Ken spun round, and taking quick aim at the nearest, pulled the trigger. There was no report. He had finished the last cartridge in his magazine.
There was no time to reload. Dave, hurt but not killed, was trying to crawl away on hands and knees, but it was clear that in another moment he would be a prisoner.
Without an instant's hesitation, Ken charged straight at the two Turks.
They, intent on their prisoner, failed to see him until he was almost on them. Then one, uttering a hoarse cry, sprang forward, stabbing at him with his bayonet.
Ken's blade clashed against the other's as he parried, then side-stepping like a flash, he drove his bayonet into the man's ribs, and with a choking sob he fell dead.
Something whizzed past Ken's head, and a heavy blow on the left shoulder brought him to his knees. The second Turk had struck at him with his rifle butt, and missing his head, caught him on the shoulder. He saw a savage grin on the man's face as he raised his rifle again to finish the job and avenge his comrade. It looked all odds on Ken's brains being scattered the next instant.
Before the rifle could descend a shadow flashed across, and something crashed upon the Turk's head with such fearful force as cracked his skull like an egg-shell. For a moment his body remained upright, then it swayed and fell sideways like a log to the ground.
'Gosh, but I thought I was too late!' panted Roy Horan. 'And confound it all, I've cracked the stock of my rifle.'
'You saved my head from being cracked anyhow,' answered Ken. 'But Dave's hit. Give us a hand back with him.'
'I'll carry him,' said Roy quickly, and dropping his useless rifle, he quickly hoisted Burney on his broad back, and set off at a run for the trench. Ken, whose shoulder felt quite numb, followed, and a moment later all three tumbled safely back into the trench.