Over the Top
"Wing him!" exclaimed Malcolm, unslinging his rifle, opening the
cut-off, and springing upon the fire-step. Selwyn followed his
example, and with levelled rifles the two chums awaited the first
sound that might betray the progress of the spy.
"What are you fellows up to?" enquired a sergeant. "Don't you know
the order? No individual firing until further orders."
"A man has just leapt over the parapet. He's a spy," said Malcolm.
"In a N.Z. rifleman's uniform," added Selwyn.
The Sergeant snorted incredulously.
"You've been seeing things," he remarked, but to satisfy his
curiosity he raised his head above the parapet and peered into the
gloom just then a star-shell burst overhead, its glare throwing
every object on the immediate front into strong relief. The
crater-pitted No Man's Land showed no sign If any movement. A score
or more silent forms in field-grey uniform lay upon the ground--they
had been there for the last three days. Not a trace Of a man in
khaki was to be discovered.
"Come out of it, you chaps," continued the Sergeant. "You've made a
mistake. Hop it!"
Malcolm and Selwyn obeyed promptly, and alighting upon the floor of
the trench the latter cannoned into a passing soldier.
"Here, what the deuce do you think you're doing?" asked a well-known
voice, despite its tone of plaintive asperity.
"By gum, Fortescue," ejaculated Selwyn, "this is lucky! We've been
looking for you."
"And so your search is rewarded," rejoined Fortescue. "What's the
idea?"
"We thought we'd hang together when the stunt comes off," explained
Malcolm. "But there's another thing. Our Muizenburg pal was here a
few minutes ago."
"What?" exclaimed Fortescue incredulously.
"Fact!" confirmed his informant. "We asked if you were anywhere
about, and the fellow we addressed happened to be Konrad von
What's-his-name. He recognized us, for he _impshied_ like a wild
colt. I was----"
"Sergeant Fortescue here?"
"Yes, sir," replied Fortescue, standing to attention and saluting as
he recognized Captain Nicholson the S.I.N. of the old _Awarua_ days
and his lieutenancy a thing of the past.
"You've warned the men to nip over smartly?" asked the Captain.
"Yes, sir, I've seen to that. There is another matter on which I
should like to speak."
Briefly Fortescue related the incident of the spy's flight as told
him by his two comrades. Captain Nicholson's face lengthened.
"By Jove, this is a serious matter! What was the fellow doing?"
"Assisting in fixing ladders, sir."
"Then pass the word for the sergeant in charge of his party."
The non-com. was soon on the spot. He was the sergeant who had
doubted the veracity of Malcolm's statement, and still had the same
opinion on the matter as before.
But when the roll-call was taken one of the men was
missing--Rifleman Scrooch.
"Know anything about him, Sergeant?" enquired Captain Nicholson.
"Not much, sir," was the reply, "except that he came in with the
last draft from Etaps."
Captain Nicholson consulted his watch.
"He won't get far," he remarked grimly. "In another fifteen
minutes----"
"Let's get back," suggested Fortescue as his officer disappeared.
"The bombers will be falling in here in half a tick. We're in the
first supports. Fritz is pretty sleepy to-night; I wonder if he
knows what's in store for him."
The bomb-throwers, heavily laden with canvas bags filled with their
death-dealing missiles, filed into the front trench, together with
their supporting riflemen. A sharp, decisive order was passed from
one officer to another, and the sinister clicking sound of bayonets
being fixed to rifles rippled along the line of trenches as the very
pick of New Zealand's manhood prepared for the coming ordeal.
Every man of the brigade knew what was to be expected of him.
Messines Ridge was to be carried at the point of the bayonet, and
the knowledge that the hostile wire was practically uncut and that
the heights bristled with machine-guns was common property.
Stupendous though the task was, not a man flinched, although several
groused at the lack of consideration on the part of the Staff to
send them against a prepared position in a practically-unbroken
state; which showed that the troops were generally ignorant of the
measures taken to safeguard them.
"Five minutes more!"
The officers bunched together to compare watches. They had done so a
dozen times that evening, but perhaps it was excusable. Everything
depended upon the operations being carried out with the precision of
reliable clockwork. A second or two out either way would mean
throwing away scores, perhaps hundreds, of valuable lives, for
Fritz, although fairly quiet, was on the alert.
The British artillery was now almost silent. In previous stunts the
position to be attacked was subjected to hours of terrific
bombardment, but now hardly a shell fell upon the Hun defences. As
for the protecting "barrage", the waiting troops looked for it in
vain.
"Keep together!" whispered Malcolm tersely, as he nervously felt the
tip of his quivering bayonet.
"Right, old man!" replied Selwyn in a low-pitched, unnatural voice.
It was useless to disguise the fact. Both had "the wind up" very
badly. Malcolm could hear his heart thumping violently under his
tunic; he was fully conscious of an empty, nauseating sensation in
the pit of his stomach. He doubted whether he could stir up courage
at the critical moment to leap over the parapet into the impending
tornado of machine-gun bullets and pulverizing, bursting shells.
