CHAPTER XVIII

The Captured Trench

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

Above the rattle of musketry and the crash of bombs, Rifleman Carr heard his name shouted in cheery stentorian tones. Looking in the direction from which the shout came, the lad saw two stretcher-bearers jogging along with a heavy burden over the uneven ground. One of the men was Mike Dowit, the hero of the bombing exercise at far-off Featherstone Camp. It was not he who called, for his jaw was swathed in a bandage. The other man was unknown to Malcolm.

Right at the heels of the stormers the regimental stretcher-bearers had gone over the top, defenceless, and, as such, running even more risks than the infantry. Already Dowit and his companion had made three journeys to the advance dressing-station, notwithstanding the fact that the former had received a nasty wound in his chin from a fragment of shell.

"Hallo, Malcolm!" was the repeated hail, as the man in the stretcher waved his shrapnel helmet to attract attention still further.

It was Sergeant Fortescue,

"Proper buckshie this time," he declared, as the bearers, through sheer weariness, halted and set their burden on the ground. "Machine-gun copped me fairly. Three if not four bullets through my left leg, close to knee. 'Fraid I won't see you for another three months."

"Seen Selwyn?" asked Malcolm anxiously.

"Up there clearing out the dug-outs," replied Fortescue. "He's all right; so's Joliffe, M'Kane, and M'Turk. Poor little Billy Preston's done in, though. Shot through the head. I saw him. A fearful mess."

"You're a liar, Sergeant!" muttered a hollow voice, as the subject of the conversation strolled in a leisurely manner up to the stationary stretcher.

Corporal Preston's appearance did not belie Fortescue's statement that it was a fearful mess. Almost as the last German was cleared out of the captured trench, a piece of shrapnel struck the Corporal just below his right ear, and ploughed through his skin from the cheek-bone to the corner of his mouth. He dropped like a stone, and Fortescue had come to the erroneous conclusion that Billy Preston had made the great sacrifice.

Despite his injuries, Corporal Preston was grinning broadly on the uninjured side of his face. A lighted cigarette was between his lips. A saturated field-bandage held to his wound partly concealed the slight but ugly gash.

"Feel as dinky as anything, by gum!" he mumbled, without removing the consoling "fag". "This'll mean a trip to Blighty. I can do with it nicely, but I'm jolly glad I got there. Five blessed Fritzes to my certain knowledge, by gum! I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous--not I."

And, waving his disengaged hand, Corporal Billy Preston resumed his long trek of pain that was to end somewhere in England under the kindly care of nurses from far-off New Zealand.

"By Jove, he has!" agreed Fortescue. "I saw him polish off a couple of Huns with his bayonet, and knock out another with the butt of his rifle. Well, s'long, Malcolm, and _kia ora_."

The bearers lifted the stretcher and continued on their way, while Rifleman Carr, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, hurried towards the German second-line trenches, where, judging by the deep detonations 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 hardly noticed them. He had acquired the hardened campaigner's indifference to Fritz's "hate" that confidence in the knowledge of being on the winning side cannot fail to give. Overhead, British shells screeched on their way, as with mathematical precision they fell in the place appointed, to form a "barrage" through which neither German supports could advance nor defeated Huns retire without risk of being pulverized by the high-explosive missiles.

The second-line German trenches formed the nearmost limit of ground practically unaffected by the explosion of the great mine. Beyond lay the tortured slopes of Messines Ridge, from the fissures of which escaping smoke trailed upwards in the wan morning light.

Already the first line of storming troops was engaged in consolidating the captured position, while the supports were assembling and concentrating prior to advancing upon the farthermost of their objectives--the village of Messines. Every Hun remaining above ground had been accounted for. Hundreds were lying in grotesque attitudes, never to move again, while dejected and dazed prisoners were being marshalled in droves under escort for the advance cages. But in the tottering dug-outs the Prussian die-hards were still offering resistance; and it was the clearing of their sub-terranean strongholds that was occupying the attention of the victorious New Zealanders.

"Look out, chum!" shouted a voice as Malcolm approached a knot of Diggers gathered in a shellhole in what was formerly the parados of the trench. "Duck!"

Malcolm obeyed promptly. He was used to taking imperative hints with the utmost smartness. Even then he was only just in time to escape a bullet. For the second time that morning his steel helmet was sent flying, strap notwithstanding.

"Come and bear a hand and get your own back," continued the man who had warned him.

