"You're a liar, Sergeant!" muttered a hollow voice, as the subject of the conversation strolled in a leisurely manner up to the stationary stretcher.
Corporal Preston's appearance did not belie Fortescue's statement that it was a fearful mess. Almost as the last German was cleared out of the captured trench, a piece of shrapnel struck the Corporal just below his right ear, and ploughed through his skin from the cheek-bone to the corner of his mouth. He dropped like a stone, and Fortescue had come to the erroneous conclusion that Billy Preston had made the great sacrifice.
Despite his injuries, Corporal Preston was grinning broadly on the uninjured side of his face. A lighted cigarette was between his lips. A saturated field-bandage held to his wound partly concealed the slight but ugly gash.
"Feel as dinky as anything, by gum!" he mumbled, without removing the consoling "fag". "This'll mean a trip to Blighty. I can do with it nicely, but I'm jolly glad I got there. Five blessed Fritzes to my certain knowledge, by gum! I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous--not I."
And, waving his disengaged hand, Corporal Billy Preston resumed his long trek of pain that was to end somewhere in England under the kindly care of nurses from far-off New Zealand.
"By Jove, he has!" agreed Fortescue. "I saw him polish off a couple of Huns with his bayonet, and knock out another with the butt of his rifle. Well, s'long, Malcolm, and kia ora."
The bearers lifted the stretcher and continued on their way, while Rifleman Carr, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, hurried towards the German second-line trenches, where, judging by the deep detonations of exploding bombs and the sharp crack of rifle-shots, there was still work to be done.
German shells were "watering" the captured ground. Malcolm hardly noticed them. He had acquired the hardened campaigner's indifference to Fritz's "hate" that confidence in the knowledge of being on the winning side cannot fail to give. Overhead, British shells screeched on their way, as with mathematical precision they fell in the place appointed, to form a "barrage" through which neither German supports could advance nor defeated Huns retire without risk of being pulverized by the high-explosive missiles.
The second-line German trenches formed the nearmost limit of ground practically unaffected by the explosion of the great mine. Beyond lay the tortured slopes of Messines Ridge, from the fissures of which escaping smoke trailed upwards in the wan morning light.
Already the first line of storming troops was engaged in consolidating the captured position, while the supports were assembling and concentrating prior to advancing upon the farthermost of their objectives--the village of Messines. Every Hun remaining above ground had been accounted for. Hundreds were lying in grotesque attitudes, never to move again, while dejected and dazed prisoners were being marshalled in droves under escort for the advance cages. But in the tottering dug-outs the Prussian die-hards were still offering resistance; and it was the clearing of their sub-terranean strongholds that was occupying the attention of the victorious New Zealanders.