"Enteringthe main room of the spacious dug-out Ralph and his comrades found the place illuminated by a couple of candles that the Huns, with characteristic forethought, had lighted in anticipation of the failure of the electric current.
The place was a combined dormitory and living-room. Against three walls were tiers of bed-boxes, showing that there was accommodation for at least fifty men. Tables and chairs, looted from French houses, occupied most of the floor space. Even though intended for the German rank and file the dug-out, in the matter of comfort and security, was far more habitable and commodious than those of the British troops. It was constructed with a view of lasting, whereas the British dug-outs were of a temporary nature, pending the long-promised and eagerly awaited Great Advance. It was one of the numerous concrete works that the Huns never expected to have to evacuate so long as the war lasted. To their cost they found that British tenacity and courage, backed by the powerful shells supplied by the munition workers at home, were more than a match for German ingenuity and machine-like methods of waging modern war.
Crowded into one corner of the dug-out were eleven Prussians, for the most part sullen and brutal in features and with the fear of death in their bloodshot eyes. Some of them were wounded; all were caked from head to foot with mud and soot.
Armed with a German rifle and bayonet stood Private Bartlett, as proud as a peacock.
"Glad you came," he exclaimed. "I knew things were going all right when these fellows came skeltering for shelter, and still more so when you flung a bomb down the stairs——"
"We didn't," expostulated Alderhame jocularly. "We wouldn't do you such a dirty trick, Sidney. Blame your pal, Ginger."
"He's all right, then?" asked the rescued man.
"And so are you," added Ralph. "Good for promotion."
"'Cause why?"
"I heard you being cross-examined by the Prussian officer and your replies," continued Setley. "Simply had to report to the O.C., you know. Well, what happened afterwards?"
"They knocked me about a bit," declared Bartlett. "Thought I was kidding them, I suppose, but as it was the right way as far as they were concerned they got a bit more civil. Finally, when the bombardment commenced they pushed me down this dug-out. Crikey! I thought the roof was tumbling in every second, and fifty feet below ground at that. Then when the bomb was chucked down the stairs the Huns here knew the game was up. They nearly fell over themselves trying to get me to take them prisoners—and there they are."
"Any way out there?" asked Setley, pointing to a door at the remote end of the underground room.
"Don't know," said Bartlett. "I'll soon see."
He came back with the information that it led only to a smaller room, evidently set apart for non-commissioned officers.
"Good enough," declared Ralph. "We'll leave the prisoners here until we can send them to the advance-cages."
"You our lives save?" enquired a Hun corporal anxiously.
"Yes, if you behave yourselves," said Bartlett. "We won't drop a bomb amongst you as we clear out. That's not the British way, you know."
Collecting the captured rifles and side-arms, the three Wheatshires returned to the open air, where Ginger greeted his restored pal with grim Cockney humour.
"Wot, more of 'em dahn there?" he asked. "S'welp me. 'Ere goes."
Like a terrier after a swarm of rats Anderson was about to plunge down the flight of steps when Bartlett arrested his movements.
"It's no go," he said. "We've promised them quarter."
"After they tried to do the dirty on us," grumbled Ginger, still fumbling with the safety-pin of a bomb. "I'll give 'em quarter—not 'arf."
Sidney barred his way. Setley and Alderhame joined in an attempt to check the ferocious ardour of their comrade. How the dispute might have ended if allowed to continue must remain in doubt, for a heavy shell, landing in the bay of the captured trench, exploded and threw the four men to the ground.
Half buried with debris they extricated themselves, none the worse except for a severe shaking. All thoughts of the dispute were forgotten.
The Wheatshires were occupying the captured section of the trench, the men toiling strenuously to convert the parados into a parapet. A hundred yards to the right the Huns still held their own. A traverse, heavily defended with machine-guns, had proved too great an obstacle to be rushed in a frontal attack. To the rear of the Wheatshires' position was the barbed wire entanglement that had held up the luckless Coalshires; in front the Germans were massing for a gigantic counter-attack, while on the right of the British battalion the Blankshires had been compelled to give ground. Added to this the German guns had got the exact range of the captured section of trenches, while inexplicably the British artillery were putting up a barrage in front of a position where the Huns had made no serious effort to counter-attack.
This error was the result of one of those elements of chance that often win or lose battles. The telephone wires from the observer's post to the battery had been severed, and already three devoted linesmen had lost their lives in heroic efforts to repair the means of communication. A signaller mounted the parapet and attempted to convey the much-needed information to the gunners, but he fell almost immediately, pierced by a dozen machine-gun bullets.
However well the advance was faring elsewhere the grim fact was patent that the Wheatshires were cut off.
The men knew it. They were literally fighting with their backs to the wall—and it is said that a Briton never fights better than in such a position.
"Stick it, men!" shouted the colonel.
The Wheatshires responded with a cheer.
"Reminds a fellow of the winning goal at Yatton Park," remarked Alderhame, as he shoved a fresh clip of cartridges into the magazine of his rifle. "It's getting a bit of a hot corner."
"Garn! It don't beat my old woman on Saturday night," retorted Ginger contemptuously.
