"Penfoldspoke of his escape without emotion. He had been long enough check by jowl with death to express no surprise. He had merely remarked that it was a lucky chance that the occupants of the shelled dug-out had not been inside when the heavy howitzer missile had demolished it. What did seriously annoy him was the loss of the promised food.
Ralph Setley, although by this time ravenously hungry, was fervently thankful for his escape. Already the reaction of the raid into the German trenches was beginning to tell. Shorn of excitement of the wild rush over the top, the horrors of that nocturnal excursion rose up in his mind. The knowledge that he had bayoneted a fellow-creature, although he were an enemy and a brutal Hun, worried him.
"Suppose the fellow would have done me in if I hadn't got him first," he soliloquized. Then, aloud:
"What are you jabbering about, Alderhame?"
The former actor was stamping up and down the duck-boards, now encrusted with a thin coating of ice:—
"Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot."
"That'sAs You Like It!chum. It aptly describes our condition. Horribly cold, and benefits in the shape of bully-beef gone, though not forgotten. Where's our next lodging?"
The stream of prisoners and wounded Tommies had now dwindled. Penfold, addressing a sergeant, stated his case.
"D'ye think I'm a Cook's tourist guide?" snapped the N.C.O. "Turn in where you can. There are a good many half empty dug-outs now, I'm thinking."
A shell shrieked overhead. The Huns were putting up a barrage, the shrapnel falling amongst their own men, who, prisoners in the hands of the British, were being escorted to the "Advance cages."
"In here," said Penfold, making a dive for the nearest entrance. Alderhame followed close at his heels, then Setley and George Anderson, the latter still grousing at the loss of a quarter of an inch of his ear.
"Anyone at home?" enquired Penfold.
He pushed aside the covering to the sloping tunnel and entered the dug-out, which in point of size and contents was much the same as his demolished mud-hole—the damp steaming straw, the pungent fumes of the charcoal brazier, the moisture dripping through the timber-shored roof, and the guttering candle—a typical Tommy's barrack-room on the Somme Front.
Seated on an upturned ammunition-case and with his feet resting on another tin box, in order to keep them out of the slime, was a young, pale-faced, dark-haired soldier He was busily engaged in writing with an indelible pencil certain words of deeper violet hue, betraying the fact that the paper shared the general failing of the subterranean abode—it was moist: uncommonly so.
So engrossed was the writer that for some moments he "carried on" with his task. Then looking up, and seeing strange faces, he exclaimed, in a lisping drawl:
"I say, you've made a mistake. This isn't your caboodle."
"No mistake, chummy," replied Penfold firmly. "We've been shelled out. We crave your hospitality. How many men in this dug-out?"
"There were eight this morning," replied the youth:
"Where are the others?"
"Ask me another."
"I will," rejoined Penfold, depositing his rifle on a bench. "Have they left any grub?"
"Wish they had," was the grim answer. Then, with more eagerness than he had hitherto shown, he asked: "Have you any food? I haven't had a bite since this morning. Finished the whole of my ration, including jam, thinking that the fresh stuff would be in—but it isn't!"
"You're welcome to a share of ours, laddie," remarked Alderhame, "which happens to be nixes."
Ralph sat down on a bundle of straw, having first appropriated the late occupant's pack as a pillow. He was feeling horribly tired. His feet and hands were numbed with the cold. His saturated clothes were throwing off wisps of muggy vapour. Even a huge rat pattering on the muddy floor and scampering through the straw hardly troubled him, and a few hours previously he would have gone twenty yards to avoid one.
In his drowsiness he found himself contemplating the latest of his many new comrades.
"I'll bet that chap's a Jew," he thought.
Setley was right in his surmise. Sidney Bartlett was the grandson of a Polish refugee who had become a naturalized Englishman and, dropping the name of Bariniski, had successfully engaged in business in Birmingham. Like many of the Hebrew race, young Bartlett was a patriot and a staunch supporter of the land of his adoption. When the call to arms came he rallied to the Colours, only to be sent back until he was sufficiently old to serve in His Majesty's Forces. Only three years previously Sidney was at a large day school, and there occurred an incident that was to influence his conduct at the Somme Front.
For some weeks the lad was persistently absent from school. The head master constantly received notes to the effect that Sidney was kept at home through domestic troubles, in which a grandmother figured largely. The caligraphy arousing his suspicions, the head wrote to the lad's father, and then the "cat was out of the bag."
One afternoon Bartlett Senior, accompanied by his errant son, came to the head master's study.
