Half a dozen men of C Company dashed towards the spot with levelled bayonets. For some reason not a bomb was hurled, nor was a shot fired either by the Diggers or the Huns.
In a skilfully-concealed emplacement were two machine-guns, with a crew consisting of an officer and twelve stalwart Prussians.
"Hands up!" roared Fortescue.
The German officer set the example, his men quickly imitating him, as with arms upraised he awaited the approach of the New Zealanders. He was a tall, bald-headed man with a prominent double-chin. His beady eyes were furtively taking stock of the scanty number who opposed him.
"Fritz looks greasy," mentally commented Malcolm, as he fingered the trigger of his rifle.
The German officer rapped out an order. Hands were dropped and rifles seized.
"Do 'em in!" shouted Fortescue. "The treacherous swine."
Although outnumbered, the Diggers did the work Diggers smartly and effectually. As the Prussian officer raised his revolver to fire point-blank at Sergeant Fortescue, Malcolm plunged his bayonet into the Hun's side, while Fortescue reciprocated the service by shooting a German who was about to deal Rifleman Carr a smashing blow with the butt of his rifle before the latter could disengage his blade.
"Now what's to be done, Sergeant?" enquired Joliffe, as he surveyed the scene of the struggle. Of the seven New Zealanders who had rushed the position only four were left standing--Fortescue, Malcolm, Joliffe, and Henderson. Dick Selwyn was lying with his back propped against a tree-trunk and a gunshot wound in his left arm. The bullet, fired at close range, had been almost as destructive as a dum-dum. The other man was dead.
"Got it this time, Malcolm!" murmured Dick faintly, as his chum knelt beside him, and with a queer smile on his face Selwyn passed into unconsciousness.