The hurricane of hostile shells continued without intermission for the space of nearly ten minutes. The hastily constructed parapet of sand-bags disappeared in clouds of dust and noxious smoke. The men, gasping for breath, clung tenaciously to the side of the trench, except on the left flank where British and German bombers were hurling their missiles with deadly ferocity. Not only in the captured section of the trench, but along the outer lip of the huge mine-crater, the Wheatshires and their supporting battalion doggedly held their ground, despite the pounding of huge shells that several times blew half a dozen men into a state of unrecognizability.
"What the deuce are our guns doing?" was the oft-repeated question, for, although the gigantic messengers of death were still hurtling through the air, the shells were not directed upon the dense columns of German infantry who were slowly following up the barrage set up by their guns.
Then the crash of the exploding shells from the Hun batteries ceased. Only the distant roar of the artillery duel and the sharp bark of the bombs broke the silence. Compared with the titanic thunder of the bombardment the residue of sound was hardly noticeable. It was the signal for the Wheatshires to pull themselves together to withstand the counter-attack.
In dense serried masses the columns of Bavarian infantry advanced. They came on without hesitation, yet in comparative silence, confident that their guns had so pulverized the trenches their Prussian comrades had lost that the charge would be little more than a "walk-over."
"Five hundred yards! Fire!"
From Maxims and Lewis guns, hastily mounted on the battered parapets, from scores, nay, hundreds, of rifles the hail of nickel from the Wheatshires smote the ranks of their opponents. Like a giant receiving a knock-out blow betwixt the eyes, the field-grey masses recoiled, wavered and broke, in spite of the efforts of their officers to check the rout as the men rushed past them.
Ironical cheers greeted the discomfiture of the Bavarians, then the Wheatshires settled down to undergo the renewal of their punishment, for certain it was that the German gunners, exasperated at the check of the infantry, would renew the bombardment with increased violence.
What seemed worse was the fact that several regiments of the enemy had succeeded in working round both flanks. On the left the Huns, still in possession of part of the same trench as the Wheatshires held, were strongly reinforced. The British infantry were now in a dangerous salient, but still they had not given an inch of ground. Nor could reserves be rushed up to strengthen the advanced position, for the comparatively level stretch of ground was completely exposed to machine-gun fire, to say nothing of the formidable barbed wire that the British guns had failed to demolish earlier in the day.
An aeroplane droned overhead at an altitude of less than a thousand feet. By the red, white, and blue concentrated rings on the planes it was recognized as a British machine. In spite of a warm greeting from the anti-aircraft guns, for mushrooms of white smoke was bursting all around it, the biplane circled serenely. Its object was soon apparent, for, like a whirlwind, shells from the British guns commenced to put up a barrage behind the Huns holding the section of trenches on the Wheatshires' left flank.
Simultaneously four indistinct shapes, resembling gigantic tortoises, appeared in view, ambling leisurely towards the uncut wire.
"That's the sort!" commented Ginger Anderson. He could now reasonably risk drinking the remainder of the contents of his water-bottle. "'Ere come the bloomin' Tanks."
"Slowlythe mechanical mastodons advanced, reeling from side to side as they skirted the edges of the largest shell-craters. Through their multi-coloured sides guns, as yet ominously silent, grinned menacingly. The weapons, moving easily on their mountings, began to search for their objectives.
Through the waist-deep slime the Tanks floundered, displacing tons of mud under the resistless pressure of the broad-flanged endless belts. A shell from a distant German gun burst close alongside one of the steel mammoths, converting the "invisible" colour-scheme into a hideous daub of greenish yellow, but beyond that the H.E. missiles had no effect upon the mobile fortress. Straight from the triple row of barbed wire the Tanks waddled deliberately and remorselessly. The Huns watched their approach with evident concern, so much so that the bombers engaged in a duel with the Wheatshires across the traverse abandoned the task and scurried to their dug-outs. A few, more courageous than their comrades, directed their energies towards hurling their missiles against their uncanny foes. It was like shooting peas at a crocodile.
As matchwood the stout stakes supporting the entanglements snapped under the impact of the leading Tank's snout. Wire, coiling like writhing snakes directly the tension was released, was swept aside as easily as if made of pack thread. Then, lifting its bluff bows, the Tank ambled awkwardly up the parapet of the hostile lines, displacing sand-bags by the score, and finally coming to a standstill, like a steel Bridge of Sighs, across a canal of liquid mud with grey-coated Huns in place of gondolas.
"She's bogged!" yelled Penfold.
"No fear," retorted Alderhame. "She's just having a little rest. See, her wheels aren't moving."
The Tank was making good use of the stop, whether forced or otherwise, for astride of the trench she opened a terrific fire, enfilading the Germans as they crowded, panic-stricken, in the limited space 'twixt parapet and parados.
Up went scores of hands, but in vain. Mingled with those of the Huns who wished to surrender were several "die-hards," who with bullet and bomb tried in vain to find a vulnerable spot in the armour of their titanic antagonist. A few even scaled the side of the Tank and rained savage but ineffectual blows upon it with the butts of their rifles.
The second and third Tanks were now grinding their way through the hostile parapet. One, bridging the trench, landed immediately over the entrance to a dug-out. The reinforced concrete, set upon a mud foundation, was unable to resist the strain of hundreds of tons deadweight. The fore part of the landship sank until its vertical axis was inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees.
