"A weeklater Ralph Setley was given his commission and appointed to the Tank Service. He shrewdly suspected that the colonel of the Wheatshires had put in a strong recommendation on his behalf, and in this surmise he was not mistaken.
With the commission ten days' leave was granted to enable the newly fledged subaltern to obtain his kit, and in high spirits Ralph set out for England.
He parted with his former comrades with genuine regret. Despite danger, discomforts, and the rough life he had had a rattling good time in the ranks. Looking back he dwelt only on the bright side of a Tommy's existence. The men of his late platoon were equally hearty and embarrassingly outspoken in their appreciation of Ralph's good luck, because he deserved it. It was not a case of promotion through favouritism: individual merit and devotion to duty had earned a fitting reward.
At Boulogne he alighted in company with hundreds of officers and men, the former clad in "warms," the latter in goatskin coats with the trench mud adhering to their uniforms and boots. All were in high good humour, for were they not bound back to Blighty. A long hospital train had come in, and hale and wounded were cheek by jowl until they set out on the sea-journey—the former by returning transports, the latter in the distinctively painted hospital ships that are occasionally marked down as victims by the recreant and despicable U-boat pirates.
"Hullo, Setley!"
Ralph stopped and turned his head, unable at first to locate the direction from which the hail proceeded.
A man lying on a stretcher resting on the platform had attracted his attention. Ralph failed to recognize the voice, nor could he recognize the speaker. The latter was partly covered with a blanket. His left arm was bandaged, while his head was swathed with dressings to such an extent that only the nose and one eye were visible.
"Hullo, yourself!" replied Setley. "Sorry, but I can't recognize you."
"What, forgotten your old platoon sergeant?" rejoined the wounded man.
"Sergeant Ferris!" exclaimed Ralph. "Why, we were told that you had been done in—blown to bits."
"Not so very far wrong," replied Ferris, as Ralph placed a cigarette between the sergeant's lips and lighted it. "I copped it properly. Lifted off my feet by a shell, then a machine-gun played the deuce. I got in the next night and here I am."
Ferris's brief statement hardly did justice to the man's grit. The calf of the right leg had been pulverized by half a dozen machine-guns bullets, although the shin bone had escaped injury. Two bullets had completely pierced the left ankle. These wounds, combined with shell-shock, rendered the sergeant unconscious. When he came to, the Wheatshires had retired to the captured second line trench and he found himself in the open. Indomitably he started to crawl back. Every inch of the way was fraught with agony. At length he approached a sunken road, but just as he was about to drag himself over the edge a sniper shot him through the chest. At the time he was almost unaware of the fact, except that he felt a sharp twinge, which he put down to a scratch from part of his equipment, but when he gained the sunken lane he again swooned from loss of blood.
Upon regaining consciousness he found that it was night. A burning thirst gripped his throat, and increased his physical torments. Doggedly he began to crawl again, although he could hardly hold his head up clear of the mud. The contents of a water-bottle that had belonged to a dead German revived him considerably, and in spite of frequent rests his progress along the sunken lane was slowly and steadily maintained, until through sheer exhaustion he fell into a fitful sleep.
With daybreak his troubles increased. The Huns begun shelling the sunken road, while the British guns also began to pound the same spot. Crawling into a crater Ferris hugged the muddy earth, expecting every minute to be blown to atoms by the bursting high explosives. It was then that he received a scalp wound and a fragment of shell in his wrist. Throughout the long-drawn day he lay in his frail shelter while the mutual "strafe" continued. At night he resumed his pilgrimage of agony and finally reached the British lines to find that his regiment had been relieved by the Downshires.
"Yes," he continued, puffing contentedly at the cigarette Ralph had given him. "I'm just off to Blighty for a rest cure, then I guess I'll be back in time for the Final Push. Wouldn't miss that for worlds, and the boys are doing great things, I hear. Where are you off to, Setley? Blighty, too. You're mighty lucky to get away. Some chaps have been months out here without having a sniff of home. Got a commission, eh? Well, sir, the best of luck."
Two bearers raised the stretcher and Sergeant Ferris was borne off on another stage of the journey of pain, yet happy at the thought that a guerdon awaited him—the sight of his native land.
The Cross-Channel passage was accomplished in safety, thanks to the efficient escort provided by the Senior Service, and just as it was getting dark Ralph landed at Folkestone. The train from Charing Cross conveying leave-expired men had just arrived, and the double stream of troops, some with their faces Francewards, others with their backs to the Front for a few brief days, jostled on the landing-stage.
"Blimey, if it ain't young Setley!" exclaimed a well-known voice. "'Ere, Aldy, where are yer?"
And Ginger Anderson gripped Ralph's hand and jerked it like a pump-handle.
