THE NIGHT ATTACK
SNATCHING up their rifles the three men hurried from the dug-out,
nearly colliding with the rest of their chums who were returning at
the first alarm to get their equipment. "Follow me," exclaimed
Penfold. "Keep well down."
At the fifth or sixth step along the tortuous communication trench
Setley trod on something not so yielding as mud, but comparatively
soft. He stooped and felt the object with his hand. His fingers came
in contact with a human face.
"There's a man lying here!" he called out to Penfold, who was a few
paces in front.
"I know," replied his new chum. "He's been there for the last three
hours. Our fellows haven't had time to bring him in yet. Don't worry
about that; you'll soon get used to it."
Setley hurried on, wondering whether he would ever get accustomed to
the horrors of the trenches. The seemingly stony indifference with
which Penfold had spoken jarred on his sensitive nerves. Somehow the
realization did not fit in with the anticipation of what war really
was. He could not help asking himself why nations should set about to
deliberately exterminate each other merely for the lust of
conquest--a wholesale slaughter by the most deadly scientific
instrument that human ingenuity could devise.
His disjointed reveries were interrupted by Penfold being hurled
violently backwards, his hunched shoulders striking Ralph violently
in the chest. The two men staggered backwards, accompanied by showers
of mud, stones, and displaced sand-bags, all silhouetted against the
glare of an exploding shell. Three of the Wheatshires preceding
Penfold were hurled bodily into the air, subsiding with sickening
thuds upon the soft ground. One writhed furiously, groaning dismally
the while; the others were mere lumps of clay fashioned in God's own
image, but now hideously mangled.
"On!" exclaimed Penfold breathlessly. "Don't wait. The
stretcher-bearers will be along for that fellow in half a shake."
Across a gap in the sand-bagged wall the men hurried. They could hear
the hiss of the stream of bullets from a machine-gun. It seemed so
close that Setley and Alderhame flung themselves flat.
"What are you hanging back for?" shouted a sergeant. "How the deuce
can the rest of the men get by when you're blocking the road? Push
along, both of you!"
Thus abjured the twain, fearing the scathing words of the N.C.O. more
than the whistling bullets, slid over the mound of displaced
sand-bags into the crater of the recently exploded shell, and
scrambled up the other side.
Twenty paces more and Setley found himself in the front line trench.
Almost mechanically he mounted the fire-step, rested the barrel of
his rifle between two spaced sand-bags that formed a loophole, and
waited.
"Here they come!" shouted an excited voice.
Standing out clearly against the glare of half a dozen star-shells
came on dense masses of German infantry. The Huns advanced slowly,
almost hesitatingly. There were no shouts of "Deutschland über
alles!" that characterized the earlier attacks. The words were a
hollow mockery--and the Huns knew it. They had now a wholesome
respect for the British Tommy. It was mainly fear of their officers,
who kept at the heels of their men and held revolvers ready to shoot
down any who refused to charge, that made the attack develop.
In front came two men, masked and bearing metal cylinders resembling
exaggerated packs upon their shoulders. In place of a rifle and
bayonet they held a length of flexible hose. The Huns were about to
use liquid fire in their attempt to oust the British from their
trenches.
Supporting these perambulating torches were a dozen or more bombers,
while close at their heels came men armed with rifles and bayonets.
With the exception of the mud and numerous shell-craters there was
little in the way of obstacles to impede their advance, for almost
the whole of the wire entanglements fronting the British parapet had
been blown away by shell-fire. Setley's impression at the
unaccustomed sight was that the brunt of the attack was about to fall
on his immediate front.
Suddenly the whole length of the British trench burst into a line of
crackling flame as the Tommies commenced independent rapid fire. Some
maxims, skilfully concealed in sand-bagged emplacements, added to the
din with their quick pop-pop-pop.
The Huns, erroneously trusting that their heavy guns had battered the
British trenches into shapeless mounds, and thinking that the Tommies
had been either blown to fragments by the terrific artillery
bombardment or had been compelled to seek refuge in their dug-outs,
were met by the full blast of the rifle and machine-gun fire.
