A 12-inch shell had fallen on top of the shelter. Concrete earth and sand-bags were not proof against the terrific impact, despite the fact that thirty feet of solid material formed the roof of the subterranean retreat.
"They might just as well save themselves the job," thought Malcolm. "Mephistopheles and the Fat Boy won't be worth troubling about, I guess. It was a jolly good thing that they didn't invite me to stay and have dinner with them. Now for it!"
Making for a gap in the parapet the lad began to crawl up the steps of disentangled sand-bags and trench-props. The British guns were evidently lifting. Although the air was "stiff" with screeching shells, the missiles were flying high overhead and bursting far behind the German first-line trench. Machine-gun and rifle-firing had ceased. Beyond the few men engaged in digging out their unfortunate officers the normally lightly-held front trench was practically deserted.
"I'll win through yet!" exclaimed the lad, voicing his thoughts aloud.
The next instant a lurid flash leapt up from the ground almost in front of him. Hurled violently backward by a terrific blast again, Malcolm had a fleeting vision of the ground rising up to meet him, and then everything became a blank.
CHAPTER XXIII
At Düren Camp
When he recovered consciousness Malcolm Carr found himself lying on a bundle of straw in an advance dressing-station. He was puzzled greatly. He could not imagine how he came there, or why he should be there at all. He had no recollection of being lifted by the blast of a shell. Somehow things didn't seem quite right.
Gradually the chain of events during the last few hours connected itself. He remembered the stand of C Company; being sent off by the platoon-commander with an urgent message; blundering into the hostile lines; being made prisoner and attempting to escape.