"Now, Sidney," said his sire, solemnly, "I vant you to tell de trut'—de whole trut', mind. Later on, in bizness, Sidney, you may tell a lie; but now you must tell de trut'."
Utterly worn out, Setley fell asleep—a slumber broken with dreams of the exciting episodes of the last few hours. Rats wandered at will over his couch of straw; vermin of other kind swarmed everywhere. His companions, too hungry to sleep, sat up and smoked, recounting anecdotes on almost every topic except the war. Without the guns thundered incessantly, but the duel was chiefly betwixt the artillery, and the trenches were left almost untouched.
"I'm off to see if I can't find some grub," declared Penfold. "Who's game?"
Ginger Anderson volunteered to accompany him with the greatest alacrity. It was better than sitting still in a damp dug-out with hunger gnawing at one's vitals. Alderhame and Bartlett also expressed their willingness to take part in the foraging expedition.
"I reckon as if we do 'ave any luck," remarked Ginger, "the rations will arrive directly we do, and all our work'll be for nothing."
"So much the better," rejoined Penfold.
"How about Setley?"
"Let him sleep on," suggested the ex-actor:
"Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribsUpon uneasy pallets stretching thee,And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber."
"'Buzzing night-flies' sounds poetical," remarked Penfold. "Poetic licence shows tactful discretion in this case. Come along, you fellows."
The four adventurers sallied forth to beg, borrow, or steal something in the edible line. It was freezing so hard that the trench-boards were immovably cemented in solid mud of the hardness of stone.
"Thank goodness we weren't warned for the wiring party," whispered Penfold. "Black as pitch, and as cold as charity. Hist! What do you make of that?"
He pointed to a faint ray of light emanating from an oblique shaft of a dug-out—that of the major of his company. The opening was for ventilating purposes, and was fitted with a piece of corrugated iron to prevent the water making its way into the underground room. From the shaft came the unmistakable odour of roast meat.
One by one the men reconnoitred, and withdrew to a safe distance to deliberate.
"Regular old food-hog," declared Alderhame. "Not only is he about to wolf a pound of meat, but there's a pudding and a packet of sausages. Presumably, his missis has sent him out a hamper."
"Too much for one man, albeit a field officer," decided Penfold. "Lads, we must have some of that grub!"
"'Ow?" enquired Anderson. "Yer can't just pop in an' say, friendly like: 'Wot cheer, major, old sport; 'ow abart it? Can yer?"
"Can't we lure him out?" suggested Alderhame.
"We might; but what's the use?" rejoined Penfold. "These officers' dug-outs have doors, and ten to one he'll lock it if he goes far from his grub."
"You get him out," said Sidney Bartlett. "I'll do the rest. All we want is a light pole. There are some in the next traverse. Lash a bayonet to one end and spear what we can through that hole."
"Sounds feasible," agreed Penfold. "Nip off and get the gear ready."
In a short space of time Bartlett had rigged up his improvised fishing-tackle.
"Now," he said, "I'm ready. You carry on, Penfold."
Drawing his woollen cap well over his eyes and turning up the collar of his greatcoat as high as possible, Penfold knocked at the door of the Major's dug-out.
"Well?" enquired a deep muffled voice testily.
"Colonel's compliments, sir," announced the mendacious private, in an assumed tone. "He wants you to report to him at once upon the number of men left in this section of the trench."
Grumbling, the Major issued from his subterranean retreat, carefully locked the door, and set out to find the company sergeant-major, in order to obtain the supposedly urgent information.
Before he returned the four raiders were scurrying back to their dug-out, each with his mouth full of cold sausage, while Alderhame retained a painful impression of an otherwise appetizing repast in the shape of a cut on his cheek, caused by the end of the pole as the elated Sidney swiftly withdrew it with the prized booty impaled upon the bayonet.
"Where's my first-aid dressing?" enquired the ex-actor, with mock concern.
"'And patches will I get unto these scarsAnd swear I got them in the Gallia wars.'"
"Hardly good enough for Blighty," said Penfold, with a laugh. "My word, won't the Major be in a tear when he misses his sausages!"
"Let him," said Bartlett. "He can only blame the rats."
"Halt! Who goes there?" exclaimed the hoarse voice of a sentry in the next traverse.
"Engineers' ration party," was the reply. "Is this the Royal Engineers?"
"Rather!" replied the ready Penfold. "Dump 'em down; we'll fetch them."
