"So, you cat with nine lives, we've to thank you for this beautiful fix!" remarked Captain Nicholson after he had greeted his companions in misfortune.
"Don't know about that, sir," replied the bomber. "If I hadn't been nippy, those Huns would have plugged the lot of you, and more'n likely they would have got away. What were those coves doing with the pick and shovel, sir, if they didn't know there was a chance of getting out that way?"
"That passage is closed, at any rate," decided Captain Nicholson, glancing in the direction of the mound of debris and the displaced girders. "M'Kane and I have explored the entrance, There's been a big fall. The supplementary shoots are also choked. We followed a level working for nearly a hundred yards. It leads nowhere. Fritz never had time to finish it. Look here, this torch won't hold out for ever. The battery's running down. How's Selwyn?"
"Only suffering from shock, sir," replied Malcolm.
"All right; you can do nothing more so far as he is concerned," decided the officer. "We'll make a thorough search of these sleeping-quarters, and see if we can find any candles. Knowing the systematic thoroughness of Fritz, I guess he's taken precautions in the event of the electric light going out. By Jove," he added, as the dug-out trembled violently, "there's some strafing going on outside!"
A search resulted in the discovery of several oillamps and packets of candles. There was also food in considerable quantities and wine in bottles.
"I'd swop all that fizz for a pannikin of tea," declared Joliffe.
"You're never satisfied, chum," remarked M'Turk, deftly knocking off the neck of a bottle and taking a draught.
"If you had what I've got you'd be satisfied," retorted the bomber. "I don't mind telling you now. Captain can't order me back out of it, can you, sir?"
"Well, what have you got?" enquired Nicholson.
"Splinter of shell in me shoulder--copped that last night along with the ration-party, sir; then this crack on the skull from that tin-pot Boche; and now I've copped it in both legs--and still I'm not knocked out."
The men sat down to make a meal. Selwyn, under the reviving effect of a drink of wine, had opened his eyes. Although considerably shaken, he was otherwise unhurt.
Captain Nicholson's story of what had occurred threw little light upon the mystery. He remembered the explosion; he was conscious of being hurled high in the air and of falling on top of the prostrate body of one of his men. The first to recover, he waited until M'Kane regained consciousness, and, having placed M'Turk and Selwyn in a reclining position, set off to find an egress and bring assistance.
At the thirtieth step they were stopped by a solid mass of rubble that was only prevented from falling upon them by the fact that two massive timbers had dropped across the tunnel. To tamper with them meant certain disaster. Retracing their way to the main dug-out, they found a hitherto overlooked passage running at right angles to the longer walls. As the Captain had previously reported, it was a blind alley.
"Although I believe that the Hun's yarn about fifty tons of stuff is all moonshine," continued Nicholson, "I can't see how one bomb would raise Cain like this. It's just possible that there was a small quantity of explosives in the place--sufficient to bring the roof down and to give us a pretty shaking up."
The imprisoned men ate, drank, and talked--all except Selwyn, who complained of a violent headache and dizziness. Captain Nicholson let them carry on at their leisure. As long as they kept their spirits up there was little cause for anxiety. The great thing was to guard against depression.
"Now then, boys!" he exclaimed at length. "Heaven helps those who help themselves--how about it? Are we going to sit here until we are dug out or are we going to extricate ourselves?"
"Win off our own bat, sir," replied M'Turk.
"That's the sort," rejoined his officer. "Now, look here. Do any of you fellows remember if there were other dug-outs close to this?"
"There was an entrance about twenty yards to the left of this one, sir," said Malcolm. "I noticed that it was clear, for when I came up our fellows were hauling out a batch of Huns."
"That's our direction," decided Captain Nicholson. "It's not much use trying to open up the tunnel at which the Boches were working when we surprised them. It leads towards Messines Ridge, and I guess there's not much tunnelling left there. I should imagine they were ignorant of the actual results of the mine, or they would have given it up as a bad job."
Armed with mattocks and picks, Malcolm, M'Turk, and M'Kane attacked the side of the entrance-tunnel at a spot a few yards beneath the choke. The ground was clayey and easy to work, but in the absence of shoring material there was a grave risk of the new tunnel caving in. At the end of an hour's strenuous activity a tunnel about twelve feet long, and sufficiently large to enable a man to crawl along, had been excavated.
"Any luck?" enquired Captain Nicholson for the twentieth time during that hour.
"No, sir," replied Malcolm, who was working at the head of the sap and cautiously dislodging soil, which, in turn, was picked up by M'Turk and passed out so as not to obstruct the portion of the tunnel already dug.
The ground vibrated under the impact of a heavy shell thirty or forty feet overhead. Although the bombardment had decreased in violence the Huns were still sending heavy stuff across at irregular intervals.
"Hanged if I like this job," soliloquized Malcolm. "I thought the whole show would collapse that time. By Jove, something's going!"
Making a vain attempt to back out of the confined space, Carr felt the ground giving way beneath his bent legs.
"What's up, Digger?" enquired M'Turk, hearing his companion's exclamation.
Without waiting for an answer M'Turk crawled to within arm's length of the lad and grasped him by the arm. As he did so the subsidence increased, and, amidst a shower of soil, the two riflemen found themselves falling through the air.