"So they let yer off? Lucky blighter! you've got your leave to come. We've 'ad ours, worse luck."
"Cheer-o!" was Alderhame's greeting. "How are things?"
Briefly Ralph explained the nature of his hurried visit home.
"Told you so," said Alderhame. "I knew it meant a pip on your collar. Well, the best of luck."
"Judging by the number of times I've been wished that I ought to have it," rejoined Ralph. "And I believe I was born on a Friday."
"Suppose we ought to salute?" said Ginger.
"I believe the idea is that one salutes the King's uniform, and I haven't got it yet," replied Ralph.
"You salute the uniform not the man," agreed Alderhame.
"Don't know so much abart that," added Ginger reminiscently. "I got seven days C.B. for not saluting my company officer, an' e was in plain clothes; so 'ow abart it? If it's the bloomin' uniform you salutes then why the dooce don't a Tommy kow-tow to every blessed uniform he sees in a tailor's shop?"
"Give it up," declared Sergeant Alderhame. "Well, Ralph, we'll be sorry to lose you, but jolly glad you've pulled off a commission. With the Tanks, too. That's good business. If there's a chance and you're want of a sergeant then you might bear in mind your old pal."
"I won't forget," replied Setley. "So long."
"Shan't be sorry to get across ter France," declared Ginger. "Not that I want ter find myself in those blinkin' trenches: the chap wot swears 'e likes that sort o' life is a bloomin' prevaricator. When we get a move on it's different. But wot I wants ter get across for is a good square bust-out: bully beef an' spuds. Honest, I ain't 'ad me teeth inside a tater the whole time I've bin 'ere. Fed up with Blighty, that's wot I am."
"You're not the only one who had to go without potatoes," added Alderhame. "There's an artificial shortage everywhere; those rascally profiteers have been at it again. Just fancy, our little town was quite without spuds, and yet a neighbouring landowner had thirty tons of potatoes under straw—to feed his brothers later on."
"His brothers?" queried Ralph.
"Ay," continued Alderhame, with a laugh. "In other words, his pigs."
The order to "Fall in" ended the interview. The heavily laden Tommies, bent under the weight of their packs and equipment, prepared to embark while Setley made his way to the train.
The next few days passed only too quickly. Hurried visits to the Stores, receiving the congratulations of his numerous acquaintances, modestly relating his adventures to his admiring relatives and going into dozens of personal matters that claimed his attention—these were but a few of the things that occupied the young second-lieutenant's time. The while he was consumed with impatience to take up his new duties. Reports from the Front hinted of important events in the immediate future. Something big was in the air. A "push," long-promised and compared with which the previous operations, magnificent though they were, would be entirely dwarfed, was imminent. At last the British Empire, ever backward in preparation, had more than caught up with her Germanic rival, and with quiet confidence millions of the subjects of King George awaited the news that at last the Huns were being thrown back towards the banks of the Rhine.
""Haighas occupied Bapaume and Péronne, encountering little opposition."
Such was the news that greeted second-lieutenant Ralph Setley on disembarking at Boulogne. Bapaume and Péronne—places that for months and months had been practically within sight of the British trenches, and yet seemed as far remote as Peru. Miles and miles of deep concrete reinforced earthworks, hundreds of machine-guns, acres of formidable barbed wire, and the pick of the Kaiser's legions, had been in front of those two towns; and yet the Huns had gone—retreated.
"A voluntary retirement, according to our plans." Ralph smiled when he read the mendacious German official report. Can any sane individual imagine a voluntary retirement in these circumstances. After two years of hard work, fortifying and defending those deep-dug trenches, would any belligerent voluntarily abandon ground gained and maintained at such a cost of blood and treasure?
At a certain place, well behind the lines, Ralph was put through a hurried yet comprehensive "course" in Tank work. In company with half a dozen other young subalterns, he was under instruction from morning to night, with only brief intervals for meals. It would be difficult to find a squad more eager to grasp the intricacies of their future commands. They were, one and all, as "keen as mustard." Technical and practical work, intermixed with lectures on motors, machine-guns and quickfirers, hints on strategy and tactics, map-reading and dynamics—all were drummed into the active brains of the probationers, regardless of the adage, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
"Dangerous for the Boches, let's hope," remarked Danvers, a young second-lieutenant recently transferred from the Air Service, owing to a wound that rendered him unfit to fly, although his capacity in other directions was unimpaired. He had chummed up with Setley, and the two got on admirably. In private life Danvers had been a civil engineer, until the call of the sword took him from the plane-table and theodolite to the sterner profession of war.
"I want to impress upon you fellows," said the major—who acted as instructor—"that you must not run away with the idea that landships are invulnerable."