"She'll never get out of that," thought Setley, for the mere possibility of that mass of metal extricating itself from the chaos of mud and shattered concrete seemed out of the question. For perhaps five minutes the Tank remained in this ignominious position, the while spitting out flame from the muzzle of her guns, her tractor bands revolving uselessly since they found no resistance in the soft earth.
The wheels ceased to revolve. To outward appearance the Tank was out of action. Her guns no longer fired, since the Germans had evacuated the trench and were either risking certain death by bolting across the open or else obtaining a doubtful shelter in their dug-outs.
Then the traction bands were restarted, this time in a reverse direction. Slowly the huge mass of metal, disengaging itself from the debris, backed through the passage it had previously cleared in the parapet, and descended the glacis. Choosing another spot, the Tank again crawled forward, this time bridging the trench and disappearing beyond the parados.
All save the first mastodon had now passed the fire-trench. The one that remained did so with a set purpose. While it bridged the trench it was certain death for a Hun to show himself. A few, armed with bombs, did issue from their dug-outs, but caught by a hail of bullets from a machine-gun they ceased to be effective units of the Kaiser's legions.
The colonel of the Wheatshires saw the chance of straightening the line. He knew his men had suffered severely, but the time to rest was not yet. Armed only with a stick the gallant, grey-haired C.O. sprang upon the shell-scarred parados.
"The Wheatshires will advance," he shouted. "Come on, men; we've stuck in this trench quite long enough."
A hoarse shout rose from the parched throats of the indomitable Tommies as the remainder of the battalion leapt out of the trench they had held so stubbornly. In thirty seconds their former shelter was untenanted save for the dead and wounded and a handful of men told off to guard the entrance to the dug-outs that contained prisoners.
"Hang on to the tail of that Tank," shouted Sergeant Ferris to the men of his section. "We'll have our work cut out to settle the Huns who aren't squashed. Don't leave a single Fritz with a rifle in his hand behind you—I've had some."
The sergeant looked a most ferocious object despite his inches, for he was just five feet one and a half. His steel helmet was dented and bespattered with mud. His face was black with dirt thrown up by a shell that exploded less than twenty yards from him. His great coat was torn away at the waist, while one puttee was ripped away entirely. His left wrist was clumsily swathed in first-aid dressings that momentarily threatened to fall off, while to complete the picture a partly dressed goose dangled from his belt.
Ferris had always the resources of an old campaigner. In one of the captured dug-outs he had found the bird, and with the idea that it would "come in handy after the dust-up" he had lashed the goose's legs round his belt.
"Don't think I'm greedy, boys," he shouted. "You'll all stand in later on."
The Germans in the second and third line trenches were fairly trapped. Their own guns were putting up a barrage behind them. Mere "cannon fodder" the defeated infantry received no consideration from their own artillery. The latter, their one idea being to attempt to hold the British attack, were furiously pouring in shells that no troops could hope to pass through in the open.
There was a stubborn resistance offered by the Huns in the second line of trenches, but the Tanks, assisted by the now wildly excited Wheatshires, were not to be denied. With bayonet and bomb the Tommies rushed the defences and made prisoners of the surviving Huns.
There was still plenty of work to be done before the attack was resumed upon the third and last of that section of earthwork. The captured trench had to be consolidated as a matter of precaution, in case the final attack failed.
"Who's got a fag?" enquired Penfold, stopping in the act of transferring a sand-bag from the parapet to the parados. "Hang it all, did you ever see such mud? It's a jolly sight worse than our trenches."
"Here you are," said Ralph, tendering a very soiled cigarette. "Let me give you a hand."
Penfold lighted the cigarette, then, shouldering the heavy sack, descended very cautiously from the fire-step to the floor of the trench. His feet sank into the slime until the mud and water reached to his knees. Vainly he tried to extricate himself. It was not until Setley and Alderhame threw down a couple of pieces of timber as footholds and tugged at their comrade by main force that Penfold was free from the tenacious mud.
It was an even more difficult matter to heave the sand-bag into position. Again Penfold's legs sank ankle deep. Perspiring freely in spite of the cold he struggled to maintain his balance without dropping the sand-bag from his shoulder. In his efforts his steel helmet slipped over his eyes. Still holding on with one hand to his burden he grasped the rim of his "tin hat." As he did so a bullet pinged sharply against the metal head-covering, the glancing blow causing Penfold to stagger and drop the sand-bag. Blood was streaming down his face.
"I always said that steel helmets were a rotten swindle," he exclaimed, then he broke off abruptly and looked dully at his right hand. The middle finger had been completely severed by the bullet.
"Thought it was my head!" he said. "Hanged if I felt this at all."
"You are a lucky bounder, Penfold," declared George Anderson. "It'll get you back to Blighty for a dead cert."
"Thanks, you're welcome to my luck," replied the wounded man as he submitted to the surgical attentions of Setley and Alderhame. "I call it jolly hard lines, just as we are going forward. Now, if this had happened while we were held up in our trenches I wouldn't have minded. Jolly rough luck, I call it."
