Slowly Malcolm raised himself into a sitting position. Breathless from the violent shock, blinded by the shower of dust, deafened by the terrific concussion, and with his sense of smell deadened to everything but the acrid fumes of the burst shell, he was at a loss to know what had happened.
"Am I still No. 99,109, Rifleman Carr, or have I gone west?" he asked himself aloud. Beyond a faint hollow rumble, he failed to detect the sound of his own voice. Almost afraid to make the experiment, he flexed his limbs. Nothing much wrong there, anyway.
He was beginning to see, despite the darkness and the nauseating, pungent fumes. He looked at his watch. The glass had vanished. The hands told him that it was three minutes past twelve. Unless the watch had stopped, only five or six minutes had elapsed since the catastrophe took place. He held the timepiece close to his ear, but could hear nothing. Anxiously he watched the big hand, until after a seemingly interminable interval he had conclusive evidence that the watch was still going.
Satisfied on that point, Malcolm took stock of his surroundings. The outlook was limited to the sloping walls of the crater and the vault of black night overhead. Except for a direct hit, he was in a place of comparative safety. Enough for to-night; he would stay where he was until dawn, and then----
"I'm all right," he thought, "but what of my chums?"
Filled with new-born resolution, Malcolm regained his feet and commenced to climb the steep, yielding side of the shell crater. At the third step the soft soil gave way, and he fell on his face. As he did so he heard a loud popping sound, as if his ear-drums were bursting, and the next instant he could hear the distant rumble of the guns and the voices of men in his proximity.
"I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous," shouted a voice. "Buck up, lads!"
"That's the Corporal," decided Malcolm. "At all events we haven't all been done in."
"Hallo there!" exclaimed Corporal Preston, as Malcolm gained the lip of the crater. "Who are you?"
"Carr."
"Shouldn't have recognized you," continued the non-com., for Malcolm was hatless, his coat was partly torn away, while his face was black with grime. "Got a buckshie? No--good!"
"Cheer-o, Malcolm!"
This from Selwyn, who was engaged in binding a first-aid dressing round the ribs of the prophetic sergeant of engineers. Four other men lay on the ground, killed outright. Two of them belonged to the ration-party, and the others were Tommies who had been engaged in relaying the uptorn line.
"No use waiting here," declared Preston. "Bring that other truck along."
The first truck lay on its side, the woodwork shattered, and the rations scattered in all directions. The two men on the side nearest the exploding shell had been instantly killed, but the others, sheltered to a certain extent by the vehicle, had got off at the expense of a severe shaking. Nevertheless, all available hands set to work to retrieve the rations, and to set the second truck upon the uninterrupted stretch of rails.
High-explosives were still bursting at varying distances as the ration-party continued their perilous way across the open. It was with feelings of relief that Malcolm heard the Corporal give the word to unload once more. The men had reached the beginning of the communication-trench.
From this point progress was slow. The ramification of trenches was chock-a-block with troops under arms--Australians and New Zealanders, making ready for the task of going over the top.
"You've been a precious long time about it," was the Sergeant's ungracious comment when the ration-party found their own section of trench. "Set to, lads; here's your grub."
Eagerly the men of the platoon threw themselves upon the dearly-bought food. So hungry were they that they made no complaint about the gritty state of the loaves. Perhaps it was as well that they asked no questions. After all, they were able to feed, and in a short space of time pannikins of tea were boiling over the biscuit-tin stoves in the dug-out.
Having fed, Malcolm turned in on his straw bed. He was not sleepy, only stiff, and since it wanted less than an hour to the time fixed for the New Zealanders to turn out under arms, he employed the interval in writing. The other occupants of the dug-out were similarly engaged, knowing that, confronted by the problem of an impending battle, there was a possibility that this might be their last opportunity to communicate with their relatives and friends.
"This is the rottenest part of the whole business," remarked Selwyn. "It gives a fellow time to think about going over, and the prospect isn't a cheerful one."
"You're right," assented a Digger who had taken part in four big engagements. "I quite understand; but mark my words, you'll forget you ever had cold feet the moment the whistle goes."
"It's that plaguey uncut wire and those machineguns I don't like," grumbled Joliffe. "What the brass-hats are thinking about to send the boys against that lot beats me. Why, back in Delville Wood----"
"Rifleman Carr here?" enquired a voice.
The ground-sheet hanging over the entrance to the dug-out was thrust aside, and Sergeant Fortescue, his head partly hidden in his steel helmet, appeared in view.
"Thought I'd drop in for a little chin-wagging," continued Fortescue. "I've some news that might interest you--and Selwyn too."
He pulled a creased and folded newspaper from his pocket, and, holding it up to the guttering light, pointed a shapely yet begrimed forefinger at a certain paragraph.
"Our Muizenberg pal has dodged the firing-party," continued Fortescue. "The blighter is a bit of a wily fox, and judging by his history he's badly wanted."