The class nodded their heads sagely. Considering most of them had seen derelict Tanks—in many cases showing huge rents in their armoured sides, caused by the impact of heavy shells—this announcement seemed superfluous.
"However useful the Tanks have been and are," continued the major, "they have their limitations. They are not perfect. Perfection means finality—and the end is not yet. Landships are a means to an end, nothing more. So don't run away with the idea that you can do anything when in charge of a Tank. It will do a lot. As an adjunct to an infantry attack it is most efficient. When first brought into action landships scored heavily, owing to their novel characteristics. The Huns have now found certain means to counter their offensive, and these means must in turn be negatived. So in the attack exercise discretion until you are astride the enemy trenches. Then you can go for all you're worth. Self-sacrifice is commendable in certain circumstances, but little is gained if you blunder into a pitfall through sheer impetuosity."
Instructor No. 2 adopted a different line.
"Tanks attacking in company," he declared, "should advance straight for their objective and at their maximum speed. Preferably the formation should been échelon; then, should the leading landship be 'bogged,' the others will have a chance to avoid the pitfall."
Then came the actual practice. Across ground gradually increasing in difficulty the instruction Tanks were taken, first with a qualified hand in charge of each and then with one of the new hands in command. At the end of a few days Ralph was "passed out" as being competent to take a landship into action.
It took two days to bring his command up to the Front. Too heavy and unwieldy to be conveyed by rail the landship squadron lumbered towards the Arras sector, in company with hundreds of guns of all calibres, enormous lorries crammed with shells, and transport of all descriptions laden with munitions and food. Dense columns of marching infantry, regiments in motor waggons, individual units, were swarming everywhere, the Tommies marching with elastic gait and resolute mien, confident that once more the German arms were about to suffer defeat.
"It's Easter Day," observed Danvers, when the Tanks were "parked" for the night and concealed from the prying eyes of a chance hostile airman—the Hun fliers were very chary of late of venturing over the British lines—by means of futurist-painted canvas. "Rummiest Easter I've ever spent. Wonder if the Huns use a similar form of service to ours. Can you imagine the Germans making use of the words of the Litany: 'To have pity upon all prisoners and captives'?"
"From all accounts they are badly using our men who have had the ill-luck to fall into their hands," said Setley. "A platoon of the Chalkshires got cut off, I hear. The men are kept in the German reserve trenches."
"Yes," added another subaltern. "And our fellows are mad about it. The Huns will feel sorry for themselves when the infantry go over the top and get to work with the bayonet. Hullo! the great strafe is commencing."
The artillery fire, constant for the last twenty-four hours, was increasing in violence. The guns of all sizes, from the giant twelve-inch to the fifteen-pounders, were belching forth their hail of devastating projectiles upon the enemy trenches. Vainly the German guns attempted to reply. Literally pulverized by an immensely superior weight of metal, their efforts were hardly of consequence.
"Does a fellow good to see that," observed a grey-haired major, as he watched the incessant glare of the shells bursting in the Hun trenches. "We're top-dog now. I remembered at Ypres we were battered for a week or more and hardly able to reply. Now the boot is on the other foot, and, you fellows, wait till the morning. We've a nice little surprise for Fritz."
There was no sleep that night for the officers and men of the Tanks. All inclination to rest was dispelled by the stupendous violence of the bombardment. The night was rendered as light as day by the incessant flashes, the din was indescribable, while the earth trembled with the crash of the guns.
Rapidly the "dump" diminished, but as fast as the reserve of stacked shells was exhausted more were brought up. The dragon's teeth of ancient Greek mythology were not in it: the projectiles at the disposal of the hardworked but enthusiastic gunners were greater in number as the hours sped. Thanks to the splendid organization of the munition workers at home, the artillery was not in danger of being starved.
"There won't be any work left for us to do," remarked Danvers. "The German trenches must be flattened out by this time."
"You'll soon see," rejoined a lieutenant, consulting his watch. "It's now close on five. The infantry go over the top at the half-hour. Hullo! here's the C.O. It's about time we started."
Already the men had stripped the canvas coverings from the massive mobile fortresses. The roar of the exhausts almost drowned the thunder of the guns. The air reeked with petrol vapour, mingled with the acrid, pungent fumes from the cordite charges from the nearest batteries.
"All correct, sir," replied Ralph's sergeant, as the subaltern scrambled through the narrow armoured door in the afterside of the sponson and gained the complicated interior of the Tank.
Setley gave the word and the mammoth ambled off, fifty yards in the wake of another Tank, three others following at regular intervals. It was still night. Dawn was close at hand, but any indications of the break of day were concealed by the huge clouds of smoke that hung in impenetrable curtains over the German lines. It was snowing. Frozen flakes were whirling through the smoke-laden air. In places the ground was covered to a depth of four or five inches, although everywhere the pure white mantle was rapidly churned into brownish slush by the constant movement of vehicles and men.
