A little before this the Australian counter-attack had been sprung, and before Teddy had made up his mind about moving he began to be aware that the battle was flooding back on him. The Germans beside him saw it too, and, without any attempt to defend their position, clambered from the trench and disappeared from Teddy’s immediate view. Teddy crawled up and had a look out. It was difficult to see much at first, because there was a good deal of smoke about from our bursting shells, but as the counter-attack pushed on and the Germans went back, the shells followed them, and presently the air cleared enough for Teddy to see glimpses of khaki and to be certain that every German he saw was getting away from the khaki neighbourhood as rapidly as possible. In another minute a couple of Australians, hugging some machine-guns parts, tumbled into his trench, two or three others arrived panting, and in a moment the machine-gun was in action and streaming fire and bullets into the backs of any parties of Germans that crossed the sights. One of the new-comers, a sergeant, looked round and saw Teddy squatting on the broken edge of the trench and looking very sick and shaken. “Hullo, mate,” said the sergeant, glancing at the patch of coloured cloth on Teddy’s shoulder that told his unit. “Was you with the bunch in this hole when Fritz jumped you?” Teddy gulped and nodded. “You stopped one?” said the sergeant. “Where’d it get you?” “No,” said Teddy; “I—I think I’m all right. Got a bit of a bump on the head.” “’Nother bloke to say ‘Go’ bless the tin-’at makers’ in ’is prayers every night.” He turned from Teddy. “Isn’t it time we humped this shooter a bit on again, boys?” he said. “Looks like the Boche was steadyin’ up a bit,” said a machine-gunner. “An’ our line’s bumped a bit o’ a snag along on the left there. I think we might spray ’em a little down that way.” They slewed the gun in search of fresh targets, while from a broken trench some score yards from their front a gathering volume of rifle-fire began to pelt and tell of the German resistance stiffening. “Strewth,” growled the sergeant, “this is no bon! If we give ’em time to settle in—— Hullo,”—he broke off, and stared out in front over the trench edge—“wot’s that lot? They look like khaki. Prisoners, by cripes!” Every man peered out anxiously. Two to three hundreds yards away they could see emerging from the broken end of a communication trench a single file of men in khaki without arms in their hands, and with half a dozen rifle- and bayonet-armed Germans guarding them. Teddy, who was watching with the others, exclaimed suddenly. “It’s my lot,” he said. “That’s the captain—him with the red hair; and I recognise Big Mick, and Terry—Terry’s wounded—see him limp. That’s my mate Terry.”