The paragraph was to the effect that Konrad von Feldoffer, a German convicted of espionage by a general court martial, had made a daring and successful attempt to escape. How, the report did not say, but the fact remained that a dangerous spy was still at large. It went on to say that Konrad von Feldoffer was known to be a German naval officer. Upon the outbreak of hostilities he was in Canada. After various attempts, successful and otherwise, to cripple the internal communications of the Dominion, he fled across the border to the United States. Too late he was traced to Australia, where he enlisted in a Victoria regiment, deserting when the Anzacs were under fire in Gallipoli. Shortly afterwards he turned up in India, joined a volunteer regiment under orders for Mesopotamia, and mysteriously vanished during the retreat from Ctesiphon. Proceeding to England, and posing as a mercantile marine officer, forged documents and an engaging manner procured him an introduction to Whitehall, with the result that he was given a commission in the Royal Naval Reserve and appointed to an armed merchant cruiser. One of his first exploits in that capacity was to board a supposed Norwegian tramp, whose decks were piled high with timber. The vessel was allowed to proceed--a wolf in sheep's clothing, as a dozen or more Allied ships learned to their cost. Three weeks after commissioning, the merchant-cruiser was torpedoed and sunk in broad daylight by a U-boat. While the crew were taking to the boats, the submarine appeared on the surface. To the surprise of the British officer and crew, the hitherto unsuspected spy swam across to the hostile craft. Having picked him up, the U-boat submerged and disappeared from the scene. Too late it was discovered that the renegade was one and the same with the now notorious Konrad von Feldoffer. For several months nothing was heard of the spy's activities. As a matter of fact, the cosmopolitan rogue was particularly busy in South Africa, drifting thence into German South-West Africa, where he played a conspicuous part in a daring gun-running expedition under the nose of a British cruiser.
On the principle that it is advisable to desert a sinking ship in time, von Feldoffer drifted via Johannesburg to Cape Town, where his efforts to get into communication with German mine-layers operating off the Cape met with slight success. He was now anxious to return to the Fatherland. Accordingly he joined an Afrikander regiment of heavy artillery under the name of Pieter Waas, only to be apprehended on board the transport at Selwyn's instigation.
From the date of the paper--it was ten days old already--Malcolm gathered that the spy had been at liberty for nearly a month. Unless he were already recaptured it was pretty certain to conclude that von Feldoffer was clear of the British Isles. Would his experiences and narrow escape deter him from further enterprises or merely whet his appetite for other surprising adventures?
"One thing is pretty clear," declared Fortescue; "he won't risk showing up with the New Zealand boys. But, by Jove, it's close on two o'clock. Our fellows have to assemble at that hour. S'long, chums; I'll look out for you when we fall in. We may as well keep together in this stunt."
Fortescue was barely gone when the Platoon Sergeant entered the dug-out.
"Turn out, boys," he ordered. "Don't forget your gas-masks. Fritz will be letting loose a few gallons of stink, I reckon."
"What time do we go over, Sergeant?" enquired one of the riflemen.
"When the whistles go, sonny," replied the non-com., with a prodigious wink, "and not before."
"Can we go over after?" persisted the questioner.
The Sergeant eyed the man with mock severity.
"Take my tip and hop it sharp," he replied darkly. "The men who remain in the trenches fifteen seconds after the order to advance will be sorry for themselves. If there are any slight casualties, Corporal," he added, addressing Billy Preston, "turn 'em out. It won't be healthy for them to stop in the dug-out."
"Wonder why?" asked several of the men after the Sergeant had departed to give similar instructions to the occupants of the adjoining "desirable villas".
The question remained unanswered. In silence Malcolm and his comrades took their rifles and filed out into the already-crowded communication-trench.
"Let's find Fortescue," said Malcolm, addressing Selwyn in a low voice that hardly sounded like his own. "He'll be in the next bay or the one beyond."
"Lead on, then," prompted his chum.
Slinging their rifles, the twain made their way along the narrow, winding trench, stumbling over the recumbent forms of resting men and squeezing past the fully-accoutred troops packed into the narrow place.
"He was here a minute ago," declared one, after several fruitless enquiries had been made of the denizens of the two adjoining sectors. "Guess he's in the firing-trench. They're fixing the storming-ladders."
The firing-trench was comparatively clear. A dozen men were sitting on the fire-step, listlessly fumbling with their equipment in a vain effort to kill time before the supreme moment arrived to go out into the open. Others were placing in Position the rough wooden ladders by which the stormers would be able to scale the breast-high parapet, each ladder being carefully tested lest an insecure structure should impede the operation of going over the top. A few non-coms., detailed to lay off the distance-tapes, were comparing notes as coolly as if they were arranging for the regimental sports.
"Dashed if I can see him," whispered Malcolm. Although there was no need for speaking in an undertone, the scene of preparation instinctively Compelled him to lower his voice. "Seen anything of Sergeant Fortescue?" enquired Selwyn, addressing a rifleman who had just completed the fixing of one ladder and was thoroughly surveying his work.
The man turned sharply, gave a grunt of Surprise, and before the lad could realize what had happened, he swarmed up the ladder, paused irresolutely for a brief instant on the sandbagged parapet, and leapt into the darkness of No Man's Land. It was the spy, von Feldoffer.
"Wing him!" exclaimed Malcolm, unslinging his rifle, opening the cut-off, and springing upon the fire-step. Selwyn followed his example, and with levelled rifles the two chums awaited the first sound that might betray the progress of the spy.
"What are you fellows up to?" enquired a sergeant. "Don't you know the order? No individual firing until further orders."
"A man has just leapt over the parapet. He's a spy," said Malcolm.
"In a N.Z. rifleman's uniform," added Selwyn.
The Sergeant snorted incredulously.
"You've been seeing things," he remarked, but to satisfy his curiosity he raised his head above the parapet and peered into the gloom just then a star-shell burst overhead, its glare throwing every object on the immediate front into strong relief. The crater-pitted No Man's Land showed no sign If any movement. A score or more silent forms in field-grey uniform lay upon the ground--they had been there for the last three days. Not a trace Of a man in khaki was to be discovered.
"Come out of it, you chaps," continued the Sergeant. "You've made a mistake. Hop it!"
Malcolm and Selwyn obeyed promptly, and alighting upon the floor of the trench the latter cannoned into a passing soldier.
"Here, what the deuce do you think you're doing?" asked a well-known voice, despite its tone of plaintive asperity.