Out of the neighbouring dug-outs poured other Tommies. Without having any suspicion of the ruse played upon them, the ration party handed over the stores intended for a company of the Royal Engineers, who were engaged in tunnelling on the left of the Wheatshires' trenches. Almost in the nick of time a famine was averted at the expense of the sappers and miners. But, as Penfold remarked, it was each man for himself when it came to a case of semi-starvation.
""Turnout, you chaps! You're warned for duty in the first-line trench."
With the sergeant's words ringing in his ears Ralph Setley arose from his uncomfortable bed. A candle was still guttering. It was not yet dawn. The Huns' protracted shelling had ceased until the time for their customary morning "hate."
The rest of the occupants of his dug-out were engaged upon their morning "toilet"—the rite consisting of cleaning and oiling their rifles. Washing was out of the question, and as they had turned in fully dressed, including great-coats and boots, there was nothing further to be done beyond cooking breakfast.
Thanks to the blunder of the rationing party the men regaled themselves with slices of bacon, bread not more than three days old, and tea of exceptionally strong brew. The bacon was gritty, which was not to be wondered at, seeing that the men had been under shell-fire almost the whole way to the trenches.
Alderhame was in high spirits notwithstanding he had had but a few hours' sleep. There was a touch of the far-off "green-room" days, as he laid his hand on Setley's shoulder.
"Come on, laddie," he said. "Let's survey the radiant morn:—
"This battle fares like to the morning's war,When dying clouds contend with glowing light;What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,Can neither call it perfect day nor night."
Viewed in the pale grey dawn, the dreary stretch of No Man's Land was robbed of most of its ghastly details. Here and there, often in heaps, huddled corpses dressed in mud-stained field-grey testified to the accuracy of the British rifle and machine-gun fire. Further away lay the trenches that the Wheatshires had visited so effectively. Already Hun wiring parties had been out, and the shattered stakes and snake-like coils of severed barbed wire had been replaced by new. Almost in the front row of wire a black, white, and red striped flag—the emblem of Germany—fluttered in the faint breeze.
Setley could now understand why the order for recall had been given when the regiment was in possession of this section of the Hun trenches, for dominating the advance works was a strong redoubt, known to the Wheatshires by the somewhat ominous name of Pumpnickel. For the last three weeks the Engineers—the same company whose rations had been appropriated by the Wheatshires—had been engaged in driving a mine-gallery in the direction of this earthwork-fortress. Great things were promised when the time came to spring the mine and send Pumpnickel Redoubt flying in the air.
"I mean to get that flag," declared Bartlett. "I'll go out to-night and bring it in."
"Wouldn't if I were you," said Penfold. "It's a sort of booby-trap, I wouldn't mind betting. Something that, when moved, explodes a grenade."
"I'll risk that," declared the lad grimly. "The Boches mustn't flaunt their colours in our faces. I was——"
Something "pinged" on the rounded surface of his steel helmet. A watchful sniper had seized his chance. Only by an inch had Sidney escaped death, for had the bullet struck the steel squarely instead of glancing off the convex surface the head-gear would not have withstood the impact.
"Are you young fools looking for trouble?" growled Sergeant Ferris, the N.C.O. who had routed them from the dug-out. "Keep under cover, and use a trench periscope if you want to enjoy the scenery."
"Thanks for the tip, sergeant," said George Anderson. "Sorry I can't offer yer a seegar, sergeant; I left me case on the grand pianner at 'ome; but 'ave a fag—a genuine Day's March Nearer 'Ome' brand."
The N.C.O. took the proffered cigarette and lit it slowly and deliberately.
"Are we on Wiring Party to-night, sergeant?" asked Ginger.
"Not as I know of," was the reply. "Why?"
"'Cause my pal 'ere is goin' to get 'old of that striped bed-cover"—jerking his thumb in the direction of the German flag—"an' I'm a-goin' with 'im; ain't I, Sid, ole sport?"
"Then you'll have to be sharp about it," remarked Sergeant Ferris. "The mine is to be sprung at 3.30 a.m. We're over the top again; this time there'll be no going back, if all goes well. We ought to advance four hundred yards and consolidate the position. So now you know. Go for the flag at your own risk, chums; but don't forget. Be back before three, or you'll stand a sure and certain chance of going to Kingdom Come with a couple o' hundred perishing Boches for company."
During the rest of the day nothing happened beyond the customary routine of trench life, combined with the monotonous occurrence of casualties.
"Are you still of the same mind, Bartlett?" enquired Alderhame, as darkness set in.
"Rather," was the firm reply.
"Then I'm going with you."
"And I," added Setley.
