Part 20 (2/2)

Then Dennis sprang down, regardless of the fumes. At the bottom of the steps he was conscious of treading on something soft, but did not stay to examine it, for a ray of light filtering in from a fissure in the roof showed him dark forms scurrying away in the distance along the boarded pa.s.sage.

The hand-grenade had got a move on the enemy, and, followed by a dozen men of the platoon, he led the way, gripping his rifle, and loosing a couple of rounds from the hip as he ran.

One of the bullets evidently found its mark, for a man lay writhing on the ground where another pa.s.sage turned off at right angles. The man tried to seize his legs, but instantly let go his hold with a hoa.r.s.e cry as Tiddler's bayonet settled all disputes, and Dennis darted round the angle.

The pa.s.sage ended in a strange place; a large dug-out which had been partially unroofed by one of our sh.e.l.ls earlier in the morning, and knee deep amid the loose earth which had poured in, half filling it, twenty Germans turned at bay, under the command of a very tall officer.

There were only eight men with Dennis, for the other four were still groping their way somewhere behind in the darkness of the pa.s.sage, and the young lieutenant realised in a flash of time that he was seriously outnumbered and must act promptly.

A big sergeant jumped at him with a shout, but before the lunging bayonet had crossed his own, Dennis fired and shot the man dead.

”Put your hands up and surrender!” he said sternly in German to the rest; and the first to obey was the tall officer, who came scrambling over the loose earth with both arms outstretched.

”We are your prisoners, sir,” he said, holding his revolver as though he were presenting the b.u.t.t to Dennis. And the men of the British platoon lowered their bayonets with disappointment in their faces.

It meant some of their number escorting the prisoners to the rear, they knew, and that was not the hope they had had in their hearts.

But their disappointment was short-lived, for, as the tall officer came within a stride of the young lieutenant, he suddenly shouted: ”Now you have them, men! Down with these infernal Englis.h.!.+” And, reversing his own weapon, he fired three shots at Dennis Dashwood in rapid succession.

The treachery was so unexpected that Dennis could do no more than duck his head, and even then the third bullet buckled the brim of his trench helmet; but as the barrel of the German's revolver clicked harmlessly round, showing that it was empty, Dennis lunged upward.

”Sorry, sir!” said a voice at his elbow. ”He was your bird.” And a man of the platoon, who had been a gamekeeper before he joined up, withdrew his own bayonet, which had buried itself simultaneously in the cowardly brute's ribs.

But there was no time for thanks, for the enemy had responded to the treacherous command, and a terrific hand-to-hand fight ensued in the half-demolished dug-out.

When the magazines had been emptied, b.u.t.t and bayonet came into play at close quarters, and men clutched each other in a death struggle, and rolled over and over, howling like wolves.

Once, indeed, Dennis found himself driven backwards into the mouth of the pa.s.sage by two beefy fellows attacking him at the same time, and it was only by dropping his rifle and using his revolver that he saved himself from certain death.

As it was, although the Reeds.h.i.+res had taken heavy toll and reduced the odds considerably, three of the platoon were down, and a fourth reeled, badly wounded, against the side of the dug-out.

The four who should have provided a welcome reinforcement had missed the turning, and continued straight along the covered communication, and now nine of the enemy, springing back on to the top of the fallen earth to take breath, collected for a rush that could have but one end.

”Quick, men!” cried Dennis, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the ex-gamekeeper's rifle, which the poor chap would never use again, ”get into the pa.s.sage, and slip in another clip! You've just time, if I can hold them up for a moment!”

The survivors of that little band each told the story afterwards with variations, but all were agreed on two points.

One was the blinding flash as a bomb fell into the middle of the Germans through the sh.e.l.l-hole in the roof. The other was the voice of Captain Bob, sounding strangely distinct in the death-like silence that followed the explosion as he called out: ”Have you had enough in there, or would you like another one?”

Then they lifted up their voices in a great shout of ”Hold on, sir!” And Dennis yelled: ”Bob, you juggins, do you want to do the lot of us in?”

”Oh, it's you, is it?” cried his brother, sliding through the opening with a sergeant and a couple of bombers. ”I might have known you'd be mixed up in it somehow. We heard some German jabbering and chanced our arm.”

”And a lucky thing for us you did,” said Dennis, pointing to the hideously bespattered grey-green uniforms that littered the earth heap.

Only one of the nine men was moving, and after a convulsive opening and shutting of his hands the movement ceased altogether. ”How is it going up above?”

”Top-hole, so far,” said the Captain. ”At least, as far as our battalion is concerned, though there seems to be a bit of a check among those chaps on our left. n.o.body else down here? Very well; this is the quickest way out, and every minute is an hour. We've got their first-line trench, or all that was left of it.” And they scrambled once more up the land slide into the open-air.

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