"By gum, Fortescue," ejaculated Selwyn, "this is lucky! We've been looking for you."
"And so your search is rewarded," rejoined Fortescue. "What's the idea?"
"We thought we'd hang together when the stunt comes off," explained Malcolm. "But there's another thing. Our Muizenburg pal was here a few minutes ago."
"What?" exclaimed Fortescue incredulously.
"Fact!" confirmed his informant. "We asked if you were anywhere about, and the fellow we addressed happened to be Konrad von What's-his-name. He recognized us, for heimpshiedlike a wild colt. I was----"
"Sergeant Fortescue here?"
"Yes, sir," replied Fortescue, standing to attention and saluting as he recognized Captain Nicholson the S.I.N. of the oldAwaruadays and his lieutenancy a thing of the past.
"You've warned the men to nip over smartly?" asked the Captain.
"Yes, sir, I've seen to that. There is another matter on which I should like to speak."
Briefly Fortescue related the incident of the spy's flight as told him by his two comrades. Captain Nicholson's face lengthened.
"By Jove, this is a serious matter! What was the fellow doing?"
"Assisting in fixing ladders, sir."
"Then pass the word for the sergeant in charge of his party."
The non-com. was soon on the spot. He was the sergeant who had doubted the veracity of Malcolm's statement, and still had the same opinion on the matter as before.
But when the roll-call was taken one of the men was missing--Rifleman Scrooch.
"Know anything about him, Sergeant?" enquired Captain Nicholson.
"Not much, sir," was the reply, "except that he came in with the last draft from Etaps."
Captain Nicholson consulted his watch.
"He won't get far," he remarked grimly. "In another fifteen minutes----"
"Let's get back," suggested Fortescue as his officer disappeared. "The bombers will be falling in here in half a tick. We're in the first supports. Fritz is pretty sleepy to-night; I wonder if he knows what's in store for him."
The bomb-throwers, heavily laden with canvas bags filled with their death-dealing missiles, filed into the front trench, together with their supporting riflemen. A sharp, decisive order was passed from one officer to another, and the sinister clicking sound of bayonets being fixed to rifles rippled along the line of trenches as the very pick of New Zealand's manhood prepared for the coming ordeal.
Every man of the brigade knew what was to be expected of him. Messines Ridge was to be carried at the point of the bayonet, and the knowledge that the hostile wire was practically uncut and that the heights bristled with machine-guns was common property. Stupendous though the task was, not a man flinched, although several groused at the lack of consideration on the part of the Staff to send them against a prepared position in a practically-unbroken state; which showed that the troops were generally ignorant of the measures taken to safeguard them.
"Five minutes more!"
The officers bunched together to compare watches. They had done so a dozen times that evening, but perhaps it was excusable. Everything depended upon the operations being carried out with the precision of reliable clockwork. A second or two out either way would mean throwing away scores, perhaps hundreds, of valuable lives, for Fritz, although fairly quiet, was on the alert.
The British artillery was now almost silent. In previous stunts the position to be attacked was subjected to hours of terrific bombardment, but now hardly a shell fell upon the Hun defences. As for the protecting "barrage", the waiting troops looked for it in vain.
"Keep together!" whispered Malcolm tersely, as he nervously felt the tip of his quivering bayonet.
"Right, old man!" replied Selwyn in a low-pitched, unnatural voice.
It was useless to disguise the fact. Both had "the wind up" very badly. Malcolm could hear his heart thumping violently under his tunic; he was fully conscious of an empty, nauseating sensation in the pit of his stomach. He doubted whether he could stir up courage at the critical moment to leap over the parapet into the impending tornado of machine-gun bullets and pulverizing, bursting shells.
Map
Map
[Illustration: "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM]
[Illustration: "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM]
Others had done the same. Why not he? Vainly he tried to argue with himself that he was differently constituted from other men. He was too young to die. He had not drunk deeply of the joys of manhood. Why had he been such a fool as to underrate his age when he joined up? If----
The shrill blast of a whistle pierced the strained silence. With a loud yell the men leapt upon the scaling-ladders. His fears thrown to the wind, and the exhilarating sensation of unfettered action surging through his veins, Malcolm found himself scrambling over sand-bags and leaping into the pitted No Man's Land.
Even as he took the leap a seven-fold lurid flash burst from the dominating ridge of Messines. The ground trembled and swayed beneath his feet. Sand-bags and tons of earth subsided into the trenches so recently vacated by the troops, while a deafening, dumbfounding roar beat upon the lad's ears.
Almost mechanically Malcolm broke into a run. In front and on either side other men were surging onwards, their bayonet-tips describing erratic curves as they lurched over the still-trembling ground. Showers of dust beat upon their faces. Farther ahead masses of solid rock and earth were falling with a succession of thuds, while, where Messines Ridge had been, was a riven mound of disintegrated Soil, over which a dense cloud of black smoke rolled sullenly in the sultry night air.
One of the greatest engineering feats of the Great War--in fact, the greatest mining operation in the history of the world's battles--had been successfully carried out, a task compared with which the great mine of Beaumont Hamel paled into insignificance. With a concentrated roar, the concussion of which was distinctly felt over the greater part of south-eastern England, the explosive contents of a series of mine-chambers were fired simultaneously.
In the fraction of a second the whole of Messines Ridge underwent a startling change. German dug-outs, trenches, machine-gun emplacements, and an unknown but vast number of troops went up in the terrific blast.
Months of diligent and stupendous labour had not been spent in vain. At one stroke the culminating moment had done more than hours of intensive bombardment. With little risk the British troops were able to sweep the position that for two years had defied their efforts.