Just then Sergeant Ferris came bustling along the captured trench.
"Hullo! Copped it?" he enquired laconically.
"Rather," replied Penfold dolefully. "Suppose there's no chance of my having a slice of that goose now?"
"Where is the bird, sergeant?" enquired Alderhame.
Dumfounded the non-com. clapped his hands on his belt. The goose had vanished—all but the legs, that were still fastened to the sergeant's equipment.
"Must 'a' lost it in the charge," decided Ferris. "I'm off back to look for it."
Regardless of the risk he ran the N.C.O. doubled across the shell-pitted ground. In five minutes he was back again, holding what appeared to be a flattened lump of mud.
"Got it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Found it in the track of a Tank. Only the head was to be seen, but I managed to hike it clear of the mud."
"Not much of a goose now, sergeant," remarked Ginger.
"True, lad, true; but it'll wash all right while it's boiling. One can't afford to be too particular these times."
"Onceagain the weary yet undaunted Wheatshires braced themselves for another rush. The period of respite over, they had to make an advance upon the third line of German trenches.
Already three of the Tanks, which had been temporarily sheltering in a large mine-crater, were labouring across the open stretch of ground separating the second and third lines. The guns, never silent since the early morning, were now giving vent to a veritable crescendo of hate.
Almost in the centre of the Wheatshires' objective a large brick building stood out clearly against the sky. It was apparently the only one that had escaped the searching attention of the British guns, and with the exception of the roof, the rafters of which were innocent of tiles, was practically intact. It was a two-storied building. The windows on the ground floor were strongly barricaded, while sand-bags had been piled up in front, forming an effective defence against all but the heavier guns.
While the eager infantry were being held in leash the Tanks sauntered onwards, two making for the wire entanglements, which already were badly cut about, while the third floundered straight for the building, although there were no signs that the place was being held by the enemy.
When about twenty yards from the house the Tank seemed to hesitate. It evidently was pondering whether to go straight through the obstruction or waddle past it, until half a dozen machine-guns, that had hitherto been silent, rattled a hail of bullets upon the monster's steel hide.
The Huns had withheld their fire, hoping to catch the British infantry in the open; but the menace of the Tank was too great for their nerves. Without gaining the slightest military advantage they opened out with their machine-guns, and thereby betrayed their presence.
With a rending crash the Tank charged the obstruction. Sand-bags flew right and left, like mud splashed from the wheel of a motor-car; bricks and rafters clattered pellmell as the mass of metal literally ate into the building.
The next instant a mine exploded almost under the Tank. Tons of earth were hurled into the air, mingled with sand-bags and blocks of concrete. When the clouds of dust and smoke had drifted away the Tank was lying on its side, with the upturned tractor bands still revolving like a derelict escalator.
With a loud yell, about fifty of the Wheatshires rushed forward to avenge the trapped mammoth. As they charged across the open bombs and machine-guns took heavy toll. To Setley it seemed like rushing through a hailstorm, with lead, nickel, and fragments of iron in place of frozen rain. Yet, carried away with the heat of combat, he was hardly conscious of the danger until a bursting shell lifted him off his feet and hurled him violently against a heap of displaced sand-bags.
For some seconds he lay still, hardly able to realize his surroundings. Then cautiously he raised his head and took stock of his position.
He was not alone. Lying on the ground close to him were a dozen or more of his comrades either dead or seriously wounded. Three or four others, seemingly unhurt, hugged the mud, in order to escape the tornado of machine-gun fire from the two intact windows of the barricaded building. Amongst these were Alderhame and Anderson. Of the rest of the platoon none was visible, and since the position still remained in the hands of the Huns it was evident that the rush had been swept away by hostile fire.
"What's to be done?" enquired Ralph.
"Dunno," replied Ginger. "You're senior man now, I guess, of what's left of us. Keep down, or they'll lob a bomb into the crowd of us."
"Crowd," thought Setley grimly. Five all told, capable of bearing arms. And he was in charge of the squad. The sense of his new responsibility stiffened his fibre.
"It's no use going back," he soliloquized. "Nor does it seem at all desirable to stick here, Let me see how the land lies."
Cautiously separating two sand-bags, Setley peered through the two-inch gap thus formed between them. Ten yards away and slightly to the right front were the German machine-gunners, their whole attention centred on the trench that had so lately been theirs. Between the wisps of smoke that drifted slowly from the still reeking crater Ralph saw that the Huns had only two machine-guns left intact, and of these only the muzzle and a few inches of the water-jacket were visible. The rest of the weapons were hidden by sand-bags.
"Can you throw a bomb fairly into that emplacement?" asked Ralph, addressing the redoubtable Ginger, who, despite a severe shaking, still retained half a dozen Mills bombs.
"You bet," replied Ginger. "Two afore they knows they're on the way to Kingdom Come."
"All right," continued Setley. "Alderhame, McTurk and I will follow up with the bayonet. We must wipe both crews out. Ready?"
Crouching ready to spring and hurl his deadly missiles the bomber removed the safety-pin. To Setley it seemed an interminable time before he threw one bomb. Four seconds? It seemed like forty before the missile burst with a loud report right in the centre of the over-attentive Huns.