"No, you don't," objected Anderson. "Two's quite enough for this blessed job. Look 'ere: if I don't come back, there's a letter in my pack wot I wants sent 'ome. Anythink else you can 'ave, fags an' all. I'm going to 'ave a doss. Turn me out at twelve."
"Rum chap," commented Alderhame, indicating the soundly sleeping Ginger. "A regular rough diamond, always ready to do a pal a good turn."
"By the by," said Setley. "You did me a good turn when my bayonet got hung up, although you nearly split the drum of my ear when you fired and brought down the fellow who was about to club me."
"Every little helps," said Alderhame. "Lucky for you the Hun wasn't on my left side."
"Why?" enquired Ralph curiously.
"Simply because I'm stone-blind in my left eye," replied the ex-actor composedly. "I was passed for Class A just the same. When I told the doctor he merely remarked: 'Oh, left eye, eh? Well, a man almost invariably shoots with his right eye!' 'I'd sooner shoot with a rifle, sir!' I said. 'And so you shall, my man!' he rejoined, laughing at my repartee; so he marked me down for general service, and here I am. I'm not at all sorry. If I come through this business it will be something to be proud of, you know."
All was quiet between the opposing lines. The Huns, realizing the superior weight and volume of fire of the British guns, wisely refrained from inviting them; while the latter, massed until they were practically wheel to wheel, were silent, concentrating their energies for a terrific tornado of shell as a prelude to the rush of the infantry "over the top."
At midnight the two volunteers were roused from their slumbers.
"Still of the same mind?" enquired Penfold.
"Not 'arf," replied Ginger, while Bartlett nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders in the characteristic way that he had inherited from his Polish ancestors.
"We'll speed the parting guests," declared Alderhame, with a forced attempt at joviality. "Me lud, your carriage waits."
"Chuck it!" retorted Anderson. "'Ere, gimme me baynit. Look arter me rifle till I comes back. Now, Sidney, old sport."
Setley, Penfold, and the ex-actor accompanied them to the front trench. Like men about to dive into icy-cold water the two raiders paused, with one foot on the fire-step; then without a word both wriggled silently and cautiously over the parapet. Ten seconds later the intense darkness had swallowed them up.
Braving the piercing cold the three men awaited their comrades' return, peering at intervals over the top of the parapet and straining their ears to catch the faintest sound of their movements. Twenty minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did the twain betray their presence in the forbidding No Man's Land.
Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a short shriek of mingled pain and rage, the thud of blows falling on some soft object, and the unmistakable squelching of many feet in the tenacious slime.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Penfold. "They've been done in. Who's going out, lads?"
"Not much use at present," objected Alderhame. "The Huns are on the alert. When things have quieted down a bit, I'll go."
"That's the spirit, lad," said Sergeant Ferris, who had joined the party of watchers. "Discretion is what's wanted now. We've chucked away two men over this business already, and all for the sake of a dirty German flag."
Another twenty minutes passed. The Huns could be heard talking excitedly in their trenches, but the distance was too great to distinguish their words. Setley was of the opinion that Sidney was a prisoner. He fancied that he heard the lad's voice, but he could not be certain.
"If they'd got Ginger," declared Penfold, "there would be no doubt of hearing his voice. Well, lads, are you fit?"
The three men began to remove great-coats and everything likely to impede their movements. Suddenly Setley snatched up his rifle.
"What's up, now?" asked the sergeant.
"Something moving," declared the lad.
The sentries, too, held their arms in readiness to open fire.
"Steady on, chums," whispered Ginger. "Don't let rip. It's only me."
He wriggled over the parapet and dropped inertly upon the fire-step. For some moments he lay like one dead, his comrades forbearing to question him.
Presently he raised his head, and extending his hand showed a closely rolled bundle that was indistinguishable in the darkness.
"I've got it, mates," he announced. "It's the flag we went out for. Got me baynit into one bloke's throat, an' didn't 'e scream."
"Where's Sidney?" asked Penfold.
"Ain't 'e back? I lost touch with 'im. 'Ere, I'm off out again!"
"No, you don't," declared Sergeant Ferris firmly. "You'll be put under arrest if you attempt it. You're done up. Now, you fellows, if you're going you'd best look sharp about it. Take a rope, in case you find young Bartlett. Slip it round his heels, and drag him in if he cannot crawl."
In spite of his resolution, Setley's heart was literally in his mouth when he found himself in contact with the slime of No Man's Land. At ten paces he had lost all idea of the whereabouts of his companions. Guided by the relative position of the Pole star, now shining feebly through the drifting smoke, he crawled slowly but steadily onwards towards the spot where the coveted flag had been planted.
