“I’ll not!” said Moloney, “’twud take a horse to carry him in!”
The batteries ceased firing. A low whistle sounded. The men grasped their rifles with bayonets fixed. Cold steel alone must do the work now. Another whistle. With a hoarse cheer the men climbed out over the front of the trench and the charge was on.
Side by side raced Finnessy and Moloney, with eyes fixed on the young subaltern, who, carrying a rifle, was sprinting on before them. For a few moments it seemed that the batteries had effectually silenced the trenches of the enemy immediately in front. A hundred yards farther and they would be reached. Now, however, from that line of piled earth and barbed wire came the crackling roar of machine-guns. For a moment the men wavered and many fell, but, with a growl, the others rushed on. Fifty yards farther, and then the ground seemed to heave up and hit Finnessy and Moloney. Side by side they lay, with their faces partly rooted in the trampled ground. To their ears came dully the sound of the fierce hand-to-hand fighting beyond them. Slowly they scraped the dirt from their faces and looked at each other.
“Where did they get ye, Finnessy?” asked Moloney.
“In the leg,” groaned Finnessy.
“The same f’r me,” moaned Moloney.
The bullets of the machine-guns still sang over them, and both men began to dig into the soft earth and pile it into a mound in front of their heads.
Now back across the torn ground came the remnant of the charge, for the trenches had not been taken. Some ran, others walked or crawled or were carried, but always over them and among them whirled the leaden death. Soon Moloney and Finnessy were left alone in their little self-made trenches, for none of their retreating comrades had noticed them.
Twilight was fading, when a brilliant idea flashed across the mind of Finnessy. The intensity of the illumination almost dazed him for a moment.
“Moloney,” said Finnessy, “’tis not very sthrong ye’re feelin,’ I’m thinkin’.”