Yet the New Zealanders were not to have a "walk over". From the heavy guns, well behind the pulverized ridge, shells were bursting in front and behind the trenches. Hostile machine-guns that had almost inexplicably escaped the general carnage were spitting venomously, while in the front German trenches, which were on comparatively level ground to the east of the Messines Ridge, a hot but erratic rifle-fire was directed upon the khaki-clad stormers.
On and on Malcolm ran, his face turned towards the two lines of sand-bags beyond which the Huns were still putting up a fight. Whether Fortescue and Selwyn were with him he knew not. The resolution he had made to keep with his chums was gone. His sole desire was to reach the hostile trenches and battle with the field-grey enemy.
Men were running in front of him. Swift of foot though he was, there were others who surpassed in the maddening rush. More than once he had to leap over the writhing bodies of gallant Anzacs who had gone down in the charge. He was dimly conscious of khaki-clad forms crashing heavily to the ground on either side, of a whizz of flying metal that sent his steel helmet spinning, of a sharp, burning pain in his left wrist, and of a dozen other mental and physical sensations.
In the midst of a regular mob of panting, yelling, and shouting men, and preceded by a terrific fusillade of Mills's bombs, Malcolm found himself struggling through masses of partly-severed barbed wire and up on the hostile parapet.
The ruddy glare from the exploding missiles revealed a line of cowed, terrified men, some with "pill-box" caps, others with the typical "Dolly Varden" steel helmets. With uplifted hands and tremulous cries of "Kamerad!" they bowed to the inevitable, and almost contemptuously were sent through the crowd of New Zealanders to the British lines.
Other Huns were made of sterner stuff, and offered a stubborn resistance. With rifle-shots, bayonets, clubbed weapons, and bombs they contested their ground. Machine-gunners used their deadly weapons with desperate energy, until they were stretched out by the sides of their now silent charges. The air was heavy with suffocating smoke; fragments of shell were flying with complete impartiality; shouts, oaths, and curses punctuated the crash of steel and the rattle of musketry, as men in their blind ferocity clutched at each other's throats and rolled in mortal combat upon the ground.
Presently Rifleman Malcolm Carr found himself confronted by a tall, bearded Prussian, whose head-dress consisted of a steel helmet, with a visor completely covering the upper part of his face as far as his mouth. Even in the heat of combat Malcolm could not help noticing the incongruity of the bristling whiskers flowing beyond the fellow's face-armour. It was one of those transitory yet indelibly-stamped impressions that are frequently formed in times of imminent danger.
The Prussian lunged with his bayonet. Malcolm promptly turned it aside and countered. His bayonet, darting above the other's belated guard, caught the Hun fairly in the lower part of his chest.
With a disconcerting jar that wellnigh dislocated his wrist, and sent a numbing pain through his right arm, the lad realized that he was up against great odds. The Prussian was wearing a steel breastplate underneath his tunic. Malcolm could imagine the grin of supercilious triumph under the Hun's mask. He shortened his grasp and thrust again, this time at the Fritz's shoulder. The man, despite the handicap of wearing heavy steel plates, ducked agilely, and, reversing his rifle, prodded the New Zealander with the butt of his weapon. Stepping backwards to avoid the blow, Malcolm tripped over some obstacle and fell heavily into a still-intact emplacement.
For some seconds he lay still. A few inches above his head came the deafening tick-tock of a German machine-gun. He had fallen in front of the weapon, and was pressed down by a heavy weight that still had the power of movement.
Groping, his fingers came in contact with human hair--the beard of his antagonist. The Prussian was lying face downwards upon the New Zealander's body.
"My festive," mentally ejaculated Rifleman Carr, "you didn't play the game with your body-armour; I'll do the reprisal dodge."
Fiercely he tugged at the Prussian's beard. With a yell of pain the fellow bent his knees and reared his body, only to fall inertly upon the half-suffocated Digger. In rising he had intercepted a dozen or more bullets from the machine-gun. So close was the muzzle, that his clothes smouldered in the blast of the weapon. Not that it mattered very much to him, for he was stone dead.
With a frantic effort Malcolm rolled himself clear of the body of his late foe; then, resisting the temptation to regain his feet, he crouched in a corner of the emplacement and took stock of his immediate front.
He could easily have touched the cooling-jacket of the weapon as the machine-gun continued its death-dealing work. He could discern the sullen, determined features of the two men who alone remained of the machine-gun's crew.
Vainly Malcolm groped for his rifle. The violent impact had sent the weapon yards away. Nor could he find the rifle of his late adversary. The man had been a bomber; perhaps some of his stock of hand-propelled missiles yet remained?
Very cautiously the New Zealander felt for the canvas pockets suspended from the Hun's neck. Every one was empty.
"Rough luck!" he soliloquized. "Don't know so much about it, though; if he had had any left when we scrapped he might have chucked one at my head."
The machine-gun ceased firing. For a moment Malcolm was seized with the haunting fear that the gunners had spotted him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that they were fitting another belt of ammunition.
Presently Rifleman Carr's hand came in contact with a hard substance protruding from the Prussian's pocket. By the feel of it he was assured that he had found a revolver. Stealthily he withdrew the weapon and examined it. The pistol was evidently smaller than those used in the opposing armies. Belgian made, it had probably been obtained from a looted shop. Although officially unsanctioned, raiding parties, British, French, and German, frequently carried small revolvers when engaged in paying uninvited and unwelcome visits to the hostile lines.
The weapon was loaded in five chambers. Whether it was sufficiently powerful for the work Malcolm proposed to do the lad could not definitely form an opinion. It was like riding an untried steed. Failure on the part of the cheap mechanism meant death; nevertheless, for the sake of his comrades who were exposed to the brisk fire of the machine-gun, he was determined to take the risk.
