CHAPTER XVIII
The Captured Trench
"Hallo, Malcolm!"
Above the rattle of musketry and the crash of bombs, Rifleman Carrheard his name shouted in cheery stentorian tones. Looking in thedirection from which the shout came, the lad saw twostretcher-bearers jogging along with a heavy burden over the unevenground. One of the men was Mike Dowit, the hero of the bombingexercise at far-off Featherstone Camp. It was not he who called, forhis jaw was swathed in a bandage. The other man was unknown toMalcolm.
Right at the heels of the stormers the regimental stretcher-bearershad gone over the top, defenceless, and, as such, running even morerisks than the infantry. Already Dowit and his companion had madethree journeys to the advance dressing-station, notwithstanding thefact that the former had received a nasty wound in his chin from afragment of shell.
"Hallo, Malcolm!" was the repeated hail, as the man in the stretcherwaved his shrapnel helmet to attract attention still further.
It was Sergeant Fortescue,
"Proper buckshie this time," he declared, as the bearers, throughsheer weariness, halted and set their burden on the ground."Machine-gun copped me fairly. Three if not four bullets through myleft leg, close to knee. 'Fraid I won't see you for another threemonths."
"Seen Selwyn?" asked Malcolm anxiously.
"Up there clearing out the dug-outs," replied Fortescue. "He's allright; so's Joliffe, M'Kane, and M'Turk. Poor little Billy Preston'sdone in, though. Shot through the head. I saw him. A fearful mess."
"You're a liar, Sergeant!" muttered a hollow voice, as the subjectof the conversation strolled in a leisurely manner up to thestationary stretcher.
Corporal Preston's appearance did not belie Fortescue's statementthat it was a fearful mess. Almost as the last German was clearedout of the captured trench, a piece of shrapnel struck the Corporaljust below his right ear, and ploughed through his skin from thecheek-bone to the corner of his mouth. He dropped like a stone, andFortescue had come to the erroneous conclusion that Billy Prestonhad made the great sacrifice.
Despite his injuries, Corporal Preston was grinning broadly on theuninjured side of his face. A lighted cigarette was between hislips. A saturated field-bandage held to his wound partly concealedthe slight but ugly gash.
"Feel as dinky as anything, by gum!" he mumbled, without removingthe consoling "fag". "This'll mean a trip to Blighty. I can do withit nicely, but I'm jolly glad I got there. Five blessed Fritzes tomy certain knowledge, by gum! I'm from Timaru, but I'm nottimorous--not I."
And, waving his disengaged hand, Corporal Billy Preston resumed hislong trek of pain that was to end somewhere in England under thekindly care of nurses from far-off New Zealand.
"By Jove, he has!" agreed Fortescue. "I saw him polish off a coupleof Huns with his bayonet, and knock out another with the butt of hisrifle. Well, s'long, Malcolm, and _kia ora_."
The bearers lifted the stretcher and continued on their way, whileRifleman Carr, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, hurried towardsthe German second-line trenches, where, judging by the deepdetonations of exploding bombs and the sharp crack of rifle-shots,there was still work to be done.
German shells were "watering" the captured ground. Malcolm hardlynoticed them. He had acquired the hardened campaigner's indifferenceto Fritz's "hate" that confidence in the knowledge of being on thewinning side cannot fail to give. Overhead, British shells screechedon their way, as with mathematical precision they fell in the placeappointed, to form a "barrage" through which neither German supportscould advance nor defeated Huns retire without risk of beingpulverized by the high-explosive missiles.
The second-line German trenches formed the nearmost limit of groundpractically unaffected by the explosion of the great mine. Beyondlay the tortured slopes of Messines Ridge, from the fissures ofwhich escaping smoke trailed upwards in the wan morning light.
Already the first line of storming troops was engaged inconsolidating the captured position, while the supports wereassembling and concentrating prior to advancing upon the farthermostof their objectives--the village of Messines. Every Hun remainingabove ground had been accounted for. Hundreds were lying ingrotesque attitudes, never to move again, while dejected and dazedprisoners were being marshalled in droves under escort for theadvance cages. But in the tottering dug-outs the Prussian die-hardswere still offering resistance; and it was the clearing of theirsub-terranean strongholds that was occupying the attention of thevictorious New Zealanders.
"Look out, chum!" shouted a voice as Malcolm approached a knot ofDiggers gathered in a shellhole in what was formerly the parados ofthe trench. "Duck!"
Malcolm obeyed promptly. He was used to taking imperative hints withthe utmost smartness. Even then he was only just in time to escape abullet. For the second time that morning his steel helmet was sentflying, strap notwithstanding.
"Come and bear a hand and get your own back," continued the man whohad warned him.
Recovering his head-gear, Rifleman Carr joined the group by adiscreet and circuitous route, to find Grouser Joliffe and half adozen men of his platoon engaged upon the task--up to nowunsuccessful--of clearing out a dug-out. Joliffe had discarded hisrifle. His wounded arm had given out, and he had the limb supportedin a sling made from a puttee. A dozen bombs hung from his neck. Heheld another in his uninjured hand.