Half-past five. To the second the British guns lifted, raining their hail of projectiles on the hostile support trenches and putting up such a tremendous barrage that no living thing could endure in that sector of bursting shells. To those of the high explosive type were added others of a terrible but totally different character. Fritz was being paid back in his own coin and with compound interest. Oft-times the cultured Huns had made use of liquid fire—a hideous barbaric means of attack. Retaliations had been reluctantly decided upon by the British authorities. At last the time-honoured maxim, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," was being put into force.
Splendid in their terrible work, the liquid fire shells burst with admirable precision over the crowded reserve trenches. Unable to retreat owing to the barrage, reluctant to face the bombs and bayonets of the British infantry as they kept pace with the lifting artillery fire, the Germans were trapped.
Almost without meeting any resistance the Tommies swarmed over the hostile trenches, and soon a steady, ever-increasing stream of prisoners—men dazed with the horror of the bombardment, hungry, dirty, and devoid of spirit—set in towards the advance cages.
"We're out of it this trip," thought Ralph. "There's nothing for the Tanks to do. By Jove, there is, though! A viper's nest wants flattening out."
"Second-Lieutenant Setley'sattention had been directed to a machine-gun emplacement that, notwithstanding the terrific pounding of the Hun lines, had somehow escaped the general demolition. It stood in a slight hollow, the dip in the ground enabling the machine-guns to fire diagonally across the line of advancing troops and, incidentally, into the crowd of demoralized Hun prisoners. Although the arc of fire was limited, the result was hardly less efficacious on that account.
The harmless splaying of bullets upon the Tank's armoured side had drawn Ralph's attention to the source of the hail of small missiles. He could discern the domed tops of the three portable steel cupolas in which the machine-guns were housed. Evidently these metal defence works had been kept in a deep dug-out during the bombardment, and when the British guns lifted had been raised from the bowels of the earth—giving trouble and asking for it.
Round swung the Tank, slowly, ponderously. Her "tail"—the pair of wheels used for steering purposes when on fairly level ground—was tilted clear of the crater-pitted earth. Grimly and remorselessly she set out to squash the viper's nest out of existence.
The Huns held on doggedly. They must have realized that they were already cut off by swarms of British infantry, and that sooner or later they would be "rushed" from all sides. Under the impression that no quarter is accorded to machine-gunners the Boches determined to fight to the last. Even the approach of the Tank, even if it spelt doom, did not make them desert their guns and with uplifted hands shout "Kamerad."
Right and left of the emplacement were lines of barbed wire, many of the posts still standing; but directly in front the entanglement had been flattened, scorched posts and short fragments of twisted wire alone remaining to mark the position. The path for the Tank was invitingly open, but that fact, combined with the determined stand of the Hun machine-gunners, struck Setley as being suspicious. Either the ground in front of the three cupolas was mined, or else a deep pit, with vertical sides, had been dug, and concealed by means of a covering of boards strong enough to bear the weight of a few men but unable to withstand the 200 tons dead weight of a Tank.
With one tractor band grinding ahead and the other reversed the Tank made a half turn in its own length and commenced to cross the front of its objective. Then climbing the rising ground with consummate ease the mammoth charger drew up to the flank of the machine-gunners' lair.
The Huns in the nearest cupola promptly bolted and surrendered to the nearest Tommies they met. Those in the second one, firing to the last, were neatly "done in," for the Tank, charging the metal-box obliquely, toppled it into the nearest mud and finished off by pulverizing the light steel plating and the crew within.
The men belonging to the third machine-gun, seeing that their mobile fortress was powerless against the immensely superior weight of the Tank, fled for the nearest dug-out. Three were shot down by the Tank's machine-gun, while two managed to reach the doubtful shelter. Too late they discovered that the dug-out had caved in under the impact of a huge shell, and only the entrance and a few steps were left.
Ralph ordered his command to be brought to a standstill. His work for the present was accomplished. The rounding-up of the two surviving Huns must be left to the infantry, numbers of whom were swarming over the captured lines, securing prisoners and exploring dug-outs lest the gentle Boches had left explosives with time-fuses in those cavernous depths.
Setley gave a whoop of surprise and delight as a dozen Tommies approached. They were the Wheatshires—his late regiment—and, to be more exact, men of his former platoon. But in vain he looked for Sergeant Alderhame. Penfold—well, he could hardly be expected to be out at the Front so soon. But there was Sidney, the lad with Polish blood in his veins. George Anderson, too.