Both uttered an exclamation of horrified surprise, not knowing at that stage if they were hurtling into a deep abyss to be dashed to pieces at the bottom. Anticipating the worst, they were agreeably relieved to find that they had dropped only ten or twelve feet, and had alighted upon a pile of soft material that proved to be a stack of folded blankets.
"It's all right, sir," shouted Malcolm.
"Where are you?" enquired Captain Nicholson, crawling cautiously along the newly-excavated gallery.
"That's more than I can say, sir," replied Carr. "We're in the dark absolutely."
Having tested the ground at the edge of the hole, Captain Nicholson flashed his torch into the dug-out into which the two riflemen had fallen.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "you've found a way out! I won't join you just yet. Stand by while I drop some candles and matches; then have a look round and report. See if there's a ladder available."
The torch was switched off and the two riflemen waited in utter darkness.
"I'm beginning to fancy I'm a blessed mole!" remarked M'Turk. "Twice I've been buried in our own dug-out. First time wasn't much to speak of; but Plug Street--ugh! For five mortal hours I was pinned down, the Huns strafing all the time, and the water rising up through the dirt that covered me up to my chin. And, as if I hadn't had enough, one of the boys who were digging me out must needs drive a pick through my calf. After all," he added, "it was worth it. I got six months in Blighty, and haven't had the same luck since. I'd give five pounds for old Fortyscrew's buckshie. Guess he's having a fair holiday by now."
"Fortescue was hit only quite recently," said Malcolm. "I met him on my way up."
"D'ye know we've been nearly fifteen hours in this warren?" asked M'Turk. "I thought not! And with reasonable luck a man can be hit and find himself in Blighty within twelve hours. Hallo, here's the Captain!"
The torch was flashed upon the two men and a cloth in which were two candles and a box of matches dropped into the circle of light.
"Look alive!" was the officer's exhortation. "It's quite time we broke through. Does the air seem pure? No petrol fumes hanging around, for instance?"
"Now you come to mention it, sir," replied M'Turk, "it does hum a bit, although it's not petrol. Since I've been out here I've become a Sort of authority on stinks."
"It's the fumes of high-explosive," declared Malcolm.
"Right you are," rejoined his companion, as he struck a match and lit the candles. "By gum, this dug-out's copped it."
In the dim light the place looked a regular shambles. The dug-out was larger than the one in which they had been trapped, but the fittings were of a plainer and more substantial nature. Evidently it had been the underground quarters of some of the Prussian rank and file, for three sides of the place consisted of four tiers of bed-boxes. The fourth, except for a doorway, was taken up with a large arms-rack capable of holding a couple of hundred rifles and bayonets. Most of the floor space was occupied by long trestle tables, while in one corner was the large stack of blankets and bedding upon which Malcolm and M'Turk had fallen.
Although there was no shattered woodwork, everything pointed to a violent disturbance in the enclosed space. Tables and stools had been overthrown; the floor in front of the arms-rack was covered with weapons hurled from their stands. Broken bottles, plates, and earthenware littered the lime-trodden floor.
Against the doorway were four huge Prussians, leaning apathetically against the timbered supports of the arms-rack. Two of them, their eyes fixed upon the New Zealanders, had their arms folded on their broad chests. The others were steadying themselves by their rifles, to which the bayonets were fixed.
Without any weapons, either of offence or defence, for they had left their rifles in the other dug-out, Malcolm and M'Turk were at a decided disadvantage; but the odds did not deter them.
"Bomb 'em out of it!" shouted M'Turk, swinging a purely imaginary missile. "Hands up, Fritz!"
The Huns stirred not a muscle.
"What's the fuss?" sang out Captain Nicholson.
"Four Boches, sir," replied Malcolm.
In a trice the Captain dropped from the tunnel into the dug-out. With his revolver ready for instant action he rejoined his two men, while M'Kane, preceded by his rifle, followed his superior officer's example.
"Hands up!" ordered Captain Nicholson, levelling his revolver at the head of one of the Huns at a range of less than ten yards. The Boche's eyes stared unblinkingly at the muzzle of the weapon, while his companions showed no signs of shaking off their apathy.
"By gum, sir," exclaimed M'Turk, "I believe they've been done in!"
Holding the candle above his head, the rifleman strode over the littered floor and gripped one of the Prussians by the shoulder. Like a log the heavy body toppled forward and fell on its face.
"Stone dead, sir," replied M'Turk. "Every man jack of 'em. And there are more of them over there."
Curiosity prompted Captain Nicholson to examine the corpses. Not one bore the trace of a wound. In addition to the four by the doorway sixteen lay partly hidden by the overturned tables and chairs. Without a mark to show how they had been killed, all the men were dead. Some had been struck down in the act of writing. One man still held a pencil firmly clenched in his hand. Others were eating when death overtook them suddenly and painlessly.
"Killed by concussion when the mine went up," suggested M'Kane.
"More likely by one of our heavy shells," declared Captain Nicholson. "If your theory is correct, how do you account for the fact that those staff officers in the next dug-out came off scot-free until Joliffe thought fit to bring trouble on them and us? No, stay where you are, Joliffe!" he exclaimed, as the bomber's voice was heard shouting his intention of "barracking in". "We'll come back and fetch the pair of you when we've found a way out. Now, boys, let's see how the land lies."
