Fifty yards ahead was a zigzag trench, its direction only discernible by interrupted sections of sand-bags and badly-shattered wire. Subjected earlier in the day to a terrible artillery pounding, it had been abandoned, but whether by Briton or Hun there was no indication except by closer examination. Evidently it was the rearmost of an intricate system of field-fortifications, for Malcolm was on the parados side while beyond, merging into smoke and haze, were other ramifications of the maze of trenches, all silent and deserted.
"They are bound to lead somewhere," was Malcolm's surmise. "To the Messines salient most likely. I'll risk it. It's certainly safer than in the open, so here goes."
Choosing a gap in the parados, Rifleman Carr cautiously slid on to the floor of the trench. The effort gave his ankle a wrench that sent a pain through his leg like the searing of a hot iron.
"I'll get there if I have to crawl for it," he muttered. "There's one thing certain, I won't be able to go back."
The trench was dry and the floor made good going, except in places where the sand-bags had slipped and formed awkward obstacles. There were no indications as to who were the owners of the place. Discarded British and German rifles, clips of cartridges, and other articles were impartially strewn about.
Just as Malcolm was approaching the fourth or fifth bay a heavy shell landed about twenty yards from the parapet. With a concussion that sent sand-bags flying and hurled tons of dirt high in air the missile exploded.
Bending to avoid the flying fragments that were descending like rain, Malcolm, regardless of his sprained foot, bolted round the traverse, and before he was fully aware of the fact he had blundered right into a party of Huns.