Up sprang the four men, Ginger with another bomb and the rest with rifle and bayonet. Over the sand-bags they leapt, landing upon the bodies of the bombed gunners, scrambled over the intervening debris and made for the second machine-gun.
"Take that, you dirty skunks!" shouted Anderson, launching another bomb. The missile, missing its mark, exploded harmlessly beyond the sand-bag emplacement.
The Germans faced about, and with levelled revolvers defended themselves against the unexpected assailants.
With a rifle-shot Setley brought down one of the men—a big bloated sergeant—and plunged his bayonet into the second. As he did so, he was just conscious of a tingling sensation in his left shoulder. A revolver bullet, fired at practically point-blank range, had seared his flesh. McTurk accounted for the man who had fired that shot and then went down with a ghastly wound in his throat.
As he fell the dying Tommy grasped Setley by the ankles, bringing the lad prostrate upon the ground. Before he could regain his feet Ralph found himself at grips with a tall, slim, bearded Fritz, who in his frenzy attempted to batter in his antagonist's head with the butt of his revolver, notwithstanding that the weapon was still loaded in four chambers.
Guarding his head with his left hand, Setley recovered himself sufficiently to plant a powerful blow with his fist upon the point of the Hun's chin. The man recoiled, dropped his revolver, and raised his hands above his head. As he did so a fragment of shrapnel caught him and stretched him lifeless upon the floor.
Recovering his rifle and bayonet Ralph regained his feet, eager to throw himself again into the fray. But the struggle, as far as the machine-guns' crews were concerned, was over. Ginger Anderson, smothered in mud, was greedily quaffing the contents of a Hun's water-bottle, while Alderhame, leaning against the wall, was methodically wiping the point of his bayonet. Five Germans and the luckless McTurk lay across the captured weapon, while the sixth Hun, attempting to escape, had been shot down by Alderhame as he scrambled out of one of the windows facing the enemy lines.
"We've been an' gone and done it this time," declared Ginger, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "An' our chaps 'ave started shelling the place. Only shrapnel up to now; but if they starts throwin' in high explosives up we go in a sort of fiery chariot that ain't at all to my likin'."
"Can't we signal and let them know?" asked Alderhame.
The rattle of shrapnel fragments against the tottering walls gave him his answer. To attempt to show oneself for the purpose of semaphoring meant certain death.
"Look here; we'll make for the crater where the Tank is lying," said Setley. "We'll have to take our chances of getting strafed by the Huns. I'll lead the way!"
"One moment," exclaimed Alderhame, and still leaning against the brickwork he raised his rifle and fired. Before the echoes of the report had died away a heavy body crashed from the gaunt rafters overhead—that of a German observation officer.
"My bird," drawled the ex-actor. "I spotted him about to descend. See, he had his revolver ready. Thought he'd caught us napping. Now, I'm ready."
With their rifles slung across their backs the three Tommies cautiously crawled round the pile of sand-bags and gained the open air. A fragment of shrapnel glanced off Setley's steel helmet, another nicked a piece out of the heel of Alderhame's boot, but without further incident the trio dropped into the crater in which the Tank lay on its side.
The traction band was now motionless. There were no signs that life existed within that massive steel shell. The tail-wheels, which had been raised as the Tank approached the objective that she had failed to surmount, were buckled by the impact of a fragment of flying metal. The futurist colour-designs on her exposed side were scorched and blistered, while the armour-plate was pitted with honourable scars. At an angle of roughly sixty degrees one of her guns projected aimlessly.
"Which is the way in?" enquired Alderhame. "Suppose this is the entrance to the foyer and palm-court?"
He battered the metal door in the after end of the sponson with the butt end of his rifle. It was a risky thing to do, since the crew, if still alive, might think that the Huns were attempting to force their way in.
"Hear anything?" asked Setley.
"Excursions and alarums without," quoth the ex-actor. "Within the silence of the tomb. By Jove! What a reek of petrol!"
A howitzer shell exploding a couple of hundred yards from the crater in which the Tank lay warned the three Wheatshires that the Huns were still fumbling for their objective. With the crash of the detonation the whole fabric of the Tank trembled in spite of its massive bulk and weight.
"She's almost balanced," declared Ralph. "I believe a little power properly applied would set her on her feet again. Let's try."
The three Tommies, using the trunk of a stout sapling as a lever, sought to force the landship into its normal position, but in vain. Their united efforts fell just short of the required power necessary to overcome the difference in trim.
"See any signs of our boys?" enquired Setley.
George crawled up the incline until he could peer over the lip of the crater. The Wheatshires still held the captured trench, but further progress had been "held up" by hostile rifle and machine-gun fire. Overhead the shells from the distant British howitzers screamed incessantly as they pounded the position to which the Huns had fallen back.
A metallic clank made Setley turn his head The door of the Tank opened cautiously and the bronzed features of one of the crew appeared in view. There was a dazed look on the man's face, while his forehead was streaked with caked blood.
"Cheer-o, mate!" sung out the irrepressible Anderson. "Apple-cart upset? We've come to lend a 'and!"
The man began to cough, and scrambling through the narrow doorway collapsed, pointing towards the interior of the stranded monster before losing consciousness.