Passing through the doorway and ascending a flight of steps the party reached a wrecked dug-out that bore unmistakable testimony to the tremendous powers of devastation of a British 14-inch shell. The missile had penetrated twenty feet of earth and concrete, closing the entrance to the open air, and half-filling the place with debris. A funnel-like shaft, through which the sky was visible, was now the only means of communication with the open.
"We're not out of the wood yet, boys," remarked Captain Nicholson, surveying the scene of destruction, "but we're getting on."
As he spoke, the orifice was darkened, and a gruff voice from above exclaimed, to the accompaniment of a string of highly uncomplimentary ejaculations:
"Now then, you, up you come or I'll blow you to blazes!"
"Please don't stand there calling us names," expostulated Captain Nicholson affably. "Rather skip off and bring a rope."
After a wait of nearly ten minutes a rope was procured, while other willing helpers brought a number of short ladders to the mouth of the crater. These, lashed together, were lowered into the hole and allowed to rest upon the steeply sloping sides.
Down swarmed several men, not New Zealanders, but belonging to an Australian regiment. Foremost amongst them was Malcolm's Queensland chum on board thePomfret Castle--big Jack Kennedy.
"Hallo, Digger!" exclaimed that worthy, recognizing Rifleman Carr in the candlelight. "What have you been doing? Cleaning out a chimney? You're as black as an aborigine."
"I hardly thought to run across you again," remarked Malcolm.
"The world is small," rejoined Kennedy. "We were on your right when the attack started. Your fellows have rushed Messines village and are holding all the captured positions. Who are your pals? Beg pardon, sir, I didn't know you were an officer!" (This to Captain Nicholson, who, owing to the dirt and grime in which he was smothered, was hardly distinguishable from the others.) "We'll give you a leg up."
"Hold on," protested Captain Nicholson. "There are two of our men who have to be brought along. They're rather shaken up. You'll want a ladder--Carr."
"Yes, sir," replied Malcolm.
"Will you show these men the way into the other dug-out?"
Saluting, Malcolm turned and made his way over the wrecked woodwork, three Australians following in his footsteps. Two of the latter carried a short ladder.
"Fortescue with you?" enquired Kennedy, as the men planted the ladder on the pile of earth that had fallen from the newly-excavated tunnel.
"No," replied Carr. "He got a buckshie in his advance, but Selwyn's there. Do you remember Pieter Waas on the oldPomfret Castle?"
"Do I not, the larrikin!" replied Kennedy. "I suppose you know that he got away soon after he was landed at Plymouth?"
"Yes, and more," added Malcolm. "He was in our trenches last night, and slipped over the top to the German lines."
The Australian smiled incredulously.
"Fact!" persisted his informant. "I spotted him and he spotted me. Before he could be winged he was off in the darkness."
"Then let's hope he went up in the great bust," said Kennedy. "A bit of a sell that, to bunk from the security of our trenches right on top of a million pounds of aminol. This the way up? Golly, this tunnel wasn't made for a man of my size!"
The rescuers found Grouser Joliffe indulging in a particularly strong burst of grumbling--not at his adventures in the dug-out, not at the hardships he had undergone, nor at the wounds he had received. He had just made the disconcerting discovery that he had lost a packet of five cigarettes, and, being a frugal man, the loss irritated him exceedingly.
Dick Selwyn, although stiff and exhausted, was able to walk with assistance, although Malcolm foresaw difficulties when his chum came to the narrow tunnel and the swaying ladder leading to the other dug-out.
"Which of the boys left his coat behind?" enquired Selwyn, indicating a neatly folded bundle on the ground at a few feet from him.
"None," replied Malcolm emphatically.
"Then what's this?"
Malcolm examined the clothing. Not only was there a coat, but a New Zealander's complete kit.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I have it! That's the uniform the spy fellow was wearing. He must have come here, knowing that this dug-out was the Hun brigade head-quarters, and changed into a Boche rig-out. Ten to one he was amongst that lot of staff officers."
"If so, he's properly done in," added Selwyn.
The two chums were only partly correct in their surmise. Konrad von Feldoffer, on realizing that he had been recognized by a couple of men who, he thought, belonged to another battalion, had rather prematurely bolted for the German lines. In the guise of a New Zealander he had been hoping to gather useful and definite information concerning the forthcoming advance. Since most of the Diggers were in ignorance of the mining operations under Messines Ridge, von Feldoffer gained very little information on that point.
By means of a pre-arranged signal the spy arrived at the German trenches without being fired on by his compatriots, despite his khaki uniform and British-pattern shrapnel-helmet. Taken to the head-quarters' dug-out, he made his report to the Hun authorities, changed into German uniform, and left immediately afterwards for a new sphere of activity. So, once more, by the matter of a few hours, Konrad von Feldoffer escaped a well-merited death; while, through ignorance of the terrific preparations made for the blowing up of Messines Ridge, he had unwittingly done the Allies a good turn; for instead of withdrawing the troops the Hun commander had concentrated a thousand on the mined ridge in order to repel an infantry attack that threatened only in the minds of the German staff.