A gentle pressure on the trigger revealed the pleasing fact that the revolver was of a self-acting type. So far so good. The next question was--are the cartridges reliable?
Deliberately Malcolm, steadying the barrel on the neck of the dead Hun, aimed between the eyes of the fellow holding the firing-handle of the machine-gun.
Two shots rang out in quick succession. Giving a yelp of mingled pain and surprise, Fritz doubled up across the gun, his feet beating a tattoo against an ammunition-box. His companion, partly deafened by the double report almost under his nose, and taken aback by the collapse of the gunner, crouched irresolute. Before he could decide whether to snatch up his rifle or to raise his hands and shout "Kamerad" a bullet from Malcolm's revolver struck him fairly in the centre of his low forehead.
Wriggling from underneath the dead Prussian, Rifleman Carr regained his feet. The wave of New Zealanders forming the first storming-party had swept beyond the now silent machine-gun. The supports were doubling up, their numbers no longer lessened by the rain of bullets from the hitherto overlooked emplacement. Between the two lines of attackers khaki-clad figures littered the ground, while numbers of wounded, both New Zealanders and Huns, trickled towards the British trenches.
"My capture!" exclaimed Malcolm. "I'll put a tally on the beauty."
Searching, he found his rifle and bayonet. Unfixing the latter, he scratched upon the field-grey paint of the machine-gun the words: "99,109, Carr, No. 3 Platoon, C Company".
"If I go under, the boys will know I've done something towards my bit," he muttered. "I wonder where my pals are?"
"Hallo, Malcolm!"
Above the rattle of musketry and the crash of bombs, Rifleman Carr heard his name shouted in cheery stentorian tones. Looking in the direction from which the shout came, the lad saw two stretcher-bearers jogging along with a heavy burden over the uneven ground. One of the men was Mike Dowit, the hero of the bombing exercise at far-off Featherstone Camp. It was not he who called, for his jaw was swathed in a bandage. The other man was unknown to Malcolm.
Right at the heels of the stormers the regimental stretcher-bearers had gone over the top, defenceless, and, as such, running even more risks than the infantry. Already Dowit and his companion had made three journeys to the advance dressing-station, notwithstanding the fact that the former had received a nasty wound in his chin from a fragment of shell.
"Hallo, Malcolm!" was the repeated hail, as the man in the stretcher waved his shrapnel helmet to attract attention still further.
It was Sergeant Fortescue,
"Proper buckshie this time," he declared, as the bearers, through sheer weariness, halted and set their burden on the ground. "Machine-gun copped me fairly. Three if not four bullets through my left leg, close to knee. 'Fraid I won't see you for another three months."
"Seen Selwyn?" asked Malcolm anxiously.
"Up there clearing out the dug-outs," replied Fortescue. "He's all right; so's Joliffe, M'Kane, and M'Turk. Poor little Billy Preston's done in, though. Shot through the head. I saw him. A fearful mess."
"You're a liar, Sergeant!" muttered a hollow voice, as the subject of the conversation strolled in a leisurely manner up to the stationary stretcher.
Corporal Preston's appearance did not belie Fortescue's statement that it was a fearful mess. Almost as the last German was cleared out of the captured trench, a piece of shrapnel struck the Corporal just below his right ear, and ploughed through his skin from the cheek-bone to the corner of his mouth. He dropped like a stone, and Fortescue had come to the erroneous conclusion that Billy Preston had made the great sacrifice.
Despite his injuries, Corporal Preston was grinning broadly on the uninjured side of his face. A lighted cigarette was between his lips. A saturated field-bandage held to his wound partly concealed the slight but ugly gash.
"Feel as dinky as anything, by gum!" he mumbled, without removing the consoling "fag". "This'll mean a trip to Blighty. I can do with it nicely, but I'm jolly glad I got there. Five blessed Fritzes to my certain knowledge, by gum! I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous--not I."
And, waving his disengaged hand, Corporal Billy Preston resumed his long trek of pain that was to end somewhere in England under the kindly care of nurses from far-off New Zealand.
"By Jove, he has!" agreed Fortescue. "I saw him polish off a couple of Huns with his bayonet, and knock out another with the butt of his rifle. Well, s'long, Malcolm, andkia ora."
The bearers lifted the stretcher and continued on their way, while Rifleman Carr, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, hurried towards the German second-line trenches, where, judging by the deep detonations of exploding bombs and the sharp crack of rifle-shots, there was still work to be done.
German shells were "watering" the captured ground. Malcolm hardly noticed them. He had acquired the hardened campaigner's indifference to Fritz's "hate" that confidence in the knowledge of being on the winning side cannot fail to give. Overhead, British shells screeched on their way, as with mathematical precision they fell in the place appointed, to form a "barrage" through which neither German supports could advance nor defeated Huns retire without risk of being pulverized by the high-explosive missiles.
The second-line German trenches formed the nearmost limit of ground practically unaffected by the explosion of the great mine. Beyond lay the tortured slopes of Messines Ridge, from the fissures of which escaping smoke trailed upwards in the wan morning light.
Already the first line of storming troops was engaged in consolidating the captured position, while the supports were assembling and concentrating prior to advancing upon the farthermost of their objectives--the village of Messines. Every Hun remaining above ground had been accounted for. Hundreds were lying in grotesque attitudes, never to move again, while dejected and dazed prisoners were being marshalled in droves under escort for the advance cages. But in the tottering dug-outs the Prussian die-hards were still offering resistance; and it was the clearing of their sub-terranean strongholds that was occupying the attention of the victorious New Zealanders.
"Look out, chum!" shouted a voice as Malcolm approached a knot of Diggers gathered in a shellhole in what was formerly the parados of the trench. "Duck!"
