Presently Ralph opened his eyes, to find himself being carried by four of his men. Others were bearing the wounded corporal, while more were carrying off one of the maxims. At the same moment the first of the German shells burst a hundred yards to the rear and within a few feet of the already doomed landship.
"Where are you making for, sergeant?" asked Ralph.
"For that farmhouse, sir," replied Alderhame.
"Better not," protested the wounded subaltern, as resolutely as his bodily weakness permitted. "They'll mark us down for a dead cert if we take up our position there. Select a spot at least two hundred yards away."
The crew of the Tank proceeded on their quest for shelter. Instinctively they realized that they were in a very tight corner, isolated on hostile ground. Nothing short of a miracle, they decided, could extricate them from their dangerous position; yet with unfailing resolution they made up their minds to "fight it out." Death with their faces to the foe was infinitely preferable to the horrors of the life of a prisoner of war in the hands of the Huns.
Keeping to the scanty cover afforded by a slight dip in the ground the dauntless men made their way with the utmost caution. Just as they gained the spot indicated by the officer a crash, completely outvoicing the bursting of the shells, announced that Setley's Tank was no longer in existence.
Propped against a shattered tree-trunk Ralph directed operations for defence, while one of his men attended to his wound.
"Where's the German officer?" he asked suddenly.
Ginger Anderson, who was lying close to his disabled officer, grinned broadly, despite the agony caused by his badly fractured leg.
"I 'it 'im a little too 'ard, sir," he explained. "Meant ter put 'im to sleep in the best perfessional manner, but——"