"What are you fellows doing?" enquired Malcolm of the Australian. "Demolishing dug-outs?"
"Not much," replied Kennedy. "We are not raiding this time. We're here to hold what we've got, not to do as much damage as we can and return to our own lines. Already our heavies are well up. A battery of 14-inch guns is in a position just behind the original first-line Boche trench. The air is positively stiff with aeroplanes--all British. The Hun airmen take jolly good care to give us a miss. They absolutely funk it."
"Don't blame 'em!" added another Anzac. "We're top dog in the air just now."
Taking the discarded uniform for identification purposes, Malcolm proceeded to lead the rescue party on their return journey. The two injured men gave considerable trouble. Joliffe, whose wounds were giving him excruciating pain, showed a decided tendency to become light-headed, while Selwyn was so badly bruised and shaken that he could hardly crawl.
Yet, in spite of their difficulties, the Australians succeeded in bringing both men to the foot of the shaft communicating with the open air.
Placed on a stretcher, that was raised by means of a rope running through a block at the end of a hastily constructed derrick, the injured men were taken up the funnel-like shaft, while the others ascended by means of ladders, Captain Nicholson being the last to quit the dug-out that might have proved to be his grave.
After receiving medical attention, Selwyn and Joliffe were sent to the base hospital, while Captain Nicholson and Riflemen Carr, M'Turk, and M'Kane set out to rejoin their battalions at Messines village.
A steady trickle of Anzac wounded--mostly walking cases--making their way to the advance dressing-stations, gave indications that the Diggers were still hotly engaged. Although the British guns already in position were pounding away as hard as they could, there was a heavy fire from the hostile artillery, of which a formidable number had been placed in prepared positions behind the shattered ridge. With typical Teutonic thoroughness the Huns had prepared for the possibility of having Messines wrenched from their hands, and, having lost the ground, they were ready to swamp it with high-explosive shells before launching a counter-attack on a large scale.
Judging by the cheerfulness of the wounded, the New Zealanders were confident of being able to hold the captured village. To Captain Nicholson's question every man expressed his opinion that Fritz was badly beaten. Some of the pick of the Prussian and Bavarian regiments had already attempted to retrieve the lost ground, but had gone down against the brave lads of the Antipodes.
Malcolm found the bulk of his company entrenched on the right of the shell-racked village. A line of captured trenches had been reorganized and placed in a state of defence against its former masters. Since the threatened counter-attack had not yet materialized, most of the New Zealanders were resting in the dug-outs obligingly constructed by Fritz, who little thought that he would have to abandon his painstaking work except upon the conclusion of a victorious German peace.
Apart from an alarm in the early hours of the morning, when a very half-hearted attack was easily repulsed, the New Zealanders spent an undisturbed and comparatively restful night.
With morning came most reassuring and gratifying reports from the whole of the Messines Front. English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, Canadian, and Anzac troops had gained their respective objectives with comparatively few losses, taking into consideration the important results. Once more the prestige of the German army had suffered a severe blow, while, in prisoners alone, the Huns lost more than the total casualties of the successors to the "contemptible little army".
It was not to be supposed that the High Command of the Hun armies would suffer the loss of an important position without making desperate and determined efforts to turn the scale of victory. Fresh divisions were hurried up to relieve the wornout and demoralized troops, whosemoralhad, been badly shaken by the stupendous explosion under Messines Ridge, and the fierce infantry attacks that succeeded it.
Across the shell-pitted ground dense masses of field-grey-clad Huns were hurled, supported by a terrific covering fire from the German guns.
In the hastily-constructed trenches beyond the ruined village the New Zealanders awaited the assault with a quiet confidence. To Malcolm Carr the experience was a novel one. During his comparatively brief service in the trenches he had been called upon to repel isolated raids, both by day and night; he had taken part in several successful excursions over the top to harry the German trenches; he had participated in one of the greatest actions on the Western Front; but, for the first time, he was helping to man a captured position against a massive hostile counter-attack.
This was something very different from anything he had previously experienced. The rousing cheer, the surging mass of khaki-clad figures over the top, and the mad excitement of the headlong rush were absent. In silence the riflemen manned the firesteps and awaited the assault of Germany's crack "shock troops ".
Overhead, far above the bursting shells, aeroplanes were swooping hither and thither. Whether they were friend or foe the Diggers hardly troubled to ascertain. As a matter of fact they were both, and high in the air fierce combats were in progress as the Hun airmen sought in vain to drive off the almost too daring British fliers.
One thousand yards--nine hundred--eight hundred.
Not a shot was fired from the Anzac trenches--although dozens of Maxims, Lewis guns, and rifles were ready to receive Fritz in the strictly conventional way--until the foremost of the serried grey-clad masses drew within seven hundred yards. Then, like the outpouring of a dozen concentrated thunderstorms, British guns that hitherto had been silent set up a barrage--so heavy that the German fire, furious though it was, seemed negligible in comparison.
In front and in the rear of the advancing German infantry the hail of shells descended like a giant twin portcullis, while the intervening space was thick with shrapnel. The dense masses desisted, recoiled, and attempted to flee through the barrage, while death and wounds took heavy toll.