At frequent intervals star-shells burst overhead, throwing a blinding, ghostly glare upon the crater-pitted ground. Their appearance was the signal for Setley to throw himself flat upon the ground. The slightest movement would have resulted in a machine-gun being trained upon him. With his face pillowed on his arm—it was the only way of preventing a smothering acquaintance with the evil-smelling Somme mud—he was unable to take advantage of the light to look for his companions. Whether they were ahead, behind, or had relinquished their efforts, he was totally in ignorance.
Presently his hand came in contact with some hard cold substance. It was the face of a frozen corpse—that of a Hun, judging by the cloth-swathed helmet. The man was obviously a sniper, for he had on him a stock of candles, food and drink, and a pair of binoculars. Evidently he was making, under cover of darkness, for a favourite lair when a chance bullet struck him on the forehead.
A searchlight, unexpectedly unmasked, swept the ground. Fortunately, Setley had just crept into a shell-crater, and the raised lip effectually intercepted the dazzling rays. From the corner of his eye he made out the sinister lines of wire fronting the German trenches, the criss-cross of barbed entanglements standing out like silver filigree work in the cold rays of the electric light. He was within a few feet of his objective.
Voices were talking just over the sand-bagged parapet. He listened. There were Germans speaking in broken English, asking questions in menacing tones. Someone was answering—and that someone was Private Sidney Bartlett.
"Analmost similar pilgrimage across No Man's Land had been made by Private Bartlett, but with a different ending. Before he was aware of the fact he had blundered into a party of Germans engaged in wiring the defences, and as he made a vicious jab with his bayonet at the nearest of the Huns he was felled with a blow of a mallet. Without a cry he dropped senseless.
In an unconscious condition he was brought in by his captors, and placed unceremoniously on the fire-step of the hostile trench. At the first sign of the prisoner's senses returning his guards sent word to their officers that the Englishman was recovering and could be interrogated.
"Now you vos tell me der truth," said the German menacingly. "Der whole truth, mind, or we vos haf you shot. I know plenty about your trenches, so if you tell der lie den I vos you find out. Now, vot regiment you vos?"
"The Wheatshires," replied the captive promptly. He knew that the Huns were fully aware of the composition of the troops engaged opposite to them.
"Goot!" said the Major. "Dot vos so. Now, der is talk of und mine. Dot is so?"
"Yes," replied Sidney. "We have sunk a mine gallery."
"In vot direction?" was the next question.
Sidney paused to think. He recalled his father's words. "In business, Sidney, you can tell a lie." This was a business—one of the grimmest businesses that fall to the lot of men and nations—scientific murder, licensed under the name of war.
"Why you no answer?" prompted the Hun.
"Suppose I refuse?" asked the captive. "Men taken prisoner are not compelled to reply to questions on military matters."
The German laughed gruffly.
"Rules of war for fools are," he chuckled. "We Germans make war, we no play. You answer vill make now, so."
"All right; if I am compelled to do so," rejoined Sidney. "The mine runs away to your left—two hundred yards, I should think." In point of fact, and Private Bartlett was perfectly aware of it, the explosion chamber was almost immediately beyond that part of the hostile trench in which he was held prisoner. Although the main force of the explosion would be directed against the Pumpnickel Redoubt there was the almost certainty of a swift and terrible death to every living creature in the German first-line trenches as well.
The Hun officer snapped out some words of command to his men. The soldiers began to pile up sand-bags across the trench to neutralize, as they thought, the outlying effects of the impending explosion, while the locality that Bartlett had purposely and wrongly indicated was cleared of troops.
"Ach!" continued the Major. "Now you vos tell me dis: at vot hour the mine goes it off?"
"At six-thirty," replied Sidney promptly. He was entering eagerly into the "business" by this time. It would result, he had no doubt, in the extermination of several hundred Germans and his comparatively insignificant self as well.
"Now, we see," remarked the Prussian officer. "If der truth you haf said, den all vill well be. We keep you here—in der drench."
Evidently the German had certain misgivings, for, ordering a post to be driven deeply into the slime and his prisoner to be firmly bound to it, he scurried off to a remote portion of the reserve trenches.
This much Ralph Setley heard. From other sounds he came to the conclusion that most, if not all, of the German troops were following their superior's example.
"Time for me to be getting back," he soliloquized. "There may yet be an opportunity for our chaps to raid the trench and rescue Bartlett before the mine is sprung. Wonder how time goes? It seems as if I've been out for a couple of hours."