Resting their rifles against the side of the Tank, Setley and his companions squeezed through the door. Sliding over the obliquely inclined floor, Ralph found himself brought up by the angle formed by it and the curved wall. His steel helmet saved his head from a nasty blow, for the whole space seemed filled with machinery.
"It ain't 'arf dark," commented Ginger, "barging into" the breech-block of a quickfirer. "'Ow about a light? I've got a box of lucifers on me somewhere."
"Do you think you're chief stoker of a crematorium?" asked Alderhame. "The place reeks of petrol, man. A spark and there'll be a terrific explosion."
"Lucky you spoke, mate," rejoined Anderson. "Matches seem to get our family into trouble. My brother, down Enfield way, got a month for 'aving a match on 'im when he went to the munition factory. Blimey, wot's this?"
He stooped; his hands came in contact with a human body, one of five lying tightly packed in one corner of the confined space.
"Don't think they've snuffed it," he continued. "Wot's to be done with 'em, sergeant?"
Ralph, not altogether pleased at having brevet by his comrade, pondered over the situation. If the crew were not dead they would stand a better chance of recovering consciousness in the open air. On the other hand, they would then be exposed to shell-fire, and it was evident that the Germans were getting closer to their objective.
"We'll get them out," he decided. "They'll be fairly sheltered under the lee of the Tank. It's a risk, but that cannot be helped."
With considerable difficulty the three Wheatshires contrived to lift, carry, and drag the unconscious men from the interior of the landship, the task of getting them through the narrow doorway being magnified by the fact that the floor tilted to an enormous degree.
"Nip up and see what's doing," suggested Setley.
On all fours Anderson scaled the side of the crater. In a very short space of time he was back again with his eyes filled with dust thrown up by a howitzer-shell that exploded eighty yards away.
"There's another bloomin' Tank a-comin' this way," he announced.
Greeted by a direct but ineffectual fire from machine-guns and small-arms the oncoming Tank made straight for the mine-crater in which her consort had been trapped. Right upon the very lip of the cavity she stopped. Although her crew were not visible it was soon apparent that they were able to see what was going on, for a voice hailed:
"We'll try and tow you out. Can you take a wire rope?"
"They think we're the Tankers," said Alderhame. "Look here, I'll risk it."
Scrambling up the sloping side of the pit Alderhame, reckless of the shrapnel and rifle bullets, crawled to the rescuing Tank. As he did so two of the crew leapt down, carrying the end of a length of flexible steel wire fitted with a shackle.
"Carry on with t'other end, mate," said one, as he proceeded to fix the shackled end to a massive eyebolt on the underside of the blunt bows. "Think she'll move?"
"You'll hike her up if you pull in that direction," replied the ex-actor, indicating the place with his hand. "She's almost ready to tilt back on her traction-bands."
Without a scratch, although a bullet nicked his shoulder-strap and some fragments of shrapnel glinted off his helmet, Alderhame regained the temporary shelter of the crater, carrying with him the end of the wire rope.
This Setley and Alderhame succeeded in making fast to the overhead girders, although while engaged upon the task Ralph's cheek was cut open by the splay of a bullet that hit the metal-work within nine inches of his head.
"A bit warm up there," commented Ralph, as the two slid to the shelter of the hole.
With a wave of his arm Setley indicated that all was in readiness. Slowly the serviceable Tank went astern. The wire rope tautened, and with hardly any appreciable effort the disabled landship flopped over into her normal position.
"Where's your commanding officer?" shouted the lieutenant in charge of the towing Tank. "Who's the senior man?"
"The officer is unconscious, sir," replied Ralph.
"All right. Shift the hawser aft. Motors intact?"
"I cannot say, sir," answered Setley.
"Then you jolly well ought to," grumbled the lieutenant, who was still under the impression that the three Wheatshires were part of the Tank's crew. "If you can't start 'em up, slip out both clutches. Hurry up we can't stop here to be strafed all day."
Working desperately the three men shifted the wire rope to the required position, placed the crew of the Tank inside, and scrambled in to the interior of the immobile landship.
Setley had a good knowledge of motor-cars and motor-bikes, but the complicated machinery of the Tank was beyond him. Since he was not certain of the way to throw out the clutches, he did the next best thing: he opened the compression taps in the cylinders, so that the pistons were free to move up and down without having to push against a buffer of compressed air.
He was rather sceptical concerning the ability of the towing Tank to drag the crippled consort up the sloping side of the crater, but, to his delight, he found that he was mistaken. Choosing the easiest gradient, the Tank succeeded—not without considerable difficulty—in hauling her disabled sister out of the hole. The appearance of the latter was greeted by a round of cheering from the British infantry and a redoubled dose of "hate" from the infuriated Huns. Not until they were a mile behind their own lines, and sheltered from direct fire by a depression in the ground, did the two Tanks come to a standstill.
"Why, you are Wheatshires!" exclaimed the lieutenant, as Setley and his comrades emerged from the armoured box. "What are you doing here?"
"We got cut off, sir," replied Ralph, saluting. "We saw the Tank in the mine-crater, and we thought we could find cover there."