Ralph felt tempted to shout as the little Cockney dashed past the stationary Tank. With his rifle slung across his back, and a bomb held ready to hurl, Ginger was the personification of activity and alertness. He had spotted the two Huns in the mouth of the dug-out. It would be obviously unwise for Ralph to attract the bomber's attention.
"Up with yer dooks!" shouted Ginger, swinging the bomb.
One of the men obeyed promptly, begging the while for quarter.
"Course you'll save your hide, Fritz," said his conqueror encouragingly. "Mike, take that blighter out of it, will yer?"
Remained one Hun, a tall, broad-shouldered lout, with a face that had animal cunning and ferocity written on every line of it. He stood with his rifle and bayonet at the "ready." His last cartridge had been spent. He was determined to fight to the last.
"Up with 'em!" yelled Ginger, brandishing the Mills bomb, while other men of the platoon gradually closed in upon the solitary Prussian.
The Hun made no attempt to comply. Snarling, he lunged ineffectually at a Wheatshire who had come almost within reach of the glittering steel.
"Hanged if I can do the bloomer in with this," exclaimed Ginger, placing his supply of bombs on the ground and grasping his rifle.
"Form a ring, chums, an' see fair play. Now, Fritz, it's either you or me."
"I haf no chance," replied the Prussian. "If out I come der odders vill shoot in my back."
"Don't talk rot, Dutchy," protested Anderson. "We ain't 'Uns. Either 'ands up or fight me!"
The Prussian had more faith in a British Tommy's word than he had in his own. Still snarling, he emerged cautiously from his retreat; then, finding that no attempt was made on the part of the other men to molest him, he crouched behind his bayonet and stealthily approached the imperturbable Cockney.
With a longer reach and armed with a rifle and bayonet of greater length than the British service weapon the Hun had a certain advantage; but lack of initiative and the slowness of his mental and physical powers neutralized his ascendancy over the short, sturdily built Wheatshire corporal.
Thrice the steel crossed. Once the Prussian's bayonet rasped against the wood casing of Ginger's rifle—a foiled effort to cripple his antagonist's fingers. By a brilliant parry Anderson knocked the point aside, and the next instant his bayonet was thrust deeply into the Hun's body.
"Well done, Ginger!" shouted his comrades.
"Too bloomin' well done," rejoined the victor. "'Ere, you chaps, who's gotter fust-aid dressin'? Mine's been kippered. Thanks, mate."
And almost before the heat of the combat had had time to cool Anderson was on his knees by the side of his late adversary, working diligently to staunch the flow of blood from the wound that he had made.
"Yer asked for it properly, Fritz," he exclaimed. "Why didn't yer put yer bloomin' 'ands up when I told yer?"
In answer, the wounded Hun turned his head and bit the hand of the man who was tending him.
"Yer rotten cannibal!" ejaculated Ginger, and disregarding the advice of his comrades to knock the fellow over the head, Anderson gathered up his bombs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and vanished from Setley's view.
By this time the battle had rolled onwards. Away on the right German shells were pounding the slopes of Vimy Ridge. That was a good sign. It proved that the British troops had secured a footing in what was unquestionably a key to this section of the hostile line.
Hindenburg had had his wish gratified—to meet the British in the open. He had failed to gain anything by it. In trench warfare the New Army had proved itself superior to the product of the German High Command, and now, with their trenches left miles in the rear, the Tommies were "mopping up" the Huns as neatly as the most exacting commander could wish.
And yet an admirable restraint was noticeable in the movements of the attacking troops. In the heat of the battle and joy of victory it was pardonable for the men to wish to push on beyond the protection of their artillery. With a very few exceptions the various units kept well under control. Never was the maxim "Hasten slowly" better applied.
A motor-cyclist, riding furiously and yet avoiding the yawning shell craters with a dexterity acquired by long practice, pulled up by the side of the stationary Tank. With the engine still running and keeping the machine balanced by placing one foot on the ground, the grimy mud-caked dispatch rider delivered his message.
"There's a Tank bogged fifty yards south-east of Henricourt Farm, sir," he reported. "The CO. sends orders for you to proceed to her assistance."
"Very good," replied Setley, and closing and locking the door, he gave instructions for full speed ahead to the aid of his crippled consort.
"Fullspeed ahead represented a speed of nearly ten miles an hour, not taking into consideration detours and slowing down to avoid craters and other obstructions. Henricourt Farm, Ralph found by consulting his large scale map, was approximately two miles away, and on the eastern slope of Vimy Ridge. Barring accidents, the Tank ought to be on the spot in fifteen minutes.
