shots, of ear-splitting detonations--shouts, cries, shrieks. At one moment he was in close contact with a panting man, warm breath upon his face, eyes flashing momentarily in the reflection of a rifle-shot, looking into his--the next the man was gone, there was space about him. The confusion cleared--there were bodies underfoot--white-clad men about him shouting unintelligibly. Further along the trench another flare went up. The staff-captain turned to his right along the trench. "_Avanti! Avanti! A destra! Italia! Italia!_" Behind him followed a rush of fiercely yelling soldiery. "_Italia! Italia!_" They were held up by a traverse of snow-covered rock. A shower of bombs came over it. From a communication trench a mass of dark figures rushed at them, shouting with guttural voices. There was bitter conflict--an ebb and flow in the surge of men. Then another fierce shout: "_Italia! Italia! Savoia!_" It was the third company flinging itself in the trench to support the attack. In the midst of the tumult could be distinguished the scream of Italian shells passing overhead to burst dully on the Austrian avenues of approach. Suddenly the angry dominant note of the babel of voices changed. Accents of supplication rang out amid the jarring reports: "_Kamerad! Kamerad!_"