A whistle sounded; others took up the call. Whether the order to advance was premeditated, or given on the spur of the moment, few of the New Zealanders knew. At any rate, now was the opportunity to secure another few hundred yards of ground.
"Up and over, boys!"
A line of khaki topped the parapet, leapt into the open, and broke into a steady double.
Malcolm, with bayonet fixed and magazine charged, found himself right-hand man of C Company as the Diggers surged onwards in extended order.
A few scared and demoralized Huns, who had contrived to dodge the barrage, came towards them slowly, as if uncertain of their reception. With hands upraised and cries of "Kamerad" on their lips the surrendering men passed between the advancing troops, who saluted them with ironical advice to "Cut it out, and not so much of your Kamerad stunt!"
Presently the battalion slowed down. The men were treading on the heels of their own barrage. So perfectly were the shells falling that there was little fear of one falling short and playing havoc with the khaki boys. With a feeling of complete confidence, akin to that of a child for its mother, the New Zealanders literally clung to the skirts of the barrage, at the same time adjuring the distant artillerymen to "Push it along and let's get on!"
In response to a signal from an observing aeroplane the barrage suddenly parted, some of the guns surging round to the right, others lifting and pounding away at a mass of German reserves. Immediately in front of C Company was a gap that would bring men to hand-grips with the foe.
Nothing could have kept the Anzacs back. In vain a daring German aeroplane swooped down and brought a machine-gun to play with absolute impartiality upon the combatants, finally to "crash" upon the corpse-covered ground. With no visible result did the Huns send up their so-called S.O.S. signals for aid. The retirement became a rout, while the New Zealanders pressed hard at the heels of the opponents.
"Enough of that, boys!" ordered Captain Nicholson, who of all the company officers was the senior one unwounded. "Dig yourselves in and stand fast."
Already the haunting suspicion that C Company had pushed on in advance of the rest of the line assailed the young officer. Times without number he had been impressed, and had impressed others, with the need of keeping in touch with the flanking companies. How the line ran, whether the Australian troops of the right were in advance or to the rear of the New Zealanders, he knew not. Dense clouds of low-lying smoke hid everything. The Huns were releasing prodigious quantities of poison gas. Away to the left an advance ammunition-dump went up with a terrific explosion.
In a slight depression, littered with coils of severed barbed wire and displaced sand-bags, Captain Nicholson got his men in hand. The defeated Prussians were being swallowed up in the haze of battle, but dense masses of grey-clad troops were advancing under cover of the liberated gas.
There was no doubt about it, C Company had lost touch. Every man realized the fact, although none remarked it to his comrade. The heat of battle over, they set to work to consolidate and hold the position they had carried at such a cost. Rifle and machine-gun bullets were beginning to spray the ground anew.
Captain Nicholson scribbled a few lines in his pocket-book, tore out the leaf, and beckoned to Malcolm, who was engaged in collecting sand-bags.
"Cut it out, Carr!" he shouted. The order, puzzling to a Tommy, was plain to the rifleman addressed. Desisting from his task, he approached his officer and saluted.
"Find the C.O.," ordered Captain Nicholson. "Give him this--at all costs."
Malcolm took the folded paper and thrust it in his pocket, unfixed his bayonet and returned it to the scabbard, slung his rifle, and started off at a run in the direction of the invisible Messines village. According to the ethics of the Great War a dispatch-bearer must walk while under shell-fire, but when exposed to rifle-fire he may run without loss of dignity or prestige. And, since the matter was urgent, Malcolm felt glad that he was not to traverse a shell-watered zone.
Wounded men, both friend and foe, called imploringly as he passed. Beyond a few cheering words to his helpless comrades he could do nothing to aid them. His errand was too pressing. There were dead, too, in ghastly heaps, some with their fingers still clutching the throats of their opponents, others in a naturally recumbent position that gave the appearance of having fallen easily to sleep.
All the while bullets were whizzing overhead, thudding against the debris that littered the ground, or ricochetting from the hard earth. In his imagination Malcolm felt that he was the target for a whole Prussian division. No wonder, then, that his heart was in his mouth as, bending low, he darted from shell-hole to shell-hole and took advantage of the slightest shelter afforded by a rise in the terrain.
A feeling of utter loneliness assailed him. It was different from advancing with tried and trusted comrades around him and the inspiring dash that accompanied the rush of men confident of victory. Save for the slain and wounded he was alone in the open, not facing bullets, but followed and overlooked by a regular hail coming from an unseen source.
"I've got the wind up this time," he muttered. "Hope I'm on the right track. I don't remember passing this----"
His foot tripped on a strand of wire, the lowermost and only intact part of an entanglement. Down he crashed heavily, his shrapnel-helmet rolling down a declivity for a distance of nearly ten yards.
"Buckshie for me this time," he exclaimed, without making an effort to rise. "Wonder where I've got it?"
Gradually he made the discovery that beyond a grazed instep, for one of the barbs had penetrated his boot, he was unwounded. His ankle was throbbing painfully. In his fall he had sprained it. With an effort he regained his feet, clenched his teeth as a sharp twinge shot through his frame, and again pushed onwards. Although at a deminished pace he still ran--not from inclination but from a sense of duty.