Malcolm obeyed promptly. He was used to taking imperative hints with the utmost smartness. Even then he was only just in time to escape a bullet. For the second time that morning his steel helmet was sent flying, strap notwithstanding.
"Come and bear a hand and get your own back," continued the man who had warned him.
Recovering his head-gear, Rifleman Carr joined the group by a discreet and circuitous route, to find Grouser Joliffe and half a dozen men of his platoon engaged upon the task--up to now unsuccessful--of clearing out a dug-out. Joliffe had discarded his rifle. His wounded arm had given out, and he had the limb supported in a sling made from a puttee. A dozen bombs hung from his neck. He held another in his uninjured hand.
"Take that, you skulking Hun!" he shouted, hurling a bomb into the mouth of the dug-out. "That's the fifth I've given 'em," he added, addressing Malcolm as if to apologize for the fact that the occupants of the den were still in a state of aggressive activity. "One of our chaps has gone for some smoke-bombs. He ought to be here by now if he isn't knocked out on the way. That'll settle their hash."
Rifleman Joliffe was the only member of the party who remained standing. Partly sheltered by a break in the traverse, he proposed to throw another missile, while his companions, taking cover behind a few hastily-piled sand-bags, waited with levelled rifles the expected rush from the dug-out.
Deftly the bomber lobbed another grenade fairly into the yawning cavity. With a muffled crash the bomb exploded. Acrid fumes drifted from the sloping tunnel, while a succession of dismal groans gave credence to Joliffe's belief that he'd "done the blighter in this time".
"Hold hard!" cautioned the corporal of the section as the daring rifleman prepared for a closer inspection of his handiwork.
"What for?" expostulated Joliffe. "I know that copped him right enough."
"Then it's your bloomin' funeral," rejoined the non-com. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Confident in the result of his prowess, the bomber strode boldly towards the mouth of the dug-out. Before he had taken three steps the still eddying smoke was pierced by the flash of a rifle. With a look of pained surprise upon his face Rifleman Joliffe half-turned and stood stock-still for quite five seconds. Then his knees bent and down he went; his legs and arms quivered convulsively for a few seconds.
"What are you men doing?" enquired Captain Nicholson, who, unawares, had made his way along the trench until stopped by the knot of prone riflemen. "Dug-out giving trouble, eh? All right; follow me and we'll rush it."
"Better not, sir," said the Corporal. "We've chucked in a couple of dozen bombs, but still we haven't knocked 'em out."
Although the non-com.'s report was an exaggerated one as to the number of missiles thrown into the mouth of the tunnel, the fact that the defenders were still able to offer resistance was a perplexing problem. According to the rules of the game the bombs ought to have blown the Huns to pieces.
"We've sent for some smoke-bombs," continued the Corporal. "Then, sir, when we've tried these, we'll follow you. Hallo, here they are, the beauties!"
"Four--all I could get," announced the newcomer's well-known voice. It was Dick Selwyn--ragged and begrimed, but unharmed.
Handing over the missiles, Selwyn threw himself down by the side of his chum. Not a word passed between the two, although they were longing to exchange confidences. All attention was centred upon the sinister hole in front of which the body of Rifleman Joliffe lay--a silent warning of the danger that lurked within.
"You're a left-handed thrower, M'Turk," said Captain Nicholson, who knew the physical capabilities and peculiarities of each individual of his platoon. "Try your hand with one of these."
Being able to throw left-handed gave the Digger a considerable pull over his companions for the work of smoking out the Huns. Without exposing any part of his body, which a right-handed man would have had to do owing to the position of the dug-out, M'Turk could lob the bombs fairly into the mouth of the tunnel.
With unerring accuracy the "stink-bomb" vanished into the dark recess. The New Zealanders could hear it rolling down the steps. Smoke began to issue from the dug-out, thinly at first, then rapidly increasing in volume and density.
Suddenly a startling apparition dashed through the thick cloud of smoke--a man whose head and body were completely encased in steel. With arms outstretched the Hun staggered towards the Diggers, coughing violently the while under the irritating influence of the smoke-bomb.
"Collar him!" ordered Captain Nicholson.
A dozen hands seized him. His head-dress was removed, disclosing the features of a pale, insignificant, and spectacled German.
"What a cheek!" exclaimed M'Turk. "Fancy a worm like that holding us up!"
"Science against brute force, chum," remarked the Corporal, pointing to an anti-gas apparatus that dangled from the man's neck. "If it hadn't been that the gadget was smashed we might have gone on bombing till the end of the war."
The prisoner's armour was certainly proof against fragments of bombs, even at close range, as the splayed marks upon the steel testified. With the anti-gas apparatus he had been able to withstand the choking fumes, until a chance splinter of metal had perforated the flexible pipe between the Hun's mouth and the oxygen-container hidden under his back-plate. Although his arms and legs were unprotected, the man had practically escaped injury from the bombs, since the fragments of the exploded missile flew upwards. A gash on the knuckle of his right hand and a few slight scratches on the calves of his legs were the total result of the Anzacs' efforts until the smoke-bomb came into play.
"A chirpy little sausage-eater!" exclaimed Captain Nicholson, who, like his men, was not backward in acknowledging bravery even in an enemy. "See that he is sent back, Corporal. Now, lads, why was he so determined? There's more in this dug-out than meets the eye, I believe. I mean to find out. Who'll back me up?"
"I will, sir!" said Malcolm promptly.
"And I," added Selwyn.
"Me too," chorused M'Turk and M'Kane.
"And, by gum, how about me?" enquired a lusty voice, as Riflemen Joliffe, bleeding profusely from the head, sat up and vainly attempted to regain his feet.