He returned in quicker time than he had taken to crawl out to the barbed wire entanglements. For one thing the Huns were no longer in the trench, ready to train a machine-gun on any moving object that they were able to discern in the glare of the star-shells. For another thing, the artillery duel had increased in violence, the rain of projectiles from the British guns being unmistakably superior in velocity to that of the Huns. Perhaps it was a prelude to the impending advance? If so, the hour fixed for the firing of the mine was at hand.
"That you, Setley?" came a hoarse whisper almost into his ear.
"Yes," replied Ralph, recognizing Alderhame's voice.
"Thought you had been done in. We've been back some time. I crawled out to see if I could find you. Come along."
A rifle-bullet whizzed past Setley's head.
Promptly he ducked and crouched in a convenient shell-hole. Somewhere in No Man's Land a Hun sniper was on the qui vive.
A dozen shots rang out from the British trenches in reply. The flash of the sniper's rifle had betrayed his position. A squeal, like that of a stuck pig, showed pretty plainly that the Hun ought to have stopped a bullet.
The noise was but a ruse on the sniper's part, for as Alderhame and Setley scrambled over the parapet another shot rang out from the same spot, the bullet grazing the heel of Ralph's boot and cutting a slight furrow on his wrist.
It was hard lines on the sniper; for just as he fired his second shot a German shell, falling short—as defective projectiles are apt to do—landed fairly on top of his lair. In the flash that followed the luckless sniper's body was hurled high in the air, and fell with a sickening thud almost on top of the British parapet.
"What have you been up to?" enquired Sergeant Ferris.
Briefly, Setley told the non-com. of what he had heard.
"Then come along and report to the Colonel," continued the sergeant. "By smoke, if we get permission to attempt a rescue every man-jack in the battalion will want to be over the top."
"A very creditable performance," declared the officer commanding the Wheatshires, when Ralph had made his report. "Private Bartlett is a brick. No; I do not think it advisable to go out again. The hostile wire is now intact, I understand. As things go we must leave Bartlett to take his chances. It would be madness to throw even a platoon against standing entanglements. One must not allow sentiment to jeopardize men's lives."
Somewhat crestfallen, Sergeant Ferris and Private Setley left the C.O.'s dug-out. It was now half-past two—the time fixed for the men to assemble for the task of occupying and consolidating the mine-crater.
Like ghostly forms the steel-helmeted Tommies clustered in the fire-trench. The officers, nervously consulting their watches at every half-minute, felt the tedious wait as acutely as the men. Once the whistle blew the excitement of the wild rush would come as a welcome relief to the dreary and nerve-racking period of waiting, when men have opportunities to conjure up mental pictures of what might happen during the dash across No Man's Land.
"Ain't it about time that blinkin' mine went up?" whispered George Anderson. "Ain't it perishin' cold? If I 'ave to wait much longer I won't 'ave no feet to carry me over the top."
"Five minutes longer," announced Penfold. "Hullo! What's up with the company on our right flank?"
The men referred to could be seen filing off along the narrow trench. In half a minute the three adjacent bays were deserted, except for the sentries and the men told off for duty in the firing line.
A subaltern floundered along the duck-boards and whispered to the platoon commander.
The charge was to be deferred pending further orders from headquarters. Either something had gone wrong with the final preparations of the mine, or else information had been received that necessitated the advance being postponed.
"Turn in, you fellows," said Sergeant Ferris. "No more going out to-night! Sorry for young Bartlett, but you know what the Colonel said."
"'Ow about our relief, sergeant?" enquired George Anderson. "Thought the Wheatshires were to be sent back last night?"
"Don't know as you've much cause to grumble," replied the N.C.O., "seeing that you haven't been twenty-four hours in the firing trench. Some of the boys have had six days of it."
"Seems like twenty-four months, sergeant," continued Ginger.
"P'r'aps; but you're a glutton for going out over No Man's Land," said Ferris. "You've no call to complain that it hasn't been exciting enough."
"A chap must do something to keep himself warm," groused the private, as he followed Setley and Alderhame to their now depleted dug-out.
""Myeye, you chaps! Come out and have a look," exclaimed Penfold, who, having gone to draw rations for the rest of the occupants of the dug-out, had just returned with a generous quantity of tea, bacon, and comparatively fresh loaves.
"Look at what?" asked Alderhame, still stretched on his bed of damp straw. "The dawn——?"
"At what those strafed Huns have done," declared Penfold.
"If it's young Sidney they've been doing in there'll be trouble," declared Alderhame.