A bang and a cloud of white smoke high above his head told Malcolm that the guns were renewing their activity.
"Shrap., and I've lost my helmet!" he exclaimed. "I'll lose my head next, if I haven't done so already. By gum, I'm out of my tracks!"
He stopped and surveyed his surroundings. He was now quite alone. Even the dead and wounded were no longer in evidence. Smoke limited his range of vision to a distance of less than a hundred yards. Beyond, a few gaunt stumps of trees loomed through the pungent vapour like distorted shadows. With the sun completely obscured, he had no means of ascertaining his direction. For all he knew he might have followed a semicircular course. The sound of the guns helped him not at all. Which were the hostile and which the British artillery was a question he was unable to answer.
A whiff of nauseating gas drifted across his path. His right hand sought his anti-gas mask. It had vanished. Only a portion of one of the straps remained; it had been completely severed by a bullet.
And now another difficulty arose. The deadly gas used by the Huns, having a density greater than air, has a tendency to fill the hollows and leave the high ground comparatively clear. On Malcolm's front the ground rose gradually to a height of about twenty feet. While it might afford protection from the noxious vapour, the ridge was certainly open to rifle-fire. Nor could Carr understand why, in a temporarily-deserted expanse, there should be such a persistent hail of machine-gun fire.
"Better to risk a bullet than a dose of gas," decided the rifleman, and with this intention he breasted the slope as rapidly as his sprained ankle would allow.
"Might get a sight of the village, too," he soliloquized as he neared the summit of the ridge.
Something struck him sharply on the hip. Mechanically he glanced down. The butt of his slung rifle was splintered, the brass heel-plate curiously twisted. A piece of shell, which otherwise would have inflicted a dangerous if not mortal wound, had been intercepted by the rifle.
"A miss is as good as a mile," he remarked to himself.
The sensation akin to panic had passed. A kind of blind fatalism gripped him.
"If I'm booked to be plugged it's no use getting flurried over it," he continued, talking aloud. His voice seemed strange and distant, but for want of someone with whom to converse it afforded him a slight sense of companionship--an audible indication that he was still alive. "On the other hand, if my number isn't up, why worry? All the same, I should like to know how far I'm away from Messines."
Fifty yards ahead was a zigzag trench, its direction only discernible by interrupted sections of sand-bags and badly-shattered wire. Subjected earlier in the day to a terrible artillery pounding, it had been abandoned, but whether by Briton or Hun there was no indication except by closer examination. Evidently it was the rearmost of an intricate system of field-fortifications, for Malcolm was on the parados side while beyond, merging into smoke and haze, were other ramifications of the maze of trenches, all silent and deserted.
"They are bound to lead somewhere," was Malcolm's surmise. "To the Messines salient most likely. I'll risk it. It's certainly safer than in the open, so here goes."
Choosing a gap in the parados, Rifleman Carr cautiously slid on to the floor of the trench. The effort gave his ankle a wrench that sent a pain through his leg like the searing of a hot iron.
"I'll get there if I have to crawl for it," he muttered. "There's one thing certain, I won't be able to go back."
The trench was dry and the floor made good going, except in places where the sand-bags had slipped and formed awkward obstacles. There were no indications as to who were the owners of the place. Discarded British and German rifles, clips of cartridges, and other articles were impartially strewn about.
Just as Malcolm was approaching the fourth or fifth bay a heavy shell landed about twenty yards from the parapet. With a concussion that sent sand-bags flying and hurled tons of dirt high in air the missile exploded.
Bending to avoid the flying fragments that were descending like rain, Malcolm, regardless of his sprained foot, bolted round the traverse, and before he was fully aware of the fact he had blundered right into a party of Huns.
It would be difficult to say who were the most taken aback: the Boches at the sight of a khaki-clad man who might or might not be the foremost of a party of trench raiders, or Malcolm on finding himself confronted by a score of fully-armed Germans.
The New Zealander's first impulse was to unsling his rifle. By use of his magazine he might drive the Huns into the next bay, and, profiting by the diversion, effect a smart retirement. The weapon was useless; the piece of shell that had smashed the butt had jammed the bolt action. The rifle was little better than a broken reed.
Malcolm turned and ran, but he had forgotten his sprained ankle. Before he had taken a couple of strides his legs gave way under him, and like a felled ox he collapsed upon the duck-boards.
Even as he lay prostrate his wits did not desert him. At all costs the note entrusted to him by his captain must be destroyed. Although ignorant of its contents, Malcolm felt assured that it was of great importance, otherwise Captain Nicholson would not have sent anyone across the open under a hail of bullets. With a deft movement the trapped rifleman removed the paper from his pocket and conveyed it to his mouth, and before the approaching Huns were upon him he had swallowed the paper.
Ten seconds later he was in the grip of three hulking Saxons, who promptly bound his wrists behind his back and propped him up against the fire-step of the trench. The others, having satisfied themselves that the prisoner was an isolated straggler, crowded round and regarded him with undisguised interest.
Unable to understand a word Of German, Malcolm was at a loss to follow their excited conversation. He managed to glean that there was a discussion as to what the Huns would do with their prisoner. One particularly villainous-looking Boche was apparently advising that he should be shot outright, fingering the trigger of his rifle as if in joyous anticipation of playing the joint rôle of judge and executioner.
