A Lively Bit of the Front Part 18

"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 _imps.h.i.+ed_ 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?"

"a.s.sisting in fixing ladders, sir."

"Then pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.ls.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM]

Others had done the same. Why not he? Vainly he tried to argue with himself that he was differently const.i.tuted 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 ma.s.ses 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, sh.e.l.ls 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 surpa.s.sed 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.ses 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 sh.e.l.l 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 b.u.t.t 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Rifleman Carr, "you didn't play the game with your body-armour; I'll do the reprisal dodge."