You can't describe the moral lift, when in the fight your spirits weary hears above the hostile fire, Your own artillery. Shells score the air like wavy hair from a forward battery. As regimental cannon crack While from positions further back, in bitter sweet song overhead crashing discordantly Division's pounding joins the attack; Mother like she belches shell; Glorious it flies, and well, As, with a hissing screaming squall, A roaring furnace, giving all, she sears a path for the infantry....

(Slang) Barracks