Suddenly light showed, farther down the trench.
“They’re coming in!” Barry snapped. “Wait till they fill the trench, and then rake ’em with the tommy-guns. Curly and I will lie down; the rest of you kneel or stand and fire over us. Toss off the end mat at the last minute.”
“Okay, Lieutenant—we’ll sure clean them out that way!” muttered Fred Marmon. “That is, if nobody lobs a hand grenade into this end of the ditch!”
Evidently the Japs had no idea that the grenades that had wrecked the tent might have come from the trench. They proceeded to take the camouflage mats off methodically, moving up from the other end.
Barry lay on the very bottom, with Curly’s elbow digging him in the ribs as he aimed his weapon. It was lighter now in their end of the trench.
Taking a long breath, Barry pressed the trigger. The trench erupted with fire and sound. He saw the Japs nearest him crumple like rag dolls, one after another, down the trench. They never knew what hit them.
At the further end, however, the doomed men saw the licking gun-flames. Some of them tried to return the fire—only to be riddled in the act. The remainder started scrambling out of the death trap. Cracker Jackson and big Danny Hale caught most of these, but not before one Jap had lobbed a hand grenade.
The missile, hastily thrown, landed outside the trench, six feet from Hale and Jackson. Without a split second’s hesitation, big Danny flung himself upon the thing. In one motion he grabbed and flung it. The grenade burst harmlessly, fifty feet away.
Now, however, bullets were humming over the slit trench. The Japs were all outside.
“Down, men!” Barry Blake shouted at Danny and Cracker Jackson. “We’ve got to hold this trench if we want to live.”