This amiable proposal was overruled by the others, and, after the prisoner had been searched and his belongings confiscated, Malcolm was marched along the trench, preceded and followed by men with loaded rifles.
Almost every yard of the way was occupied by troops. The men regarded the passing of the prisoner with slight interest. Their attention was principally directed upon some distant object, as if they were momentarily expecting an attack.
By one of those freaks of misfortune Rifleman Carr had completely lost his bearings, and in his wanderings had made his way towards the German trenches instead of towards the village of Messines. The shells and bullets that had given him such a warm time had come from his own lines, and in endeavouring to seek cover he had stumbled upon a temporarily-unoccupied section of the original enemy support-trenches. Even then he had no warning of his expensive mistake until he literally walked into a trap, the bay being filled with Saxons of the 209th Reserve Regiment.
Conducted into a deep and spacious dug-out, the prisoner was brought before two German officers. One, a major, was short and corpulent. Bald-headed, of florid complexion, and with abnormally-puffed eyelids, magnified still more by a pair of heavy convex glasses, the Saxon had Landsturmer written all over him. His companion was a tall, cadaverous lieutenant of about twenty-five, narrow-chested, and with protruding shoulder-blades. His hawkish features, upturned moustache, and colourless skin gave him a truly Machiavellian aspect. He wanted only a pointed beard and a ruff to complete the living representation of a sixteenth-century portrait of one of the ruffianly Margraves of the Palatinate.
"It's the long chap who will cause trouble," mentally decided Malcolm. "The big-paunched fellow won't count. They're going to question me, that's evident. If I try to bamboozle them there will be trouble. By Jove! I'll give them a few choice New Zealand catch-phrases, and see what happens."
At a sign from the Lieutenant the sergeant in charge of the escort deftly removed the prisoner's identity disc and handed it to his superior officer for inspection. The cadaverous one jotted down something in a pocket-book, and exchanged a few words with his confrere.
"Now listen," began the Lieutenant in broken English; "der truth we must haf. If lies you tell it useless is. We vill haf you shot at vonce. Tell me where you come from?"
"Ask me?" replied Malcolm promptly.
The Lieutenant frowned.
"I haf asked," he rejoined. "Where you come from--what position?"
"Cut it out!" ejaculated the lad.
His questioner bent over a map spread out on the table in front of him. With a puzzled expression on his face he addressed the Major. Malcolm distinctly heard the words "Cut it out" mentioned more than once.
The lad smiled inwardly. The sight of the two Germans poring over a map to find this non-existent locality of "Cut it out" tickled his sense of humour.
Foiled in that direction, and attributing his discomfiture to the fact that the military map was quite inadequate to present needs, the Lieutenant wrote in his notebook again.
"How you arrive at our lines?" continued the inquisitor.
Malcolm thought fit to reply in a totally irrelevant string of Maori phrases, concluding with "Haeremai te kai" (come to dinner) and a decisive shake of his head.
By the time he had finished the Hun lieutenant's face was a study in angry astonishment.
"It is evident," he remarked in German to his companion, "that the prisoner is one of the Englander's mercenaries--from Portugal, perhaps, or even from one of those outlandish and unheard-of nations that have presumptuously declared war against us. The fact that his identity disc proclaims him to be a New Zealander proves nothing, except that the English are liars. I was always under the impression that New Zealanders were black, tattooed savages. Since the prisoner is worthless to us I would suggest that he be shot forthwith."
The Major shook his head.
"Do not be too hasty, von Rügen. Shooting prisoners would be all very well if we were not in a vile plight ourselves. What would happen to you and me if those Englanders repeated the success they had over the 46th Westphalians? By some means the enemy found out that von Tondhoven had executed the two sergeants who were caught just beyond our entanglements--and what was the result? Not a single officer of the 46th Regiment was given quarter. Here we are cut off from our supplies. At any moment that infernal barrage might start, and then the khakis would be swarming on top of us. No, no, von Rügen, I am not at all satisfied with your suggestion, nor am I at the prisoner's replies."
To Malcolm's mortification the Major held up a packet of documents taken from the prisoner--his pay-book, a few letters and post cards from far-off New Zealand, and a few snapshots of incidents on board the transportAwarua.
Scribbling on a piece of paper, the Major handed the slip to the prisoner. On it was written:
"How is you not understand English, since we haf writing on you discovered?"
Malcolm studied the writing with feigned interest, puckering his brow and frowning in assumed perplexity. By a pantomime display he obtained a pencil from the Sergeant, and wrote rapidly and distinctly "'Nuff sed" in reply.
A reference to two different Anglo-German dictionaries followed, accompanied by many guttural ejaculations from the baffled Teutons. "I will have the prisoner sent back to-night," decided the Major. "We have evidently captured one of a new type. He will interest the Intelligence officers---- Himmel! Is that the cursed barrage commencing?"
A heavy shell landing in close proximity to the dug-out set the concrete girders shaking. With a hurried gesture the Major dismissed the prisoner, and, accompanied by the saturnine lieutenant, bolted to a flight of steps leading to a still deeper refuge.
At a guttural order, the purport of which there was no mistaking, Malcolm turned, and, surrounded by his guards, hurried out into the trench.
