"Not much, sir," was the reply, "except that he came in with the last draft from Etaps."
Captain Nicholson consulted his watch.
"He won't get far," he remarked grimly. "In another fifteen minutes----"
"Let's get back," suggested Fortescue as his officer disappeared. "The bombers will be falling in here in half a tick. We're in the first supports. Fritz is pretty sleepy to-night; I wonder if he knows what's in store for him."
The bomb-throwers, heavily laden with canvas bags filled with their death-dealing missiles, filed into the front trench, together with their supporting riflemen. A sharp, decisive order was passed from one officer to another, and the sinister clicking sound of bayonets being fixed to rifles rippled along the line of trenches as the very pick of New Zealand's manhood prepared for the coming ordeal.
Every man of the brigade knew what was to be expected of him. Messines Ridge was to be carried at the point of the bayonet, and the knowledge that the hostile wire was practically uncut and that the heights bristled with machine-guns was common property. Stupendous though the task was, not a man flinched, although several groused at the lack of consideration on the part of the Staff to send them against a prepared position in a practically-unbroken state; which showed that the troops were generally ignorant of the measures taken to safeguard them.
"Five minutes more!"
The officers bunched together to compare watches. They had done so a dozen times that evening, but perhaps it was excusable. Everything depended upon the operations being carried out with the precision of reliable clockwork. A second or two out either way would mean throwing away scores, perhaps hundreds, of valuable lives, for Fritz, although fairly quiet, was on the alert.
The British artillery was now almost silent. In previous stunts the position to be attacked was subjected to hours of terrific bombardment, but now hardly a shell fell upon the Hun defences. As for the protecting "barrage", the waiting troops looked for it in vain.
"Keep together!" whispered Malcolm tersely, as he nervously felt the tip of his quivering bayonet.