The Germans in the second and third line trenches were fairly trapped. Their own guns were putting up a barrage behind them. Mere "cannon fodder" the defeated infantry received no consideration from their own artillery. The latter, their one idea being to attempt to hold the British attack, were furiously pouring in shells that no troops could hope to pass through in the open.
There was a stubborn resistance offered by the Huns in the second line of trenches, but the Tanks, assisted by the now wildly excited Wheatshires, were not to be denied. With bayonet and bomb the Tommies rushed the defences and made prisoners of the surviving Huns.
There was still plenty of work to be done before the attack was resumed upon the third and last of that section of earthwork. The captured trench had to be consolidated as a matter of precaution, in case the final attack failed.
"Who's got a fag?" enquired Penfold, stopping in the act of transferring a sand-bag from the parapet to the parados. "Hang it all, did you ever see such mud? It's a jolly sight worse than our trenches."
"Here you are," said Ralph, tendering a very soiled cigarette. "Let me give you a hand."
Penfold lighted the cigarette, then, shouldering the heavy sack, descended very cautiously from the fire-step to the floor of the trench. His feet sank into the slime until the mud and water reached to his knees. Vainly he tried to extricate himself. It was not until Setley and Alderhame threw down a couple of pieces of timber as footholds and tugged at their comrade by main force that Penfold was free from the tenacious mud.
It was an even more difficult matter to heave the sand-bag into position. Again Penfold's legs sank ankle deep. Perspiring freely in spite of the cold he struggled to maintain his balance without dropping the sand-bag from his shoulder. In his efforts his steel helmet slipped over his eyes. Still holding on with one hand to his burden he grasped the rim of his "tin hat." As he did so a bullet pinged sharply against the metal head-covering, the glancing blow causing Penfold to stagger and drop the sand-bag. Blood was streaming down his face.
"I always said that steel helmets were a rotten swindle," he exclaimed, then he broke off abruptly and looked dully at his right hand. The middle finger had been completely severed by the bullet.
"Thought it was my head!" he said. "Hanged if I felt this at all."
"You are a lucky bounder, Penfold," declared George Anderson. "It'll get you back to Blighty for a dead cert."