"Take that, you skulking Hun!" he shouted, hurling a bomb into themouth of the dug-out. "That's the fifth I've given 'em," he added,addressing Malcolm as if to apologize for the fact that theoccupants of the den were still in a state of aggressive activity."One of our chaps has gone for some smoke-bombs. He ought to be hereby now if he isn't knocked out on the way. That'll settle theirhash."
Rifleman Joliffe was the only member of the party who remainedstanding. Partly sheltered by a break in the traverse, he proposedto throw another missile, while his companions, taking cover behinda few hastily-piled sand-bags, waited with levelled rifles theexpected rush from the dug-out.
Deftly the bomber lobbed another grenade fairly into the yawningcavity. With a muffled crash the bomb exploded. Acrid fumes driftedfrom the sloping tunnel, while a succession of dismal groans gavecredence to Joliffe's belief that he'd "done the blighter in thistime".
"Hold hard!" cautioned the corporal of the section as the daringrifleman prepared for a closer inspection of his handiwork.
"What for?" expostulated Joliffe. "I know that copped him rightenough."
"Then it's your bloomin' funeral," rejoined the non-com. "Don't sayI didn't warn you."
Confident in the result of his prowess, the bomber strode boldlytowards the mouth of the dug-out. Before he had taken three stepsthe still eddying smoke was pierced by the flash of a rifle. With alook of pained surprise upon his face Rifleman Joliffe half-turnedand stood stock-still for quite five seconds. Then his knees bentand down he went; his legs and arms quivered convulsively for a fewseconds.
"What are you men doing?" enquired Captain Nicholson, who, unawares,had made his way along the trench until stopped by the knot of proneriflemen. "Dug-out giving trouble, eh? All right; follow me andwe'll rush it."
"Better not, sir," said the Corporal. "We've chucked in a couple ofdozen bombs, but still we haven't knocked 'em out."
Although the non-com.'s report was an exaggerated one as to thenumber of missiles thrown into the mouth of the tunnel, the factthat the defenders were still able to offer resistance was aperplexing problem. According to the rules of the game the bombsought to have blown the Huns to pieces.
"We've sent for some smoke-bombs," continued the Corporal. "Then,sir, when we've tried these, we'll follow you. Hallo, here they are,the beauties!"
"Four--all I could get," announced the newcomer's well-known voice.It was Dick Selwyn--ragged and begrimed, but unharmed.
Handing over the missiles, Selwyn threw himself down by the side ofhis chum. Not a word passed between the two, although they werelonging to exchange confidences. All attention was centred upon thesinister hole in fron
t of which the body of Rifleman Joliffe lay--asilent warning of the danger that lurked within.
"You're a left-handed thrower, M'Turk," said Captain Nicholson, whoknew the physical capabilities and peculiarities of each individualof his platoon. "Try your hand with one of these."
Being able to throw left-handed gave the Digger a considerable pullover his companions for the work of smoking out the Huns. Withoutexposing any part of his body, which a right-handed man would havehad to do owing to the position of the dug-out, M'Turk could lob thebombs fairly into the mouth of the tunnel.
With unerring accuracy the "stink-bomb" vanished into the darkrecess. The New Zealanders could hear it rolling down the steps.Smoke began to issue from the dug-out, thinly at first, then rapidlyincreasing in volume and density.
Suddenly a startling apparition dashed through the thick cloud ofsmoke--a man whose head and body were completely encased in steel.With arms outstretched the Hun staggered towards the Diggers,coughing violently the while under the irritating influence of thesmoke-bomb.
"Collar him!" ordered Captain Nicholson.
A dozen hands seized him. His head-dress was removed, disclosing thefeatures of a pale, insignificant, and spectacled German.
"What a cheek!" exclaimed M'Turk. "Fancy a worm like that holding usup!"
"Science against brute force, chum," remarked the Corporal, pointingto an anti-gas apparatus that dangled from the man's neck. "If ithadn't been that the gadget was smashed we might have gone onbombing till the end of the war."
The prisoner's armour was certainly proof against fragments ofbombs, even at close range, as the splayed marks upon the steeltestified. With the anti-gas apparatus he had been able to withstandthe choking fumes, until a chance splinter of metal had perforatedthe flexible pipe between the Hun's mouth and the oxygen-containerhidden under his back-plate. Although his arms and legs wereunprotected, the man had practically escaped injury from the bombs,since the fragments of the exploded missile flew upwards. A gash onthe knuckle of his right hand and a few slight scratches on thecalves of his legs were the total result of the Anzacs' effortsuntil the smoke-bomb came into play.
"A chirpy little sausage-eater!" exclaimed Captain Nicholson, who,like his men, was not backward in acknowledging bravery even in anenemy. "See that he is sent back, Corporal. Now, lads, why was he sodetermined? There's more in this dug-out than meets the eye, Ibelieve. I mean to find out. Who'll back me up?"