Recovering his head-gear, Rifleman Carr joined the group by a discreet and circuitous route, to find Grouser Joliffe and half a dozen men of his platoon engaged upon the task--up to now unsuccessful--of clearing out a dug-out. Joliffe had discarded his rifle. His wounded arm had given out, and he had the limb supported in a sling made from a puttee. A dozen bombs hung from his neck. He held another in his uninjured hand.

"Take that, you skulking Hun!" he shouted, hurling a bomb into the mouth of the dug-out. "That's the fifth I've given 'em," he added, addressing Malcolm as if to apologize for the fact that the occupants 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 here by now if he isn't knocked out on the way. That'll settle their hash."

Rifleman Joliffe was the only member of the party who remained standing. Partly sheltered by a break in the traverse, he proposed to throw another missile, while his companions, taking cover behind a few hastily-piled sand-bags, waited with levelled rifles the expected rush from the dug-out.

Deftly the bomber lobbed another grenade fairly into the yawning cavity. With a muffled crash the bomb exploded. Acrid fumes drifted from the sloping tunnel, while a succession of dismal groans gave credence to Joliffe's belief that he'd "done the blighter in this time".

"Hold hard!" cautioned the corporal of the section as the daring rifleman prepared for a closer inspection of his handiwork.

"What for?" expostulated Joliffe. "I know that copped him right enough."

"Then it's your bloomin' funeral," rejoined the non-com. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Confident in the result of his prowess, the bomber strode boldly towards the mouth of the dug-out. Before he had taken three steps the still eddying smoke was pierced by the flash of a rifle. With a look of pained surprise upon his face Rifleman Joliffe half-turned and stood stock-still for quite five seconds. Then his knees bent and down he went; his legs and arms quivered convulsively for a few seconds.

"What are you men doing?" enquired Captain Nicholson, who, unawares, had made his way along the trench until stopped by the knot of prone riflemen. "Dug-out giving trouble, eh? All right; follow me and we'll rush it."

"Better not, sir," said the Corporal. "We've chucked in a couple of dozen bombs, but still we haven't knocked 'em out."

Although the non-com.'s report was an exaggerated one as to the number of missiles thrown into the mouth of the tunnel, the fact that the defenders were still able to offer resistance was a perplexing problem. According to the rules of the game the bombs ought 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 of his chum. Not a word passed between the two, although they were longing to exchange confidences. All attention was centred upon the sinister hole in front of which the body of Rifleman Joliffe lay--a silent warning of the danger that lurked within.

"You're a left-handed thrower, M'Turk," said Captain Nicholson, who knew the physical capabilities and peculiarities of each individual of his platoon. "Try your hand with one of these."

Being able to throw left-handed gave the Digger a considerable pull over his companions for the work of smoking out the Huns. Without exposing any part of his body, which a right-handed man would have had to do owing to the position of the dug-out, M'Turk could lob the bombs fairly into the mouth of the tunnel.

With unerring accuracy the "stink-bomb" vanished into the dark recess. The New Zealanders could hear it rolling down the steps. Smoke began to issue from the dug-out, thinly at first, then rapidly increasing in volume and density.

Suddenly a startling apparition dashed through the thick cloud of smoke--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 the smoke-bomb.

"Collar him!" ordered Captain Nicholson.

A dozen hands seized him. His head-dress was removed, disclosing the features of a pale, insignificant, and spectacled German.

"What a cheek!" exclaimed M'Turk. "Fancy a worm like that holding us up!"

"Science against brute force, chum," remarked the Corporal, pointing to an anti-gas apparatus that dangled from the man's neck. "If it hadn't been that the gadget was smashed we might have gone on bombing till the end of the war."

The prisoner's armour was certainly proof against fragments of bombs, even at close range, as the splayed marks upon the steel testified. With the anti-gas apparatus he had been able to withstand the choking fumes, until a chance splinter of metal had perforated the flexible pipe between the Hun's mouth and the oxygen-container hidden under his back-plate. Although his arms and legs were unprotected, the man had practically escaped injury from the bombs, since the fragments of the exploded missile flew upwards. A gash on the knuckle of his right hand and a few slight scratches on the calves of his legs were the total result of the Anzacs' efforts until 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 an enemy. "See that he is sent back, Corporal. Now, lads, why was he so determined? There's more in this dug-out than meets the eye, I believe. I mean to find out. Who'll back me up?"