The other New Zealanders had forgotten Grouser Joliffe, or rather they had put him out of their minds until the clearing-up job was completed. One and all had taken it for granted that the rifleman had paid the penalty for his rashness, and had been shot dead on the spot. Had they known that he was only wounded they would have rushed to his aid, but, thinking otherwise, they had no intention of attending to the dead until the wounded were cared for and the position properly consolidated.
It was Joliffe's steel helmet that had saved him. The German's bullet, fired at a range of ten yards, had struck the upper part of the rim and deflected upwards, completely penetrating the head-dress, while the wearer escaped with a scalp wound, rendering him unconscious for a quarter of an hour.
"Another day, Joliffe!" sang out Captain Nicholson. "See to him, you fellows. Now then, Carr, keep close behind me. M'Turk, M'Kane, and Selwyn at three paces interval."
With a revolver in his right hand, and an electric torch in his left, the Captain, bending low, began the descent of the steep flight of steps leading to the dug-out. By this time the noxious vapours had exhausted themselves, although there was still sufficient smoke to dim the rays of the torch.
Rifle and bayonet at the ready, Malcolm followed his officer, his ears on the alert to catch the first sound that might denote the presence of other Hun cave-dwellers.
As he descended, Malcolm found that the smoke was dispersing under the influence of a steady draught of warm air. The tunnel was heavily timbered--top, sides, and floor. Along one side ran a couple of insulated wires, one of which belonged to an electric alarm-bell. The other was for internal lighting, but every incandescent bulb had been shattered under the terrific concussion of the great Messines mine. In places the massive planks were bulging ominously; so much so that Captain Nicholson hesitated more than once.
"What do you make of it, Carr?" he asked, pausing at a particularly bad spot.
"I hardly know, sir," replied Malcolm. "Since the shorings didn't collapse when the mine went up, they ought to stand for a bit longer."
"Suppose so," agreed the youthful officer as he resumed his tour of discovery. "Sort of 'creaking door hangs longest'. Let's hope so in this case."
At the ninety-eighth step--Malcolm counted them carefully--the descent ended. The daring five found themselves in a long room, measuring about eighty feet by ten. On one side were recesses that formed, as they afterwards discovered, the lower part of the lift-tunnel communicating with the open air. At one time the lift had been used for bringing up machine-guns that were stored deep underground in anticipation of a heavy bombardment of the British guns. Each recess was piled high with rubble, the result of the stupendous concussion, while a dozen intact machine-guns had been prevented from being brought into action against the attacking infantry.
In the opposite wall were other recesses, panelled and furnished with rich curtains and hangings. Each recess contained a wire mattress and bedding, while articles of a personal nature showed that the former occupants were officers, and not of the rank and file.
"I believe we've struck the brigade headquarters," said Captain Nicholson, flashing his torch into a large recess in which stood a table littered with book and papers. "We'll attend to those documents later. No use doing so until we've made sure of our ground. I wonder where the gilded occupants are?"
"From what I know of the blighters, sir," remarked M'Turk, "they didn't show their mugs above ground while we were tumbling over the top."
"Perhaps there's another way out--a sort of bolt-hole," suggested Selwyn. "Hope they haven't ruined the show?"
"No likely," replied Captain Nicholson briskly, "As for your idea of a bolt-hole, there's something in that. It would account for that fellow in that sardine-can suit holding out so long, just to give them time to get clear. Ssh! Ssh! What's that?"
The men stood on the alert for some moments.
A muffled cough broke the silence. Then came the dull thud of a pick being driven into soft earth.
"This way," ordered the Captain, striding towards the end of the room. "Get a bomb ready."
"Not a blessed one between the lot of us, sir," reported M'Kane. "Thought we'd finished with Mills's pills for a bit. I'll nip back and get a few."
Captain Nicholson hesitated.
"No need," he decided. "The fellows, whoever they are, are trapped. They'll give in when they find that the game's up."
In the panelled wall, so skilfully fashioned that it almost escaped attention, was a door. The New Zealanders stopped and listened. Voices were heard talking excitedly, to the accompaniment of the tearing of paper.
Thrusting his torch into his breast pocket, the Captain, holding his revolver ready for instant action, threw open the door.
Another long room showed beyond the doorway. At the farther end a table extended almost from side to side. On the floor were several lighted candles that cast an unaccustomed glare upon the faces of a dozen German officers. Some of them were engaged in burning documents, others in tearing up books and plans. Right at the far end two men were attacking a fall of debris by means of pick and shovel.
This much Malcolm took in at a glance, as with levelled rifle he supported his captain.
"Surrender!" shouted Captain Nicholson sternly.
"Not so fast," replied a Prussian, speaking in English, and with hardly a trace of a foreign accent. "Let us discuss the situation."
"By all means," agreed Captain Nicholson, confident that he held the winning cards.
The Hun who had spoken was carefully noting the strength of the intruders. He had a particular object in gaining time.
"You are too premature, Herr Kapitan von Anzaken," he continued slowly. The boot is on the other leg. You are our prisoners.Nein--do not get excited--consider: you are but a handful. We are fourteen, all armed. In there"--he indicated a doorway on his left--"are fifty tons of explosives, so I would not have you throw a bomb, for our sakes and yours. Again, I have but to touch this button and the tunnel to the dug-out by which you made your approach will be blown in. We have particular need of you, since your friends will hesitate twice before attempting to smoke us out with you here. Now, to avoid further unpleasantness, you will throw down your arms and make surrender."
"I'll see you to blazes first!" retorted Nicholson. "Hands up, or----"
Like a flash a dozen hands went up--but each hand held an automatic pistol! The New Zealand officer made no attempt to back. Outwardly calm, he stood erect on the threshold, with his four men close behind him.
