Phil gazed behind him and saw the machine gun had been hurriedly replaced upon its mount, yet the gunner’s mate, Childers, was storming furiously at the men about him. They had dipped the breech of the gun into the water in their sudden shock and surprise at the weirdness of the attack.
Phil hastened back in hopes of being able to lend a hand: his familiarity with the gun qualified him for the task, but Childers had already deftly put back the mechanism and was about to feed in the cartridge tape carrying the ammunition.
“Got any oil?” Phil asked excitedly.
Childers pointed to a can in the accessory box whose top was open. Phil unscrewed the top of the oil can and poured its contents over the wetted breech and into the mechanism.
“Bring up the gun,” was the cry from the advance company.
With a rush the sailors carried the gun and carriage up the road and swung its muzzle toward the concealed foes.
Childers snapped a cartridge in place while Lieutenant Morrison, seating himself upon the trail of the mount, pointed and pulled the trigger. One shot was heard and then the mechanism jammed.
Again Childers drew back the gas lever, but only one shot could be fired.
“It’s put together wrong,” the gunner’s mate cried out aghast as he slipped out the bolt and examined it.
“The Colt gun won’t work!” was the disheartening news that spread up and down the line. The unseen enemy had now become bolder. Many of them disregarding the danger, in their exultation, revealed their half-naked bodies from behind trees, while the sailors made good their expended ammunition in dropping these in their tracks. The white men were being attacked from all sides save one and the volume of fire told only too plainly that nearly a thousand rifles were against them.