Already the motor-cyclist dispatch-rider was speeding over the rough ground on his return journey. Setley could not help admiring the pluck and determination of the man. Not only had he to avoid shell-holes, heaps of debris and stray strands of barbed wire, but the while desultory shells from the German long-distance guns were "watering" the ground in a vain hope of checking the irresistible British advance.
Even as Ralph looked a projectile struck the ground almost under the dispatch-rider's front wheel. With a lurid flash the shell burst, throwing masses of earth in all directions. Through the yellowish-green smoke the subaltern had a momentary glimpse of the motor-bike flying in one direction, the rider in another.
"Gone West, poor fellow," thought Ralph; but almost the next instant the man picked himself up and staggered towards the prostrate machine. The motor-cycle had finished its career. It consisted mostly of a tangled mass of steel and a grotesquely bent petrol tank.
"We'll have that fellow in," said Setley to his sergeant—a trustworthy non-com. of the name of Archer. "Tell him to look sharp about it."
Although the sergeant shouted at the top of his stentorian voice to the dispatch-rider he paid no attention. Either the roar of the distant guns drowned his words, or else the man had been rendered deaf by the concussion. To remain there in the open was to court death from bullets which were "plonking" sullenly into the sodden earth.
"Shell-shock, sir, that's what it is," declared Sergeant Archer. "I'll fetch him in."
A shell bursting eighty yards away sent fragments rattling harmlessly on the Tank's armoured side. The dispatch-rider never turned his head. It was a clear proof that he had lost his sense of hearing.
Descending from the comparative security of the landship Archer raced across the intervening distance. It was not until he touched the unfortunate man on the shoulder that the latter was aware of his presence. He stared vacantly at the non-com., then pointed to the wreckage of his motor-cycle, but although his lips moved he was unable to utter a sound. It was a bad case of shell-shock. Without sustaining visible injury, he had been deprived of both speech and hearing.
Archer pointed towards the waiting Tank, but the man obstinately shook his head and turned his attention once more to the smashed motor-cycle.
"It's nah-poo!" yelled the non-com. "You come along with me at once."
The vocal effect was completely thrown away, and when Archer gripped the man's arm the dispatch-rider resisted strenuously.
Just then another motor-cyclist dashed up. He was riding with a set purpose, and could not stop to see what was wrong. Crippled motor-bikes were too common objects. Like the Levite, he passed by on the other side.
Close behind came another motor-cyclist He evidently was returning, having accomplished his errand, and was merely indulging in a friendly "speed-burst" with the other man. Slowing down he came to a standstill, and surveyed the wrecked machine.
"What's wrong, chum?" he asked inconsequently.
"He's got shell-shock, and is as obstinate as a mule," declared Archer.
There was method in his obstinacy, for seeing one of his own men the disabled dispatch-rider fumbled in his pouch and produced a sealed envelope.
The new-comer glanced at the address and the endorsement, "Highly urgent!"
"All right, chum; I'll see to it," said the man, and with a flying start he leapt into his saddle and rode furiously away.
A look of satisfaction spread over the face of the speechless motor-cyclist, then, staggering, he fell unconscious into the arms of Sergeant Archer, as a shell whizzing a couple of feet over the non-com.'s head buried itself deep in the ground, fortunately without exploding.
Willing hands relieved the sergeant of his burden and lifted the unconscious soldier into the Tank. A precious three minutes had been lost, but, did Ralph but know it, the retransmission of the dispatch was of far more vital importance than the work of succouring the stranded landship.
But by the time Setley's Tank arrived upon the scene the situation was serious enough. The bogged consort was lying on the floor of a vertical pit twenty feet in depth—a cunningly devised trap right in front of a hitherto masked position, where nearly a hundred of the Prussian Guard, supported by a strong machine-gun detachment, still held out.
Into the pit the Huns were lobbing bombs galore. These did but little damage, although the fumes were trying the crew of the trapped mammoth very severely, and, to make matters worse, the enemy had brought up a liquid flame apparatus from an undemolished dug-out and were about to squirt a fiery stream upon the helpless and hapless Tankers.
In front of the position lay between forty and fifty dead or wounded Highlanders—reserves, who, caught in the open while advancing in support of an Irish battalion, had been surprised and mown down by machine-gun fire. The wily Prussians had lain low when the first wave of British had swept over their trenches, and by one of those inexplicable omissions a detachment had not been left to consolidate and clear up the captured ground.
Several of the wounded Jocks frantically cheered the oncoming Tank, at the same time shouting warnings that there was a pitfall in front. Some of them actually staggered to their feet, and grasping their rifles followed the ponderous landship as it approached the ridge held by the men of the Prussian Guard.
Almost at the brink of the exposed trap Setley brought his command to a halt. While the quickfirers and machine-guns replied most effectually to the Boches' fire the subaltern examined from the interior of the Tank the nature and extent of the barrier that lay betwixt him and the enemy.