"And you gave valuable assistance," rejoined the Tank officer, pulling out a notebook. "Give me your names and regimental numbers. It will be a pleasure to me to submit a report upon your gallant conduct in the work of rescue. No, I don't think you'd better try to rejoin your regiment at present. It isn't healthy out in the open. Better wait till after dark."
"By Jove, Alderhame," exclaimed Ralph, after the officer had gone, "if ever I get a chance to serve in a Tank, I'm on!"
"And this bird, too," added Alderhame. "No more foot-slogging infantry for me if there's a chance of riding in an armoured moving fort. Wonder how we could work it?"
"Itwas close on midnight when Setley and his two companions rejoined their battalion. Although the distance was not far every foot of the way was beset with perils, for in spite of the heavier fire from the British guns the Germans were systematically searching the ground that had been wrested from them during the day. Every shell hole was now a miniature lake, covered with a thin coating of ice. A slip on the steeply sloping edge and the incautious wight would find himself out of his depth in icy cold water.
The trio met a continuous procession of wounded, most of them having to be carried by their comrades or else on stretchers or sleighs; prisoners, too, who had been humanely kept under cover until darkness fell lest they should be shot down by their own guns, were being herded across the open—gaunt and hungry men who seemed glad to be out of the fighting.
Ration and supply parties, units of ammunition columns passed to and fro, for the firing line had to be fed and provided with bombs and cartridges. Except for the absence of lights the traffic reminded Ralph of the Great North Road on the night of Barnet Fair, with the difference that the predominant colour-scheme was khaki everywhere.
"Hullo, you chaps!" called out a private of the same section, recognizing the three returning Tommies. "Thought you'd been done in. You're marked down as missing. Grub? I've a pannikin on the charcoal fire, and there are some rashers. You've been into the lines of communication? Heard anything of our being relieved?"
"Not a word," rejoined Ralph, taking possession of a thin cup in which the tea leaves from the last drinker were still in evidence. Setley had forgotten to be particular in such matters. "Where's Sergeant Ferris?"
"Blown to bits," said the other nonchalantly. "We didn't get our promised share of goose," he added regretfully. "Suppose we are lucky to get bacon."
The Wheatshires had suffered heavily in the charge. Most of the officers had either been killed or wounded, while forty per cent of the rank and file were out of action. Although they had succeeded in occupying two of the three trenches their failure to reach their objective was galling to the men. Elsewhere the general plan of operations had been successful, and now the battle-worn Wheatshires were consoled with the knowledge that the Huns on their immediate front were in a position that formed a dangerous salient. Either they would have to give back or risk almost certain chance of being surrounded and compelled to surrender.
Dog-tired and bitterly cold, Setley followed the example of his chums and threw himself down on the fire-step to sleep. Shelter in dug-out there was none, for so heavy had been the British bombardment that the remaining shelters were in such a dangerous state that the men were cautioned not to make use of them.
The constant passing of laden men along the narrow trench, the ceaseless roar of heavy guns, and the intermittent rattle of machine-gun fire failed to keep Ralph awake, yet it seemed as if he had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by a hand shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Turn out, mate," exclaimed Ginger. "We're being relieved. The bloomin' Downshires are movin' into the trenches."
Setley bestirred himself. Fully equipped he rolled off the fire-step into a foot of mud and slush that formed the floor of the trench. If the Huns had had boards they had vanished—probably smashed to atoms or else covered with debris from the sides of the trench with the violent concussion of the bombardment.
"Wake that man up!" ordered an officer, indicating a dim form. The man was dead, shot in his sleep. Ralph remembered that the unlucky fellow had asked him to move along and give him room. Had Setley not done so the probability was that he would be lying cold and motionless.
Silently the depleted battalion moved along the narrow trench, and with equal caution the goat-skin-clad Downshires filed into the vacated position. It was now snowing heavily, but the Wheatshires paid scant heed to the climatic conditions. They were like schoolboys off for a holiday.
"Hurrah for a good hot bath!" exclaimed Ralph when the men arrived at the rest-billets. In the trenches he had endured cold, dirt, and all the horrors of a confined deep ditch of wet clay with a sort of fatalism; but now the innate desire for cleanliness reasserted itself.
One of four hundred men, all in a state ofpuris naturalibus, Setley was ordered to double along a narrow plank gangway. Under one arm he carried his uniform. Under the other two bundles, one containing his personal effects, the other his underclothing.
At the end of the gangway were three separate sheds, with a sort of counter across the open doors. As each man passed the first he threw in his uniform, receiving in exchange a metal disc. At the second he parted company with his personal effects, again taking up a metal token. The third but received his underclothing.
Thence the Tommies entered a large building in which were rows of tubs filled with hot water. Laughing, shouting, and cracking jokes the men revelled in the rare luxury, until the stern admonition of the non-com. to "get a move on" reminded them that there is an end to all good things, not omitting bathing parades.
Again the procession was re-formed, and at the double the men hurried along another corridor, passing the other end of the buildings in which their belongings had been deposited.
Each soldier received a change of underclothing at the first hut, his personal gear at the second, and his uniform, steam-cleaned and liberally coated with insect powder at the third. With the regularity of clockwork the battalion was thus furbished up for its stay at the rest-billet—a striking testimony to the efficient organization and to the care and attention given to the troops after their arduous work in the firing line.