There was good cause for haste. With the exception of a few sentries, stationed in concreted, sand-bagged shelters, the trench was deserted. The Saxon infantry had bolted to their dug-outs like startled rabbits, as shell after shell screeched overhead and burst amongst the labyrinth of trenches in the rear.
Speedily Rifleman Carr, now a prisoner of war, found himself in a dug-out with half a dozen Huns for companionship.
For two reasons the Boches were favourably disposed towards their captive. One was that they were Saxons, who, hating the Prussian and all his works, were less imbued with the doctrine of hate towards the enemies of the Fatherland. The other was the knowledge that, in the event of a successful British infantry attack, the presence of a well-treated prisoner would tend considerably to mitigate their treatment when the tables were turned. Over and over again instances have come to light of whole companies of Huns surrendering to their late prisoners when the lads in khaki were swarming with fixed bayonets over the parapets and into the enemy trenches.
Malcolm acted warily. Suspecting a trap, he refrained from verbal conversation, although several of the Saxons could speak a few words of English. He thanked them by signs when they provided him with a portion of their own meagre fare and showed him their treasures in the form of photographs of relatives and places in the Fatherland.
Meanwhile the bombardment continued without intermission. Although the expected barrage had not put in an appearance, the British "heavies" were lavishly showering shells upon the German position. The ground was trembling continually, acrid-smelling smoke found its way into the deepest dug-outs. Wherever a direct hit occurred it was all U P with the luckless inmates of the crowded underground shelters. Twenty or thirty feet of earth, reinforced with concrete and sand-bags, was not proof against the terribly destructive missiles.
From time to time, as shells landed unpleasantly near, the faces of the Germans grew long. Malcolm, too, felt far from comfortable. The possibility of being blown into infinitesimal fragments by British shells was not what he had bargained for. He was quite willing, for five shillings a day, to take his chance of being knocked out by the Boches, but----
The lugubrious faces of the Huns had the effect of making the rifleman pull himself together. At any rate, Fritz was not going to see that he had cold feet. Moistening his lips, Malcolm began to whistle.
In ordinary circumstances he could whistle well. Often while in billets or standing by in a dug-out his chum would ask him to oblige with a whistling solo; but now he was forced to confess that the result was not exactly melody.
"Nicht mehr!" exclaimed a corporal peremptorily.
Although he did not know what the Saxon said, the accent and the emphatic gesture were sufficient.
"He means 'shut up'," soliloquized Malcolm. "That's a nasty one. I suppose it gets on his nerves. Well, I'm not surprised. I fancy I was a trifle flat and wobbly."
A few seconds later the dug-out shook violently. Some of the men who were standing upright were thrown forward, gear was hurled from the racks and shelves, while the concrete walls cracked from top to bottom, bulging ominously under the pressure of earth behind them.
"A near one!" decided Malcolm. "Another five yards this way and it would have been all up."
A hoarse voice shouted through the tunnel that formed the entrance. Without showing any tendency to bestir themselves the men looked at each Other enquiringly. Evidently they were wanted outside, but were debating as to who should make the first move. The carrying out of orders promptly--generally the German soldiers' chief concern--was noticeably absent. It was not until the command had been given three times that the men reluctantly left their shelter.
Left to himself, Malcolm discussed the situation. Now was his opportunity to slip out at the heels of the Hun and trust to luck in the open. If he escaped being blown up, he might be able to go over the parapet unobserved and make his way towards the British lines. While the bombardment was in progress there was little chance of the Huns manning the trenches. On the other hand, prudence counselled him to stay where he was. Should the infantry attack develop and be successful his rescue would be merely a question of time. Then again came the maddening thought that if the British troops did not capture the position he would remain a prisoner in the hands of the enemy.
"I'll chance it and go outside," he decided.
Without, the air was thick with smoke. At the most, Malcolm could see but twenty to twenty-five paces to right and left. In front was the parados, the ground covered with a yellowish dust from the high-explosive shells. At the entrance to the dugout into which he had been taken to be questioned, a dozen men were vigorously plying pick and shovel, the while urged to still greater efforts by a gigantic sergeant.
A 12-inch shell had fallen on top of the shelter. Concrete earth and sand-bags were not proof against the terrific impact, despite the fact that thirty feet of solid material formed the roof of the subterranean retreat.
"They might just as well save themselves the job," thought Malcolm. "Mephistopheles and the Fat Boy won't be worth troubling about, I guess. It was a jolly good thing that they didn't invite me to stay and have dinner with them. Now for it!"
Making for a gap in the parapet the lad began to crawl up the steps of disentangled sand-bags and trench-props. The British guns were evidently lifting. Although the air was "stiff" with screeching shells, the missiles were flying high overhead and bursting far behind the German first-line trench. Machine-gun and rifle-firing had ceased. Beyond the few men engaged in digging out their unfortunate officers the normally lightly-held front trench was practically deserted.
"I'll win through yet!" exclaimed the lad, voicing his thoughts aloud.
The next instant a lurid flash leapt up from the ground almost in front of him. Hurled violently backward by a terrific blast again, Malcolm had a fleeting vision of the ground rising up to meet him, and then everything became a blank.