The pit measured roughly fifty feet by thirty. A little less than half of the covering still remained—fir planks covered with a few inches of clay that harmonized with the surrounding ground. Unless the Huns had constructed another pitfall alongside this one, it would be practicable to pass it by keeping a few yards to the left.
The roof of the trapped Tank was plainly visible, but there were no signs of any of her crew. In their unenviable position they could do nothing in self-defence. The edge of the pit intervened between the muzzles of the Tank's guns and the hostile trench, but this did not prevent the Huns hurling their bombs over the parapet into the pit.
There was no chance of extricating the snared mastodon. Unlike the one that was towed out of action when Setley, then a mere private, played such a daring part, the Tank was penned in by the four vertical sides of the deep cavity—climbing a vertical wall of stiff clay is one of the accomplishments that a Tank cannot do. Later on, when the foe were cleared away, gangs of men would be set to work to dig an inclined plane, up which the ponderous machine would be able to climb to the open ground.
Heaving a sigh of relief as his command safely negotiated the passage past the hidden end of the obstruction, Ralph steered straight for the strongly held earthwork. The Huns, working fervently to get their diabolical fire-squirting apparatus in order, held their ground. Seeking cover behind sand-bags hastily thrown across the floor of the trench, and crouching in the concreted entrances to their dug-outs, they hailed bullets against the avenging Tank's blunt, armour-plated nose. Bombs, too, burst with an appalling clatter above and below the stupendous moving fortress.
The crew gave good measure in exchange. With their machine-guns spitting venomously and the quickfirers barking loudly the British accounted for numbers of their foes, while the Tank set to work systematically to level the barbed wire and flatten out the parapet of sand-bags.
In their puny rage several of the Huns closed round the Tank. Immune from the fire of her machine-guns they rained blows with axes at her tractor-bands, and even attempted to check the resistless, crushing motion by means of crossbars. All in vain: like a hippopotamus beset with a swarm of flies the Tank continued its dignified progress, levelling all that came in its way; until with the now monotonous cry of "Kamerad," the surviving Prussians surrendered.
"Let a couple of Jocks take 'em back, sir," suggested Sergeant Archer. "All the stuffing's knocked out of them, I guess."
A few slightly wounded Highlanders cheerfully accepted the commission. Thirty badly scared Prussian Guardsmen, deprived of their arms and accoutrements, meekly submitted to be marched off under the escort of the indomitable Scotsmen, while in order to ingratiate themselves with their captors the Huns voluntarily carried several of the British wounded to the advanced dressing stations.
Setley's next task was to render what assistance he could to the crew of the bogged Tank. Already the crew, finding that the mild bombardment with bombs had ceased, had emerged from their metal-box and were somewhat ruefully surveying the unclimbable walls of their prison.
"Hullo, Danvers!" shouted Ralph. "Sorry you've had ill-luck. We'll find a means to haul you out; but your bus must wait, I'm afraid."
Cautiously, and with his revolver ready for instant action, Sergeant Archer, accompanied by two of the crew, descended into a dug-out, the entrance of which was not blocked sufficiently to prevent squeezing through. Within were half a dozen dead Huns—killed instantly by the concussion of a high-explosive shell, yet without a wound on them. Apparently, the dug-out formed the engineers' store, for there were tools in plenty, including mattocks, spades, sectional ladders, and ropes.
Returning with his find, the sergeant was about to report upon his success when a bomb hurtled through the air. Instantly the three men threw themselves flat on their faces, while a second later the missile exploded without doing them harm beyond covering them with mud and dust.
Starting to his feet, Archer levelled his revolver. He was at a loss to discover the whereabouts of the thrower. It seemed as if the missile had been projected from the Tank, until a burst of machine-gun fire leapt from her side into the wall of earth within three feet from the muzzle of the gun.
The landship had come to a stop immediately opposite the mouth of a dug-out which had been so badly battered that the timber props were leaning together like an inverted V. Within a desperate Hun still lurked, and finding Archer and the two men in the open he had hurled a bomb in the hope of strafing the Englishmen.
"Hands up!" shouted Archer, flattening himself against the bank of earth by the entrance of the dug-out and firing a couple of shots into the cavernous recess by way of adding weight to his words.
There was no reply.
"That Maxim laid the blighter out, sergeant," suggested one of the men.
"I won't chance my arm on that," declared Archer. "Hand me that spade."
Removing his steel helmet, the non-com. placed it on the handle of the spade and thrust it carefully in front of the partly blocked tunnel. Again there was no response to the silent invitation. Archer repeated the tactics, this time exposing a little more of his metal head-dress.
A rifle-shot rang out. The helmet was completely perforated by the bullet.