[Illustration: "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM]
Others had done the same. Why not he? Vainly he tried to argue with
himself that he was differently constituted from other men. He was
too young to die. He had not drunk deeply of the joys of manhood.
Why had he been such a fool as to underrate his age when he joined
up? If----
The shrill blast of a whistle pierced the strained silence. With a
loud yell the men leapt upon the scaling-ladders. His fears thrown
to the wind, and the exhilarating sensation of unfettered action
surging through his veins, Malcolm found himself scrambling over
sand-bags and leaping into the pitted No Man's Land.
Even as he took the leap a seven-fold lurid flash burst from the
dominating ridge of Messines. The ground trembled and swayed beneath
his feet. Sand-bags and tons of earth subsided into the trenches so
recently vacated by the troops, while a deafening, dumbfounding roar
beat upon the lad's ears.
Almost mechanically Malcolm broke into a run. In front and on either
side other men were surging onwards, their bayonet-tips describing
erratic curves as they lurched over the still-trembling ground.
Showers of dust beat upon their faces. Farther ahead masses of solid
rock and earth were falling with a succession of thuds, while, where
Messines Ridge had been, was a riven mound of disintegrated Soil,
over which a dense cloud of black smoke rolled sullenly in the
sultry night air.
One of the greatest engineering feats of the Great War--in fact, the
greatest mining operation in the history of the world's battles--had
been successfully carried out, a task compared with which the great
mine of Beaumont Hamel paled into insignificance. With a
concentrated roar, the concussion of which was distinctly felt over
the greater part of south-eastern England, the explosive contents of
a series of mine-chambers were fired simultaneously.
In the fraction of a second the whole of Messines Ridge underwent a
startling change. German dug-outs, trenches, machine-gun
emplacements, and an unknown but vast number of troops went up in
the terrific blast.
Months of diligent and stupendous labour had not been spent in vain.
At one stroke the culminating moment had done more than hours of
intensive bombardment. With little risk the British troops were able
to sweep the position that for two years had defied their efforts.
Yet the New Zealanders were not to have a "walk over". From the
heavy guns, well behind the pulverized ridge, shells were bursting
in front and behind the trenches. Hostile machine-guns that had
almost inexplicably escaped the general carnage were spitting
venomously, while in the front German trenches, which were on
comparatively level ground to the east of the Messines Ridge, a hot
but erratic rifle-fire was directed upon the khaki-clad stormers.
On and on Malcolm ran, his face turned towards the two lines of
sand-bags beyond which the Huns were still putting up a fight.
Whether Fortescue and Selwyn were with him he knew not. The
resolution he had made to keep with his chums was gone. His sole
desire was to reach the hostile trenches and battle with the
field-grey enemy.
Men were running in front of him. Swift of foot though he was, there
were others who surpassed in the maddening rush. More than once he
had to leap over the writhing bodies of gallant Anzacs who had gone
down in the charge. He was dimly conscious of khaki-clad forms
crashing heavily to the ground on either side, of a whizz of flying
metal that sent his steel helmet spinning, of a sharp, burning pain
in his left wrist, and of a dozen other mental and physical
sensations.
In the midst of a regular mob of panting, yelling, and shouting men,
and preceded by a terrific fusillade of Mills's bombs, Malcolm found
himself struggling through masses of partly-severed barbed wire and
up on the hostile parapet.
The ruddy glare from the exploding missiles revealed a line of
cowed, terrified men, some with "pill-box" caps, others with the
typical "Dolly Varden" steel helmets. With uplifted hands and
tremulous cries of "Kamerad!" they bowed to the inevitable, and
almost contemptuously were sent through the crowd of New Zealanders
to the British lines.
Other Huns were made of sterner stuff, and offered a stubborn
resistance. With rifle-shots, bayonets, clubbed weapons, and bombs
they contested their ground. Machine-gunners used their deadly
weapons with desperate energy, until they were stretched out by the
sides of their now silent charges. The air was heavy with
suffocating smoke; fragments of shell were flying with complete
impartiality; shouts, oaths, and curses punctuated the crash of
steel and the rattle of musketry, as men in their blind ferocity
clutched at each other's throats and rolled in mortal combat upon
the ground.
Presently Rifleman Malcolm Carr found himself confronted by a tall,
bearded Prussian, whose head-dress consisted of a steel helmet, with
a visor completely covering the upper part of his face as far as his
mouth. Even in the heat of combat Malcolm could not help noticing
the incongruity of the bristling whiskers flowing beyond the
fellow's face-armour. It was one of those transitory yet
indelibly-stamped impressions that are frequently formed in times of
imminent danger.
The Prussian lunged with his bayonet. Malcolm promptly turned it
aside and countered. His bayonet, darting above the other's belated
guard, caught the Hun fairly in the lower part of his chest.
