It was a distant, disorienting dream— American voices playing chess, followed by shouting, then gunshots. The house flamed below. He fell forward like a soul tossed into the swirl of hell, momentarily removed from the raging torment. He rolled over to his back, then onto his stomach, realizing one of the voices was familiar— he grabbed at his rifle but saw nothing. There was a loud thud behind him, near the house— the thud of a light cannon, pumping a second shell into the ruined house. Dixon saw three or four rocks to his right. He pushed himself there on his elbows, dragging his gun and his legs. For a moment he worried about being captured. Then he coughed, his lungs filled with the dirt of the hill, choking. He dove behind the rocks, then noticed a branch a few yards below— a large, broken trunk that offered better protection. Jumping up, he ran to it, surprised when he made it without being shot. It seemed to him that he was surrounded, with bullets flying everywhere.
