not

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the recruits following the lead of the veterans; they obeyed their orders and plowed stubbornly toward the angle in the Swedish line. But their formations became more and more ragged and broken. Pikemen were being injured by the weapons of their mates, now, as men stumbled over corpses and lost control of the great blades.

Tilly saw, and grew pale. Near the front of his advancing tercios, he reined in his horse and stared back at the carnage.
“God in Heaven,” he muttered. Wallenstein had tried to warn him of the Swedish artillery. Wallenstein—that black-hearted Bohemian! Aye, he—and a dozen Polish officers in Tilly’s service. But Tilly had not believed.
“God in Heaven,” he muttered again. For a moment, he thought of changing his attack. Wheeling, and driving down on those cursed guns.
Wheeling . . . 
Tilly dismissed the notion instantly. His battles did not “wheel.” Could not wheel. They were instruments of crushing victory, not clever maneuver.
“Victory,” he growled. Seventy-two years old he was, not a day less. Seventy-two years, not one of whose days had ever seen defeat.
“Onward!” he bellowed. The old general drew his sword and trotted toward the front. He waved the sword at the Swedish left.
“Onward!” t

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