The quartette left their subterranean retreat and made their way to the fire-trench. By means of a trench periscope they surveyed the hostile lines. Above the sand-bags was a rough notice-board on which was chalked:
"OTHER COMRADS WELKOME."
A fusillade of rifle bullets quickly demolished the offending board, but almost immediately it was replaced by another:
"WHEN ARE YOU ENGLANDER COMING? WEARE TIRED OF WATEING FOR THE ADVANCEPROMISED."
This, too, was speedily shot to pieces, and having let off a considerable quantity of "hot air" the Tommies returned to their breakfasts.
At ten o'clock the men crowded into the fire-trench. Although no information had been given out concerning the revised arrangements for the attack the men instinctively realized that the crucial moment was at hand.
Suddenly the desultory cannonade gave place to a violent artillery bombardment, to which the German guns could do little or nothing in reply. Admirably registered, their range being regulated either by observation officers at isolated posts or else from the aeroplanes that hovered overhead, the shells battered the Hun wire entanglements and first-line trenches almost out of recognition. The air was filled with dust and smoke—red, yellow, and green in colour—while through the clouds of vapour could be discerned the dismembered bodies of German soldiers hurled twenty feet or more into the air by the terrific force of the exploding missiles.
For a solid twenty minutes the hail of high explosive projectiles continued, while simultaneously shrapnel put up a barrage in the rear of the hostile trenches with a two-fold purpose: to prevent the Huns running away and also to make it almost impossible for reinforcements to be brought up to the firing line.
"They're lifting!" exclaimed Penfold as the shells began to drop further away.
"Five minutes more, lads!" said the platoon commander in clear, decisive tones. "Now, show them what the Wheatshires can do in broad daylight."
"D'ye want a leg-up, Tubby?" sang out George Anderson, addressing his remarks to a corpulent private whose previous efforts to surmount the parapet were ludicrous in spite of the mental and physical strain of "going over the top."
A general laugh greeted George's words, the butt of his remarks joining in the hilarity. With few exceptions the men were high-spirited. Their confidence in the artillery and the knowledge that they were "top-dog" when it came to hand-to-hand fighting made them eager and alert to rush forward at the first blast of the whistle.
Thirty seconds more.
With an ear-splitting roar and a veritable volcano of flame the mine under the Pumpnickel Redoubt was exploded. The earth trembled violently with the crash of the detonation. In places sand-bags slipped bodily into the British trench. A gust of violently displaced air, bearing grit and dust, mingled with weightier fragments, swept over the heads of the waiting Tommies. Where the strongly fortified earthworks had stood was a crater quite two hundred yards across, but how deep the British were yet to learn.
Before the last of the far-flung debris had fallen to earth the whistles sounded. With a rousing cheer the line of khaki-clad men swarmed over the parapet into the muddy and smoke-laden, crater-pitted No Man's Land.
Almost without opposition the Wheatshires gained their objective. More, carried away by their enthusiasm, pressed onwards, until their officers, realizing that the men were in danger of being hit by their own shells, recalled them with difficulty.
Lining the outer edge of the enormous mine-crater, the Wheatshires set to work to consolidate their easily won position. Setley, while engaged in the work, viewed with astonishment the stupendous result of the explosion of the mine. For full seventy feet the scorched and still smoking earth sloped steeply to the bottom of the immense pit. Everything of a defensive nature—concrete gun-pits, reinforced trenches, and deep dug-outs—was obliterated by the comparatively smooth "batter" of displaced chalk and earth.
"When are the guns going to lift, do you think, sergeant?" asked Penfold, who, having laid aside his rifle, was piling up sand-bags with the energy of a steam-engine.
"'Bout time," replied Sergeant Ferris. "We're supposed to make good for a mile. Hullo! What's happening on our left flank?"
Setley glanced in the direction indicated by the non-com. Here the Coalshires, many obliquely to the general line of advance, were falling in heaps. Men were tugging and hacking frantically at formidable barriers of uncut barbed wire. Evidently this section of the hostile line had escaped the otherwise general pulverization of the Hun entanglements, while the enemy, quick to grasp the advantage, had brought up dozens of machine-guns from deep dug-outs, raising the intact weapons to the surface by means of lifts.
"Good God!" ejaculated Alderhame hoarsely. "Our fellows are giving way."
With almost every officer either killed or wounded, confronted by an almost insurmountable barrier of barbed wire, and subjected to a terrific hail of machine-gun fire the Coalshires were almost decimated. Bodies, riddled with bullets, were hanging from the wire, their clothing held by the tenacious barbs. Contradictory orders added to the confusion, while to make matters worse the Huns began firing gas-shells into the wavering troops.