Confronting him were the obviously excited Huns. Even the slight pressure of a trembling finger upon the trigger of one of the automatic weapons would mean death to the imperturbable Nicholson.
"I give you ten seconds to surrender!" he exclaimed.
"And I give you five to throw down your arms!" retorted the Prussian major. "One--two--three----"
Crash!
A blinding flash seemed to leap up from the floor, and, with a deafening roar bursting upon his ears, Malcolm was dimly conscious of being hurled backwards by a terrific blast, then everything became a blank.
He regained his senses to find himself in utter darkness. He was lying on the floor with his shoulders and head leaning against something aggressively hard. Acrid fumes assailed his nostrils. He tried to move, to find a heavy, inert body lying across his legs.
Groping to find out the nature of his surroundings, his hand came in contact with his uncomfortable pillow. It was a pair of hobnailed boots. As he thrust them aside the wearer stirred.
"What's up, Sergeant? Another stunt?"
It was M'Turk, wandering in his mind. Evidently he was under the hallucination that the Platoon sergeant was rousing him at an unearthly hour of the morning.
"Where are we, M'Turk?" asked Malcolm.
The Digger grunted.
"Ask me another, chum," he replied, coughing after every word. "By gum! I remember--those swine of Huns and fifty tons of explosives. Well, we're still alive and kicking, so to speak. Where are the others? The Captain?"
"Someone lying across my legs," replied Malcolm. "Our captain, I fancy. Have you a match?"
"Have I a match?" repeated M'Turk mirthlessly. "A dozen boxes in my dug-out. Came with me last parcel--but ne'er a one on me. Where's that torch?"
Sitting up, Malcolm bent forward and searched the man who was pinning him down. He was wrong in his surmise. It was not Captain Nicholson, but one of the riflemen. In one of his pockets Carr found a squashed box containing three or four precious matches.
The first match fizzled and went out.
"Damp, like everything else except my throat!" muttered M'Turk. "I could drink half a gallon at one go. Try again, chum."
At the second attempt the flickering light struggled bravely for the mastery, then out it went.
"Two more," announced Malcolm.
"Hold on," ejaculated his companion. "I've a paper. I'll tear off a piece, and you can set it alight--if your matches aren't all duds!"
This time the attempt was successful. In the glare of the burning newspaper Malcolm made the astonishing discovery that Grouser Joliffe was lying across his legs, while nearer the room in which the German staff officers had been was Dick Selwyn, leaning against the wainscot and breathing stertorously. The faces of both men were black with smoke and dirt. There were no signs of Captain Nicholson or M'Kane.
"Old Grouser, by gum!" exclaimed M'Turk. "How in the name of everything did he get there?"
"Give it up!" replied Malcolm, as he made his way to Selwyn's side. "There are a lot of things that want explaining in this hole."
"Say what?" prompted his companion, tearing a fresh strip from the newspaper and rolling it into a rough-and-ready torch.
"Where are Fritz & Co.? Where is our officer? How is it that I was next to him, and now Selwyn is nearer the door; while Joliffe, who is supposed to be on the way to the dressing-station, is here? And what about the fifty tons of explosives?"
M'Turk staggered to his feet and made his way to the entrance to the inner room. The door had been wrenched from its hinges; from the root ferro-concrete girders had fallen, bringing with them a pile of debris that completely covered the table. Of the Huns, all were buried beneath the mound of earth, unless they had been blown to pieces by the explosion.
"Not so much as a Hun's button left as a souvenir!" reported M'Turk. "Hope our mates haven't been kyboshed. Yet it seems to me that if fifty ton of stuff did go up we wouldn't be here now--except in little bits."
"That's what puzzles me," admitted Rifleman Carr. "Perhaps only a portion of the explosives went off. Again, who propped you and Selwyn up against the wall?"
M'Turk made another roll of crumpled paper.
"Won't last out much longer at that rate!" he remarked ruefully. "Hallo! What's that?"
A couple of dull concussions were distinctly felt. In the inner portion of the spacious dug-out more rubble slid noisily from the caving-in roof.
"Fritz getting to work again," said Malcolm. "They are shelling the captured position."
"And following it up with a counter-attack," added M'Turk. "Strikes me our chaps won't have any time to attend to us for a bit."
"I did the job properly that time--a bit too properly?" exclaimed Grouser Joliffe, who had recovered consciousness and was taking a lively interest in the conversation.
"You did what?" enquired M'Turk.
"I wasn't going to be done out of the fun," said Joliffe doggedly. "Didn't I draw that little tinpot's fire, and give you a chance to butt in?"
"You did, like a blooming idiot!" agreed M'Turk.
"So when you fellowsimpshieddown the tunnel I slipped in after you. You wanted looking afters just fancy, nosing around a dug-out and not taking any bombs. I kept out of sight while the Captain was taking stock, knowing he'd send me back if he twigged me. Then, when the Boches tried to hold you up, I nipped behind and slung a bomb at 'em. By gum! It was a beauty, though for the life of me I don't know how we got blown out here. It wasn't my bomb that played a dirty trick like that, and it wasn't fifty tons of high explosives. So what was it? Anyone got a drink? My throat's like blotting-paper."
"The last of the paper," announced M'Turk. "Any of you fellows got some more? No; well, I'll nip round to see if I can find any. I'd as soon set the show on fire as stick here in the dark."
"There's someone coming," declared Malcolm.
"Where?" enquired M'Turk and the bomber simultaneously.
The sound of footsteps grew nearer and nearer, the rays of a torch flashed on the ground, and Captain Nicholson's voice was heard exclaiming:
"It's no go that way, M'Kane. We'll have to make the best of things; but it's no use denying the fact that we're trapped."