Click! Click! Click! went the enemy's wire-cutters all along the line. Some even tore themselves over or through the barbed wire. They had reached their goal.
"Gae them H——, boys," roared Spud above the din. There was no need to command. Out of the trenches leaped the front line of the Glesca Mileeshy. The slaughter was fierce. Blood spurted everywhere. Germans and British struggled like Dervishes for the mastery. Screams were mixed with curses, moans drowned in the awful din. Germans hate our British bayonets; in fact they loathe cold steel at any time. Seldom will they face such music, but this attack had been driven on. To turn meant death from the bayonets behind; even if they had escaped from the crush a German officer's revolver would have quickly ended their flight. Brave as they are, when equal in numbers against our arms the British assert their superiority with natural ease. The Glesca Mileeshy, like their co-partners, had [pg 282] centuries of tradition behind them. Germans, after all, are young at the game of war.
Colonel Corkleg viewed the awful struggle from the supporting trenches. The condition of affairs was uninspiring. He saw more and more grey masses of the enemy surging forward to swell the attacking line.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, as two great columns burst through on the right and left of his line. He also noticed that the regiments on his flanks were retiring. Was it panic? Were they complying with previous orders? He did not know. All he knew was that his regiment had been told to hold on at all costs. He would do so, for, like a true soldier, he had a firm sense of duty and a belief in his general. As it was useless to waste more men in his front line, he signalled to them to retire through the communication trench.
"Retire, man by man," ordered Lieutenant Greens, waiting with Spud to see all the men through. Perhaps the action of the officer and sergeant was unnecessarily cautious and daring; yet it is typical of the British officer and N.C.O. Quickly the men jumped down into the communication trench and ran on to [pg 283] the supports. Nearly all had gone, when Spud was alarmed to hear some one say—
"Sergint—Spud—for the love of God, don't lave me—I'm done in, bhoy." Spud turned from his act of bayoneting a German to see poor Muldoon lying half mangled across the parapet.
"Get hold of him, sergeant—I'll keep the devils off," roared Greens, smiting the attackers with the butt-end of a rifle. Spud jumped forward and grabbed the heavy form of his faithful chum. He staggered with the weight, but, with a superhuman effort, half carried and dragged the wounded man along the deep communicating trench. Colonel Corkleg and his men had seen it all. They even stopped for a second to cheer. As Spud dropped his load he turned to look for his officer. He saw him surrounded by half a dozen wild Bavarians.
"Come on, three o' ye," he shouted to the nearest men. They clattered down the trench behind his nimble form. Into the surging mob they dashed, gashing and hacking as they went. Poor old Greens had fallen. He seemed almost dead as Spud jumped and pulled him out from beneath the attackers' feet.
[pg 284] "Haud them for a meenit," roared Spud, "and I'll get him back."
"Richt ye are," was the willing response of the three stalwarts. Nobly they tackled their men, but, alas! two were killed in the mêlée; the third man had to flee with a terrible bayonet wound in his chest. Spud pulled the lieutenant under cover of the supporting trench, and then handed him and the other wounded men over to the stretcher-bearers.