On about November 10, 1915, Bojovitch's army with which he had been holding the pass against overwhelming numbers of Bulgarians, had dwindled to 5,000. At about that time he was reenforced by three regiments, including one from the famous Shumadia Division and one from the Morava Division, which were sent to him along the railroad, the only bit of railroad remaining to the Serbians, leading from Pristina to Ferizovitch, the latter point being some ten miles distant from the Katshanik Pass. The weather had begun getting cold and raw by this time, and the roads were in a miserable condition. The Serbians, though exhausted by their many hardships, and weak from the want of proper food, set out from the terminus of the railroad and pressed on toward the pass. As soon as they arrived Bojovitch prepared to deliver his final attack on the Bulgarians. The Serbian general had now about one hundred field pieces, mostly of the French 75 and 155 type; 3 inches and 6 inches. With these he began a vigorous bombardment of the Bulgarian trenches, raining a continuous shower of shrapnel and high explosive shells on them. Under this terrible fire the Bulgarians were compelled to retire from their defensive works and retreat south for four miles, out of range of the Serbian artillery. Then the Serbian infantry charged, pouring volley after volley into the ranks of the retreating Bulgarians. The latter began fleeing in disorder, but presently they came up against their reserves, whereupon they rallied. On came the Serbians with cries of "Na nosh! Na nosh!" and "Cus schtick! Cus schtick!" ("With the knife!" and "With the bayonet!") Those were cries that the Bulgarians knew well, and they too set up the same shouts. The rifle firing died down. The two lines charged each other silently, like warriors of old, with points of glittering steel before them. Then came the merging clash, and the rows of running men broke into turbulent melees, knots of struggling, writhing bodies. Shouts and hideous curses sounded up and down the lines like the snarls of savage animals. Wounded men reeled, panting and sobbing, sometimes in their savage agony springing on their friends and rending them with their hands and teeth before they finally collapsed into inert heaps, dead. Others, throwing down their unloaded rifles, picked up jagged rocks and hurled them into knots of struggling men, regardless of whether they smashed in the skulls of friends or foes. There had been greater battles in that campaign, but never had the fighting been so savage, so bitter; even the battle of Timok, the first encounter between Bulgar and Serb, was far outdone.