"All right, Fritz," exclaimed the sergeant. "If you won't give in like a sensible fellow we'll have to rout you out. I've a smoke-bomb ready."
"Is that an English officer who speaks?" enquired the lurking German.
"A British sergeant—quite good enough for a Boche to argue with," retorted Archer. "So you speak English? Come out and surrender. That's plain enough, and you know it."
"What's happening, sergeant?" asked Setley, who, screened by the immense bulk of his Tank from the Hun's lair, had been conversing with Danvers.
"There's a Boche in this dug-out, sir," reported the non-com. "Be careful, sir; he chucked a bomb out just now. I believe he's an officer, because he enquired if he was chewing his rag to a British officer."
"I officer am," interposed the unseen. "To you I make surrender."
"Right-o," replied Ralph. "Out you come."
The head and shoulders of a Prussian appeared. Setley stepped forward to receive his prisoner, when with a curse the treacherous Hun hurled a bomb full at the face of the subaltern.
With outstretched hand Archer intercepted the flying missile and hurled it whence it came, where it exploded with a hollow vibration.
"Good thing I'm a cricketer, sir," he remarked. "That ought to have settled the swine's hash. There's no trusting a Prussian."
"Don't," ordered Ralph, as the non-com. was about to investigate. "We'll run no unnecessary risks, but the blighter must be accounted for. Where's a smoke-bomb?"
The Prussian officer was still alive. The mention of the word "smoke-bomb" made him find his tongue. He had very strong objections to being driven from his shelter like a rat from its hole. It was he who had ordered the liquid fire apparatus to be brought to play upon the bogged Tank, and now, when threatened with efficacious but comparatively humane measures, he asserted that the British soldiers were taking a mean advantage.
"You've put yourself out of court," exclaimed Setley. "For your treachery you deserve to be exterminated; but we'll give you another chance. Come out and we'll give you quarter. Any attempt at your low-down games and you'll be shot down."
The Hun hesitated. Having no regard for his own plighted word, he had doubts concerning the British officer's pledge.
"I will not surrender make," he shouted almost spluttering in his rage. "This a magazine is. If you a smoke-bomb throw den I fire der powder an' blow you and your landship to pieces."
"We'll risk that," replied Ralph coolly.
The bomb was tossed into the mouth of the dug-out. Nauseating, pungent fumes wafted out. For thirty seconds there was no sign of the Prussian. With their revolvers ready, Ralph and the sergeant crouched by the side of the flattened trench.
Suddenly a grey-coated figure dashed through the asphyxiating smoke. Temporarily blinded by the vapour, well nigh suffocated, the Prussian floundered into the open air, until his bent head came into violent contact with the side of the Tank. Like a felled ox he dropped upon the ground.
"Blessed if he isn't the very image of Little Willie, sir," remarked the sergeant, turning the Prussian over with his boot.
"He certainly looks a mental degenerate," agreed Ralph. "Here, stop those men. Let them carry him in."
A batch of thirty prisoners, under the escort of an imperturbable Tommy, came trudging across the open. They were Saxons; perhaps that accounted for the rough handling they accorded the Prussian officer.
"I've seen the last of that gentleman, I hope," remarked Setley. "You've found a rope? And ladders, too, I see. Look alive there."
Danvers and his men were soon extricated from the pitfall. With them was a German colonel, a tall, sparely built man, who was trembling violently in every limb.
"We hauled him out of a dug-out on our way up," explained Danvers. "The old bus squatted right over the entrance, and this cheerful Hun surrendered. We couldn't send him back. There were no men available for that job. Besides, there was a pretty hot machine-gun fire just then; so we hauled him on board. We hadn't gone a couple of hundred yards when the colonel josser began to get jumpy. He jabbered away as hard as he could, but as I don't understand the beastly Hun jargon I told him to shut up. After all, he was trying to tell me we were blundering into a trap—not out of consideration for us, you understand, but because he didn't relish the big bump. It was his own cowardly carcase of which he was thinking.
"Then came the big bump. Talk about peas in a box. They weren't in it. Thought the Tank was going to turn upside down, but she pitched on her nose with a terrific whump, and then settled down on an even base.
"For nearly an hour the Boches bombed us. At first it was a jolly disconcerting experience, and our Hun started shouting to the bombers to stop it—the skunk! Imagine our fellows doing that. Finding that nothing happened he quieted down a bit, until he suddenly danced up and down regardless of the fact that he was bumping his pig-headed skull against the roof girders. In his raving I caught the wordFlammenwerferseveral times, so I was forced to come to the unpleasant conclusion that the Huns were going to strafe us with liquid fire. Then your bus rolled up and put the lid on. The rest you know."