Ralph was soon surprised to find that he was slipping another clip of
cartridges into the magazine of his rifle. He was now as cool as a
cucumber. The months of infantry training had not been thrown away.
With a visible enemy facing him he realized that the time had come
when he could strike a blow for King and Country, instead of being
subjected to shell-fire from a distant and unseen foe without being
able to raise a hand in self-defence. The attack was doomed to
failure from the start. One of the men bearing the liquid fire
apparatus was on his face, his head and shoulders buried in mud,
while his diabolical contrivance, which had evidently been perforated
by a bullet, had taken fire and was blazing furiously. The bombers
hurled their missiles prematurely, most of the bombs falling short;
while the infantry, mown down in heaps, wavered, the survivors
beginning to give way.
Above the rattle of musketry a whistle rang out loud and clear.
"Come on, boys!" shouted an officer, leaping on to the parapet, to
topple backwards with a bullet through his brain.
Undeterred, the Wheatshires poured over the shattered breastwork of
sand-bags. With an inspiring British cheer the infantry surged ver
the top like a huge, irresistible breaker.
The opportune moment for delivering a counter-attack had arrived.
Well spent had been those months of active training. The Wheatshires,
every man a passable athlete, literally swarmed over the parapet.
With their bayonets gleaming in the ruddy glare and preceded by the
regimental bombers the khaki-clad troops, dexterously threading their
way through the gaps in the barbed wire, charged irresistibly against
the already broken enemy.
A wave of thrilling enthusiasm swept over Private Setley. The chance
of actually doing something, of getting clear of the imprisoning
walls of slimy mire and coming to grips with the Hun had come. The
studiously polite and law-abiding bank-clerk was transformed into a
fighting Tommy. The lust of primeval combat was upon him. He saw red.
Of what happened during the next two minutes Setley had but a faint
and hazy notion. Bombs hurled by the retreating Huns fell around him.
Once the blast from an exploding missile lifted his steel helmet from
his head. He remembered putting it straight with his left hand and
noticing that the fingers were covered with a dark, moist, warm
fluid.
A man, keeping pace with him, suddenly dropped his rifle and fell on
his face. Setley leapt over the slightly inclined bayonet and held
on, the desire to stop and assist a fallen comrade being hardly
existent. For the time being his sole desire was to overtake one of
those field-grey forms showing dimly through the smoke.
The enemy first-line trenches at last--and the Huns were making a
stand. A machine-gun, one of many, was pumping out nickel almost on
Setley's immediate front. Hostile bombers were redoubling their
efforts. In cold blood the lad would have thought twice, perhaps many
times, before facing that deadly menace, but carried away in the mad
rush he pressed forward, scarce noticing the weight of his rifle and
bayonet.
A severed, coiled strand of barbed wire caught the puttee of his left
foot. With a vicious jerk he freed himself from the encumbrance,
leaving half a yard of mud-plastered cloth upon the sharp barb. Two
yards in front of him was a burly German bomber with a bomb poised
ready to hurl.
Regardless of the fact that the explosion of the missile would to an
almost certainty annihilate him, the Hun threw the bomb. Setley
caught it on the flat blade of his bayonet and threw it aside, where
it burst ten yards to the right under a tall, bearded Prussian.
The next instant the thrower received six inches of cold steel right
in the centre of his chest. Setley had made a mistake. It was a
matter of considerable difficulty to withdraw the blade. He
remembered too late the warning of the drill-instructors--when
delivering a body thrust aim below the ribs.
Before he could disengage the steel another German commenced a
furious blow with the butt-end of his rifle. In the midst of the
swing of the weapon a shot rang out within a few inches of Setley's
ear, and the Hun, with a curious look of surprise on his sullen
features, staggered forward. The descending rifle-butt struck
Setley's helmet a glancing blow and, missing his left shoulder, sank
deeply into the mud.
"So much for Buckingham: off with his head," yelled Alderhame, as he
ejected the still smoking cartridge-case from the breach of his
rifle. "How's that, my festive?"