"Private Setley!"
The gruff voice of the platoon sergeant brought Ralph to a halt.
"You're wanted at the orderly-room at three p.m.," continued the sergeant. "An' don't you forget it."
"Say, sergeant——"
"Well?"
"Do you know what I'm wanted for?"
"Dunno, me lad; you'll find out when you are told an not a minute before."
Ralph received the message with certain misgivings. The word "orderly-room" had an unpleasant significance. Vainly he racked his brains to try to remember if he had done anything for which he might be "crimed." Then, perhaps, it might be that he was to be detailed for clerical work. Perish the suggestion! He had had enough of that at the bank. He hadn't come out to the Front to follow the irksome routine of doing orderly-room correspondence.
At the hour Ralph reported himself and was brought before the colonel of the Wheatshires.
The C.O. lost no time in coming to the point,
"I've had a report concerning you," he began. "I understand that you were in charge of a small squad, that you rushed a machine-gun emplacement, and that you rendered material assistance under heavy fire to a disabled Tank. The officer making the report states that you behaved with admirable bravery, intelligence, and discretion under highly dangerous circumstances."
The colonel placed the paper on his desk and searched amongst a pile of documents for another. Setley, in the meanwhile, stood rigidly at attention, inwardly ill at ease. He had merely done his duty. The subsequent eulogy from his C.O., although highly gratifying, quite bewildered him.
"Let me see," continued the colonel, glancing over Ralph's "history sheet." "You've served a hundred and fifty-six days with the Colours. You have never been crimed. Your occupation, previous to enlisting, was banking?"
"Yes, sir," replied Ralph.
"Where were you educated?"
Setley told him, mentioning the name of a well-known West-country school. The C.O. nodded approval.
"Wonder why he wants to know that?" thought the lad.
He was not long left in doubt.
"You have been recommended for a commission, Private Setley," resumed the C.O. "I have much pleasure in stating my opinion that you are in every respect fitted to take up commissioned rank. Being recommended, of course, does not necessarily mean that you will get it, but in all probability you will. ...I wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you, sir," replied Ralph.
The colonel made an annotation on the margin of the report.
"In the event of your obtaining this commission," he went on, "have you any particular choice of a regiment? The decision is entirely in the hands of the Army Council, you understand, but as far as practicable the wishes of the individual concerned is taken into consideration."
"Must it be a Line regiment, sir?"
"Unless you have special qualifications for any other branch of the Service."
"I would like to try for the Tank Section, sir."
The colonel raised his bushy eyebrows.
"Dash it all!" he ejaculated. "You aim high, young man. However, since you gained distinction in the Tank affair, perhaps your wishes will be gratified. Meanwhile, if you take my advice you'll keep this matter strictly to yourself as far as your comrades are concerned."
The colonel nodded dismissal. Ralph saluted and left the presence of the commanding officer.
He felt as if he were treading on air. He could hardly realize his good fortune. It seemed like a dream that would be rudely dispelled with the dawn. He wanted to pinch himself to be certain that he was really awake.
On his way back to his billet he encountered Private Anderson looking smarter than he had ever been known before. Ginger's boots shone brightly, despite the "dubbin" under the polish. His buttons, a few hours previously dull and tarnished by the clammy air of the trenches and the chemical effect of the bursting shells, now glittered resplendent in the sunshine. His reddish moustache had been brushed and coaxed into a certain state of subservience, although subduing the stubbly bristles had taken the private almost an hour of hard work. His cap was tilted on the back of his head revealing a well-oiled and studiously arranged "quiff" of fiery-tinted hair.
"Wot cheer, mate!" exclaimed George. "Where 'ave you been?"
"Orderly-room," replied Ralph.
"Blimey, that's where I'm off to," rejoined Anderson. "Your pal the hacter bloke is warned too. It's abart that bloomin' Tank business. Ain't this yere child correct?"
"It is," assented Setley.
"I knowed it," declared Ginger with conviction. "Wot did yer get?"
"The colonel complimented me," replied Ralph tactfully.
"That all? Blow me tight! I was reckonin' on 'aving seven days' special leave an' a free ticket to Blighty an' back."
Ginger walked away, his step a little less jaunty than before.
At tea-time the three comrades met. Ginger was radiant.
"The old man 'e told me I was a bloomin' corporal, and that I was to 'ave the bloomin' D.C.M.," he reported.
"'Any chance of getting back to Blighty on leave just ter show me medal off, sir?' I asked; an' blow me if 'e didn't get the orderly-room sergeant to make me a pass straight away. I'm off to-night, an' chance me arm over them U-boats. 'E's a toff is the colonel."
"And he thought fit to bestow a sergeant's chevrons on your humble," announced Alderhame. "The distinction of the D.C.M. is also thrown in as a makeweight."
"Congratulations, both of you," said Ralph heartily.
"Thanks; and what did you get?" asked Alderhame pointedly.
"'E swears 'e only got complimented," interjected Ginger. "All my bloomin eye, eh, wot?"
Alderhame winked solemnly.
"Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice," he quoted. "I can guess—you lucky young dog!"