"Phew! 'Ot stuff!" ejaculated Harry Hawke, as he made room for Dennis beside him, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
He was blowing like a grampus, for the pace had been fast.
"When we've got our wind, I reckon there's a little job up there for us, sir," said Hawke, pointing over the top of the fallen beech behind which they crouched.
"You mean the machine-gun, of course," said Dennis, nodding. "But unfortunately, whilst we're getting our wind, so are the enemy, and there's forty yards of open climb before we reach those sandbags up yonder. It isn't like that village behind us, and you may bet your boots the trench on the top of the ridge is packed with Germans like herrings in a barrel, waiting for us. We'll have to lie low until the battalion overtakes us."
Harry Hawke squinted thoughtfully down the short length of his snub nose.
"There's two of those bloomin' tac-tacs of theirs—one covering the communication trench, and t'other one yonder sweeping the front of the wood," he said. "What price that Lewis gun, sir, that chipped in on our right flank? Couldn't I go back and 'urry it up? If we could bring it into action from the other corner of this 'ere wood, it 'ud mean saving a lot of lives, for it's a sure thing the ridge has got to be taken."
While he was speaking they heard men running behind them, and looked round, hoping to see their own people, but it turned out to be a little party of the engineers laying a field telephone; and Dennis crawled on hands and knees towards them.
"What's become of the machine-guns?" he inquired of an intelligent corporal.
"Can't get 'em through the wood, sir. There are half a dozen on the other side hung up. I rather think they're waiting for you to give 'em a lead."
"Oh, are they? Any Lewis guns there?"