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?"