"You damned German!" shouted the colonel, shooting him dead. The game which had been so well played in France did not come off.
The remnants of the Turks were bayoneted and butted to death; but the main body were fleeing up the hill.
"Rapid fire!" roared the colonel; but the eager men were already after the enemy with the bayonet. Up the steep, steep sides of the cliff they clambered and stumbled. It was more like a race for a prize than a juggle with death. Occasionally the morning light showed the red blood on the bayonets and hands of the charging men.
These blood-stained, panting soldiers terrified the Turks at the top of the hill. Their tactics had surprised them. They had looked for the usual musketry assault; instead, they had received the chilling steel. And the bayonet on a cold morning is a sight that sickens the best. Furiously they pumped another dose of lead into the gallant Australians. More fell dead, others dropped wounded, blood spattered the grass, and above the din of musketry and guns could be heard the cries of:
"Bearers—stretcher bearers!"
"Water, for God's sake!"
"Send up the doctor."
"I'm done, boys—I'm d-o-n-e!"
The units, by this time, had become mixed. Many officers had been killed. There was that confusion which is found in all attacks. Still, all these men knew that "forward—forward" was the game. The roughest and most daring took charge of little groups, and, with these, they cheered, cursed, and leaped into the trench at the edge of the green plateau. Again, the main body had fled, leaving the more weary and stubborn to defend the hill.
"Kill the beggars!"