A Lively Bit of the Front Part 36

Like rats in a trap the Huns fought and died, while the survivors of the storming-party staggered out of the shambles and threw themselves on the ground in sheer bodily exhaustion.

Rifleman Carr had come off lightly. One of the first to force his way through the shattered entrance, he presented a sorry appearance.

His right sleeve was torn away at the elbow, the left was ripped almost to ribbons. His Webb equipment was twisted and cut; he was plastered in mud and filth from head to foot, while his steel helmet bore the splayed marks of the impact of two pistol-bullets fired at close range. Nevertheless, with the exception of a slight cut across the cheek, and the mark of a Hun's teeth showing angrily above his left wrist, he was uninjured.

A burning thirst gripped his throat. He felt for his water-bottle.

It was no longer there. Unconcernedly he reached out his hand and secured one belonging to a dead comrade. The bottle was full. The liquid put new life into him.

"Hallo, Henderson!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the man, who was vainly struggling to unfix the remains of his bayonet. "Seen Selwyn?"

"Half a tick ago," was the reply. "He's all right. Seen anything of Stewart?"

"Chuck it!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sergeant Fortescue. "What's the use of worrying about your pals when the job's not finished? Come along; if you can't run, walk; if you can't walk, crawl. We can't have C Company out of the last lap."

He spoke imperiously--savagely. A greater contrast to the mild-spoken, 'Varsity-educated greenhorn, who, a few years previously, was down on his luck in New Zealand, could hardly be imagined. A great responsibility had been thrown upon his shoulders.

With the l.u.s.t of battle gripping him, he found himself a leader of men.

C Company was widely scattered. Many had fallen; others had gone forward with other companies; platoons and units were mingled indiscriminately. After the fall of Van Meulen Farm Redoubt Fortescue discovered that he was senior non-com. of the remnants of C Company, while not a single commissioned officer was left standing.

The men resumed their advance. Scores of prisoners, making their way in the opposite direction, were visible and comforting signs that the day was still going well; while wounded New Zealanders, painfully making for the dressing-stations, were able to augment the news by the announcement that the Diggers were up and over the Abraham Heights. Beyond that there were no indications of how the battle fared--whether the Tommies on the left or the "Aussies" on the right were maintaining equal progress. Mist and smoke and the deafening clamour of thousands of guns limited both range of vision and hearing.

The ground was better going now. On the slope, the mud, though still ankle-deep, was a hardly-noticeable impediment. Stolidly the handful of men comprising the remains of C Company held onwards, eager to renew a closer acquaintance with Fritz.

"Cheer-o, Malcolm!" exclaimed a voice. "Didn't recognize you."

Rifleman Carr glance indifferently over his shoulder. d.i.c.k Selwyn, his jaw enveloped in a bandage, had just overtaken him.

"Bucks.h.i.+e?" enquired Malcolm laconically.

"Nothing--just a mere scratch," was the reply. "I thought you were done in back there. In fact, I was looking for what was left of you."

"I might have been," rejoined Malcolm. He found himself wondering at his apathy in the matter. In the heat of combat the grim figure of Death stalking up and down amid his comrades hardly concerned him.

The horror of it all would be apparent after the battle--if he lived to see it.

"Young Stewart's gone," continued Selwyn. "A sh.e.l.l copped him.

Corporal Preston, too, and goodness only knows who else. They've played the very deuce with the boys."

"It'll be worse before it's finished," added Malcolm. "But I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Over the already-won ground, pitted with sh.e.l.l-holes and thickly strewn with khaki and field-grey forms, the men of C Company continued their advance, until they fell in with a swarm of Diggers preparing to rush another formidable obstacle to the achievement of the objective.

CHAPTER x.x.x

The Last Stand

"Who says we won't be in Berlin before Christmas?" shouted a man staggering past under the weight of a Stokes's gun, his burden increased by reason of the quagmire. "Not 'arf, you Diggers!"

The riflemen within hearing expressed their approval of the idea, for the obstacle that was holding up a section of the advance was a row of concrete pill-boxes surrounding the entrance to a deep and extensive cave--a formidable stronghold known as "Berlin". Beyond was a large wood, which, when carried, would be the final objective for the day's operations.

The New Zealanders settled Berlin redoubt most effectively, and in far less time than had been taken in reducing Van Meulen, Otto, and other concreted strongholds. Thirty rounds from the Stokes's mortars in the short s.p.a.ce of two minutes played havoc with the garrisons.

