is a terrifying march of death, from the days when troops went into battle as though on parade. To the rattle of drums and blare of trumpets, it is propelled headlong from early morning reveille into the fury of charge and countercharge. Only when every man has been mown down does the pace slacken, transforming the smart military stride into the dry rattle of dead men’s bones, ghostly fanfares echoing across the stricken landscape. The final page, in which the dead drummer and his comrades rise up once more on parade, is cataclysmic in its effect.
from notes by Roger Vignoles © 2008