"Look out, chum!" shouted a voice as Malcolm approached a knot of Diggers gathered in a shellhole in what was formerly the parados of the trench. "Duck!"
Malcolm obeyed promptly. He was used to taking imperative hints with the utmost smartness. Even then he was only just in time to escape a bullet. For the second time that morning his steel helmet was sent flying, strap notwithstanding.
"Come and bear a hand and get your own back," continued the man who had warned him.
Recovering his head-gear, Rifleman Carr joined the group by a discreet and circuitous route, to find Grouser Joliffe and half a dozen men of his platoon engaged upon the task--up to now unsuccessful--of clearing out a dug-out. Joliffe had discarded his rifle. His wounded arm had given out, and he had the limb supported in a sling made from a puttee. A dozen bombs hung from his neck. He held another in his uninjured hand.
"Take that, you skulking Hun!" he shouted, hurling a bomb into the mouth of the dug-out. "That's the fifth I've given 'em," he added, addressing Malcolm as if to apologize for the fact that the occupants of the den were still in a state of aggressive activity. "One of our chaps has gone for some smoke-bombs. He ought to be here by now if he isn't knocked out on the way. That'll settle their hash."
Rifleman Joliffe was the only member of the party who remained standing. Partly sheltered by a break in the traverse, he proposed to throw another missile, while his companions, taking cover behind a few hastily-piled sand-bags, waited with levelled rifles the expected rush from the dug-out.
Deftly the bomber lobbed another grenade fairly into the yawning cavity. With a muffled crash the bomb exploded. Acrid fumes drifted from the sloping tunnel, while a succession of dismal groans gave credence to Joliffe's belief that he'd "done the blighter in this time".
"Hold hard!" cautioned the corporal of the section as the daring rifleman prepared for a closer inspection of his handiwork.
"What for?" expostulated Joliffe. "I know that copped him right enough."
"Then it's your bloomin' funeral," rejoined the non-com. "Don't say I didn't warn you."