With a disconcerting jar that wellnigh dislocated his wrist, and
sent a numbing pain through his right arm, the lad realized that he
was up against great odds. The Prussian was wearing a steel
breastplate underneath his tunic. Malcolm could imagine the grin of
supercilious triumph under the Hun's mask. He shortened his grasp
and thrust again, this time at the Fritz's shoulder. The man,
despite the handicap of wearing heavy steel plates, ducked agilely,
and, reversing his rifle, prodded the New Zealander with the butt of
his weapon. Stepping backwards to avoid the blow, Malcolm tripped
over some obstacle and fell heavily into a still-intact emplacement.
For some seconds he lay still. A few inches above his head came the
deafening tick-tock of a German machine-gun. He had fallen in front
of the weapon, and was pressed down by a heavy weight that still had
the power of movement.
Groping, his fingers came in contact with human hair--the beard of
his antagonist. The Prussian was lying face downwards upon the New
Zealander's body.
"My festive," mentally ejaculated Rifleman Carr, "you didn't play
the game with your body-armour; I'll do the reprisal dodge."
Fiercely he tugged at the Prussian's beard. With a yell of pain the
fellow bent his knees and reared his body, only to fall inertly upon
the half-suffocated Digger. In rising he had intercepted a dozen or
more bullets from the machine-gun. So close was the muzzle, that his
clothes smouldered in the blast of the weapon. Not that it mattered
very much to him, for he was stone dead.
With a frantic effort Malcolm rolled himself clear of the body of
his late foe; then, resisting the temptation to regain his feet, he
crouched in a corner of the emplacement and took stock of his
immediate front.
He could easily have touched the cooling-jacket of the weapon as the
machine-gun continued its death-dealing work. He could discern the
sullen, determined features of the two men who alone remained of the
machine-gun's crew.
Vainly Malcolm groped for his rifle. The violent impact had sent the
weapon yards away. Nor could he find the rifle of his late
adversary. The man had been a bomber; perhaps some of his stock of
hand-propelled missiles yet remained?
Very cautiously the New Zealander felt for the canvas pockets
suspended from the Hun's neck. Every one was empty.
"Rough luck!" he soliloquized. "Don't know so much about it, though;
if he had had any left when we scrapped he might have chucked one at
my head."
The machine-gun ceased firing. For a moment Malcolm was seized with
the haunting fear that the gunners had spotted him. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw that they were fitting another belt of
ammunition.
Presently Rifleman Carr's hand came in contact with a hard substance
protruding from the Prussian's pocket. By the feel of it he was
assured that he had found a revolver. Stealthily he withdrew the
weapon and examined it. The pistol was evidently smaller than those
used in the opposing armies. Belgian made, it had probably been
obtained from a looted shop. Although officially unsanctioned,
raiding parties, British, French, and German, frequently carried
small revolvers when engaged in paying uninvited and unwelcome
visits to the hostile lines.
The weapon was loaded in five chambers. Whether it was sufficiently
powerful for the work Malcolm proposed to do the lad could not
definitely form an opinion. It was like riding an untried steed.
Failure on the part of the cheap mechanism meant death;
nevertheless, for the sake of his comrades who were exposed to the
brisk fire of the machine-gun, he was determined to take the risk.
A gentle pressure on the trigger revealed the pleasing fact that the
revolver was of a self-acting type. So far so good. The next
question was--are the cartridges reliable?
Deliberately Malcolm, steadying the barrel on the neck of the dead
Hun, aimed between the eyes of the fellow holding the firing-handle
of the machine-gun.
Two shots rang out in quick succession. Giving a yelp of mingled
pain and surprise, Fritz doubled up across the gun, his feet beating
a tattoo against an ammunition-box. His companion, partly deafened
by the double report almost under his nose, and taken aback by the
collapse of the gunner, crouched irresolute. Before he could decide
whether to snatch up his rifle or to raise his hands and shout
"Kamerad" a bullet from Malcolm's revolver struck him fairly in the
centre of his low forehead.
Wriggling from underneath the dead Prussian, Rifleman Carr regained
his feet. The wave of New Zealanders forming the first
storming-party had swept beyond the now silent machine-gun. The
supports were doubling up, their numbers no longer lessened by the
rain of bullets from the hitherto overlooked emplacement. Between
the two lines of attackers khaki-clad figures littered the ground,
while numbers of wounded, both New Zealanders and Huns, trickled
towards the British trenches.
"My capture!" exclaimed Malcolm. "I'll put a tally on the beauty."
Searching, he found his rifle and bayonet. Unfixing the latter, he
scratched upon the field-grey paint of the machine-gun the words:
"99,109, Carr, No. 3 Platoon, C Company".
"If I go under, the boys will know I've done something towards my
bit," he muttered. "I wonder where my pals are?"