"Thanks," replied Setley briefly; then over the hostile parapet the
two comrades surged, bending low as they crouched behind their ready
bayonets.
The deep and narrow German trench was crowded with men--dead,
wounded, and living. Some of the latter were putting up a stiff
fight, like wild animals at bay. Others, with the dismal and
monotonous whine of "Mercy, Kamerad!" were holding their hands high
above their heads, the bombs taking toll of brave men and cowards
alike.
Following at the heels of two of the Wheatshires' bombers, Setley,
Alderhame, George Anderson, and two others, made their way along a
traverse, the riflemen firing at the side of the bombers. At
intervals the latter stopped to hurl their deadly missiles down the
steep and steeply shelving entrances to the German dug-outs.
Rounding a sand-bagged traverse the party entered a bay in which was
a machine-gun, with its crew of dead and dying lying around the
silent weapon. A few paces further on a tall, bearded Hun barred the
way.
"Hands up!" yelled Ginger.
The man threw down his rifle and complied. As the Tommies surged past
Anderson took possession of the discarded weapon and tossed it over
the parapet.
"Keep 'em up!" he continued, addressing his prisoner. "A little of
that'll do you no 'arm. You bide 'ere till you're told to shift."
A shot rang out, and one of the British bombers dropped. His
companion hurled a bomb, while Setley and Alderhame pushed forward
towards a temporary barrier of sand-bags hastily piled on the floor
of the trench. Beyond were three Huns, one of whom had just fired the
fatal shot; but the avenging bomb had already done its work.
Standing on the parados was a captain of the Wheatshires.
"Back, men!" he ordered. "Don't get out of touch with the rest of the
company. Secure your prisoners and retire."
"Retire, be hanged!" muttered George. "Wot's to prevent us going on
to Berlin? Eh, you treacherous swine, wot's the game?"
He clapped his hand to his ear. One portion of the lobe was missing.
The man he had taken prisoner had drawn a small revolver from his
pocket and had fired at five paces at his captor while the latter's
back was turned.
With a yell Ginger rushed at the recreant Hun. Once more the man's
hands were raised above his head, and again the dolorous "Mercy,
Kamerad; me haf wife and six children!"
"Liar!" shouted the now furious Tommy, giving the treacherous Boche a
generous amount of cold steel. "You've a widow an' six orphans!"
Reluctantly, the Wheatshires quitted the hostile trenches and made
their way back across No Man's Land. In many cases their officers had
to push them towards their own lines. Having made good their footing
in the German defences, the Tommies did not relish the idea of
abandoning the ground. It did not occur to them that the captured
trench would form a dangerous salient, liable to be enfiladed and
levelled flat with hostile shells before it could be properly
consolidated.
"How about grub?" enquired Penfold, as the men regained the safety of
their own lines. "There's no barrage now? Why can't they bring our
tommy up to us?"
"Could do with a good meal myself," said Sefton. "Fortunately, we
were served out with bully-beef before we arrived. You can have some
of mine."
"Thanks, awfully," replied his new chum. "I'll accept; but, remember,
it's bad policy. Generosity is all very well, but here it's each man
for himself in the grub line. You can't blame a half-starving fellow
sneaking any food that he finds lying about, you know."
"How is it that you're short of rations?" asked Alderhame.
"Goodness only knows. The Huns were going it pretty hot all day and
during the earlier part of this evening. Perhaps our ration party
copped it. Everything has to be brought up by hand in this section of
the line," replied Penfold. "Well, let's foot it, before the guns
start again. The Boches will be pretty wild after this little
affair."
Mingled with a jostling throng of exultant Tommies and dejected
prisoners, the three made their way along the communication trench to
their dug-out.
"What luck!" ejaculated Penfold, stopping short at a heap of
disordered sand-bags and splintered timber that marked the site of
their temporary abode. "Our dug-out has been properly strafed. We
would have all gone West by this time if we'd been inside. But I say,
you fellows; what price grub, now?"