He already had his revolver in his hand when Tom managed to turn around, and with a quick upward jerk he sought to bring it into range. But Tom Walton had not been the champion wrestler at Brighton for nothing, nor had he forgotten any of the jiujutsu movements which made him the peer of any of his pals in any rough-and-tumble contest. With a quick upward movement of his right hand he gave the German’s arm a twist which made the shot a harmless one as he pulled the trigger. At the same moment he brought his knee down in the man’s stomach with a force that jolted the breath almost completely out of him. But the German was a powerful man, despite his excess flesh, and as he made a grab for Tom’s arm he also partly rolled over in a way to endanger the younger man’s balance. Again he tried to bring the gun into play, but with a forward dive Tom took the only desperate course open to him and sunk his teeth deep into the Hun’s wrist.
With a howl of rage and pain the fellow began to yell “Kamarad! Kamarad!” but Tom had experienced enough by this time to know that his own life was not safe there so long as that treacherous German remained able to inflict an injury upon him.
Pinning the German’s gun arm down to the ground, Tom suddenly raised his head, and as suddenly lowered it again and with all his weight smashed into the Boche’s face, billy-goat fashion. With a string of gutteral sounds which Tom took to be oaths, his enemy tried in vain to avoid this new attack. It was an entirely new brand of fighting to him, and what was worse in view of his whole training, he was fast in close quarters and could not hit and run. Before he had fully recovered from this last shock Tom had managed to draw his own gun. He fired, but without time for any deliberate aim. The German was just raising his own revolver, but his arm dropped back limp and his eyes rolled up into his head.
With a shudder—for he had not yet become accustomed to seeing men die—Tom suddenly leaned forward, a feeling of sorrow overcoming him, despite himself. But there was no need of asking questions. The German was no longer a menace to any man. The bullet had hit him almost directly over the heart, and his death had been instantaneous.
Further consideration was cut short, however, when the sergeant crawled over to the same shell hole.
“I’ve reported to the major,” he said, “and there’s no use of our attempting to go further alone. Be ready for a sudden rush attack and join in. What’s that you’ve got there?” he asked, suddenly becoming aware of the German under Tom.
“He’s done,” came the even answer. “He tried to get me first when I rolled in here, and we had quite a set-to, but I was just a little quicker on the trigger than he was.”
“Good!” the sergeant exclaimed, and then, in the same breath, “Our fellows are coming now. Be ready to jump out when they’re about alongside. We’re going to take that wood and every living German in it.”
And as the sergeant a few seconds later gave the word, Tom leapt out and joined in the rush upon the wood. As he did so he saw Ollie Ogden coming along with the rest. But he looked in vain for his Brighton friend and fellow scout, George Harper. He was nowhere about.