He stopped suddenly, swayed, and toppled back into the trench. Major Kemp caught him in his arms, and laid him gently upon the chalky floor. There was nothing more to be done. Young Lochgair had given his platoon their target, and the platoon were now firing steadily upon the same. He closed his eyes and sighed, like a tired child.
"Carry on, Major!" he murmured faintly. "I'm all right."
So died the simple-hearted, valiant enthusiast whom we had christened
Othello.
The entire regiment—what was left of it—was now firing over the back of the trench; for the wily Teuton had risked no frontal attack, seeing that he could gain all his ends from the left flank. Despite vigorous rifle fire and the continuous maledictions of the machine-gun, the enemy were now pouring through the cottages behind the trench. Many grey figures began to climb up the face of Fosse Eight, where apparently there was none to say them nay.
"We shall have a cheery walk back, I don't think!" murmured
Wagstaffe.
He was right. Presently a withering fire was opened from the summit of the Fosse, which soon began to take effect in the exiguous and ill-protected trench.
"The Colonel is wounded, sir," reported the Sergeant-Major to Major
Kemp.
"Badly?"
"Yes, sir."
Kemp looked round him. The regiment was now alone in the trench, for the gallant company upon their right had been battered almost out of existence.