The quick eye of the Wheatshires' Colonel took in the situation. Another regiment, hitherto held in reserve, was advancing to assist in the holding of the mine-crater in anticipation of the usual counter-attack. For the time being the reinforcements must make good the advantage won by the battalion already in possession of the position.
At the word of command the Wheatshires swung out of the captured crater and charged the flank of that part of the German trenches left intact.
Almost before he realized it Setley found himself in a traverse, the furthermost end of which was packed with Huns, whose attention was mainly directed upon the disordered Coalshires on their immediate front.
With bayonet and bomb the attackers cleared the front three bays of the trench, the surviving Germans either bolting from their dug-outs or throwing up their hands with the now familiar cry of "Mercy, Kamerad."
Briefly the situation was as follows. On a front of nearly four miles the British had advanced a distance averaging eight hundred yards with the exception of half a mile of trenches before which the Coalshires had been held up. This section, strongly defended, was a tough nut to be cracked, but now surrounded on three sides, the Huns had either the option to resist to the last man or surrender. For the present they chose the former alternative, conscious that by holding out they were deferring the general advance of the British troops.
"Clear those dug-outs!" shouted a captain to No. 3 Platoon. Experience had taught him the inadvisability of leaving a nest of armed Huns behind the advancing Tommies.
"Out you come!" shouted Alderhame, flattening himself against the concrete sides of the first dug-out and pointing his rifle down the flight of steps leading to the deep subterranean retreat.
With his bayonet at the "ready" Setley took up his stand at the opposite side and awaited the result of his comrade's challenge, while George Anderson covered the mouth of the dug-out with a Mills bomb. "Ja! We come!" shouted a guttural voice from the deep recesses.
"And be mighty sharp about it," rejoined Alderhame.
But instead of the head of a procession of grey-coated Huns with upheld hands a bomb came hurtling from the dug-out. With the fuse sizzling briskly the missile dropped midway between Setley and the ex-actor.
In a trice Alderhame threw himself flat upon the ground. Setley, hardly realizing the danger, stood stockstill, his bayonet still directed towards the mouth of the dug-out. In another second——
With a muffled bang the bomb exploded. Ralph had a momentary vision of a khaki-clad Tommy being lifted five or six feet from the ground and subsiding almost at his feet. Simultaneously George Anderson hurled his missile straight into the cavernous recesses of the dug-out with disastrous results to the former occupants. "'Urt?" enquired Ginger laconically, as he assisted the fallen Tommy to his feet. It was Penfold, dazed and shaken, but otherwise unhurt.
Seeing the bomb lying on the ground Penfold, with admirable presence of mind, snatched up a sand-bag, threw it upon the missile and had held it in position until the explosion took place. This sand-bag resisted the disastrous effect of the bomb, although the detonation was sufficient to blow the intrepid Penfold some feet into the air.
"Good for the D.C.M.," yelled Alderhame. "Come on, lads. Let's see if any of the swine are still in this rat-hole."
"Give 'em another bomb first," suggested Ginger. "Stand by, 'ere goes."
The men waited until the reverberations of the explosion had died away; then looked at each other enquiringly.
"Come on," shouted Alderhame, unfixing his bayonet and placing his rifle against the concrete face of the dug-out. Then, borrowing a bomb from the obliging Anderson, he led the way into the underground refuge, while Setley following, closely at his heels, flashed a torch over his comrade's shoulder.
The place reeked vilely of sulphurous smoke. It had been lighted by electricity, but the concussion had shattered the bulbs. The Hun who had hurled the bomb was lying across the fifth step. A little lower down two more were huddled lifeless against the walls. Another, dangerously wounded, raised one hand in a mute appeal for mercy.
"All right, Fritz," said Alderhame. "We won't hurt you any more."
This was apparently the last of the original occupants of the dug-out. For thirty-five steps the two chums descended cautiously, while at some distance behind came Penfold, Anderson and another man being left to guard the entrance in case an over-zealous Tommy took it into his head to throw down a bomb "just for luck."
"Look out!" cautioned Setley. "There's someone still there."
Muttered guttural words and suspicious scuffling confirmed Ralph's statement. The ex-actor made ready to pull out the safety pin of this bomb.
"Surrender!" he shouted, "or I'll blow the crowd of you to Hades."
"Don't," was the reply. "I've got them properly set. I'm an Englishman—a Wheatshire."
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Alderhame, while Setley gave vent to a whoop of surprise and satisfaction, for the voice was that of Sidney Bartlett.