With a cheer the men leapt from their scanty cover. Bombers, Lewis gunners, and riflemen surged forward, heedless of the gaps in their ranks. The intervening ground was all but covered when the gallant young officer fell. His death, far from disheartening the men, added fuel to their burning ardour.
Into the machine-gun slits bombs were tossed in dozens, until the confined space within the redoubt was filled with noxious smoke from the loud-sounding missiles of destruction. Still the Huns held out. When one machine-gun was disabled another was brought up; but by this time the deadly weapon had lost much of the sting.
The entrance to the blockhouse was forbidding enough. A flight of narrow and steep stone steps gave access to a low doorway. On the metal-cased woodwork the Diggers rained blows with the butt-ends of their rifles; others, placing the muzzles of the weapons close to the stout fastenings, strove to blow them away. It was not until a dozen men, bearing a massive beam, appeared upon the scene that the difficulty was overcome. The battering-ram simply pulverized the already-weakening barrier. With a cheer, and preceded by a shower of grenades, the riflemen poured in to complete the work with cold steel.
Within was a terrible scene. In hot blood civilized men went back to primeval instincts and fought like wild beasts, clawing, tearing and gouging when it was too close work for the bayonet. The smoke-laden air was rent with shouts, oaths, shrieks, and groans, punctuated by the clash of steel and the whip-like cracks of automatic pistols. Like rats in a trap the Huns fought and died, while the survivors of the storming-party staggered out of the shambles and threw themselves on the ground in sheer bodily exhaustion.
Rifleman Carr had come off lightly. One of the first to force his way through the shattered entrance, he presented a sorry appearance. His right sleeve was torn away at the elbow, the left was ripped almost to ribbons. His Webb equipment was twisted and cut; he was plastered in mud and filth from head to foot, while his steel helmet bore the splayed marks of the impact of two pistol-bullets fired at close range. Nevertheless, with the exception of a slight cut across the cheek, and the mark of a Hun's teeth showing angrily above his left wrist, he was uninjured.
A burning thirst gripped his throat. He felt for his water-bottle. It was no longer there. Unconcernedly he reached out his hand and secured one belonging to a dead comrade. The bottle was full. The liquid put new life into him.
"Hallo, Henderson!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the man, who was vainly struggling to unfix the remains of his bayonet. "Seen Selwyn?"
"Half a tick ago," was the reply. "He's all right. Seen anything of Stewart?"
"Chuck it!" ejaculated Sergeant Fortescue. "What's the use of worrying about your pals when the job's not finished? Come along; if you can't run, walk; if you can't walk, crawl. We can't have C Company out of the last lap."
He spoke imperiously--savagely. A greater contrast to the mild-spoken, 'Varsity-educated greenhorn, who, a few years previously, was down on his luck in New Zealand, could hardly be imagined. A great responsibility had been thrown upon his shoulders. With the lust of battle gripping him, he found himself a leader of men.