Then, with loud yells of triumph, the stormers rushed the position on three sides simultaneously, bombarded the pill-boxes with grenade and smoke-bombs, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the scanty remnant of a once numerous garrison come forth in fear and terror, accepting their conquerors' a.s.surances that their lives would be spared.

"See that the job's done properly, Sergeant," ordered a major of another company, addressing Fortescue, who was a.s.sembling the handful of his platoon.

Fortescue saluted, and, calling Malcolm and another man to follow, made his way into the redoubt. The three did not tarry long. It was a veritable slaughter-house. The floor was literally paved with hideously-mutilated bodies of Germans who had fallen victims to the deadly Stokes's bombs. No need to investigate lest a living Fritz was lying doggo with the dead. The survivors had only been too eager to seize the chance of leaving the place alive.

The operations at Berlin Farm had delayed a section of the line.

Before the men could be sent forward a pioneer battalion, composed mostly of Maoris, whose skill at rapid digging-in had won the admiration of the High Command, came surging up to a.s.sist in the consolidation of the captured position. That, again, was a distinctly satisfactory sign. New Zealand meant to hold what she had gained.

As C Company, or rather what was left of it, were re-forming, Malcolm encountered Grouser Joliffe. The man, ragged and battle-worn, was grousing no longer. A supremely-satisfied smile overspread his face.

"Boys," he whispered, "I've been in luck. Copped a dozen of the dirty 'Uns back there, and not one of them had the courage to put up a fight--an' me single-handed. I sent 'em back, and then had a look round their dug-out. It was some show--not 'arf. Cigars, f.a.gs, and drinks no end. Some of the boys strolled in and helped me refresh; but I haven't forgot my pals. Thought I'd tumble across some of 'em still left. Here, take this."

He handed Malcolm a bottle of soda-water, and bestowed a similar gift upon Selwyn and Sergeant Fortescue, for two canvas bags, meant to carry a stock of bombs, were crammed with filled bottles of mineral water from the captured dug-out.

"Joliffe, you are a proper white man!" declared Fortescue, deftly knocking off the head of the bottle and draining the contents at a gulp. "But what have you been up to?"

"Mud-larkin', Sergeant," replied the man, with a solemn wink. He touched the tip of his bayonet. "Like spearing eels in the Waikato, it was."

The men went forward once more. Ahead, dimmed by the rain and drifting smoke, could be discerned the rearmost edge of Berlin Wood.

It was quite unlike anything of the nature of a wood for the sh.e.l.ls had searched it so thoroughly that hardly a tree-trunk stood more than ten feet in height, while every vestige of leaves and branches had vanished. The blackened and badly-scored trunks looked more like the columns of a long-buried temple than trees, while in many places the charred wood was smouldering, despite the water-logged condition of the ground.

Notwithstanding the terrific pounding of the British heavies, the wood was still strongly held by the enemy. Fallen tree-trunks lay athwart pill-boxes that were still intact, sh.e.l.l craters afforded shelter for dozens of deadly machine-guns. Trip wires and other fiendish contrivances abounded, while in several places _fouga.s.ses_ had been constructed, powerful enough to blow a whole platoon in the air.

In cold blood even the bravest man would hesitate before entering the forbidding wood of death; but the New Zealanders never faltered.

Into the gloomy sulphurous maze they plunged, with yells and shouts of encouragement.

So intricate was the going that, although several bodies of troops had pa.s.sed well ahead, there were pill-boxes and other fortified posts left undetected in their rear. Fritz, lying _perdu_, while the crowd of Anzacs poured onward, would resurrect his tic-tocs and direct a withering machine-gun fire into the backs of the luckless men.

"Look out! On your left!" shouted Fortescue, whose ready eye had detected a sinister movement behind a prostrate tree-trunk.

Half a dozen men of C Company dashed towards the spot with levelled bayonets. For some reason not a bomb was hurled, nor was a shot fired either by the Diggers or the Huns.

In a skilfully-concealed emplacement were two machine-guns, with a crew consisting of an officer and twelve stalwart Prussians.

"Hands up!" roared Fortescue.

The German officer set the example, his men quickly imitating him, as with arms upraised he awaited the approach of the New Zealanders.

He was a tall, bald-headed man with a prominent double-chin. His beady eyes were furtively taking stock of the scanty number who opposed him.

"Fritz looks greasy," mentally commented Malcolm, as he fingered the trigger of his rifle.

The German officer rapped out an order. Hands were dropped and rifles seized.

"Do 'em in!" shouted Fortescue. "The treacherous swine."