"They’re in! They’re in!" he yelled as the first line tumbled down into the death-traps. Hundreds floundered to an awful end in front of the British lines. The cries of the struggling mass were even heard above the din of shooting. The next line paused in horror, and many tried to run, but the officers’ swords and revolvers drove on the men in rear and shoved still more into the chambers of horror. At last they were filled, and over the mangled and moaning men the others charged to the trenches. "Rapid fire!" ordered Spud, and every other section commander all along the line. The response was startling. Worse, something caught the feet of the first line. It was the low entanglements. The running men were thrown forward on to the jagging stakes and piercing wire. Again the advance was stemmed, and again the British maxims and rifles exacted a frightful toll. To the sensitive soul such a sight is awful and sickening. Brutality is triumphant, and war shown in all its hellish aspects. There is little culture in the business. It is simply the awful expression of Hate. Nevertheless, such men as the Glesca Mileeshy viewed almost calmly the scene. They even joked and laughed as they sent their bullets into the reeling masses of men. "They’re comin’ again—Rapid fire," commanded Spud to his men once more. The weight of numbers had pushed the living over the maimed. They clambered across their bodies towards the high entanglements. A crisis was near, and every man in the Glesca Mileeshy fixed his bayonet, then opened fire again. Dead men paved the way to the higher entanglements. Click! Click! Click! went the enemy’s wire-cutters all along the line. Some even tore themselves over or through the barbed wire. They had reached their goal. "Gae them H——, boys," roared Spud above the din. There was no need to command. Out of the trenches leaped the front line of the Glesca Mileeshy. The slaughter was fierce. Blood spurted everywhere. Germans and British struggled like Dervishes for the mastery. Screams were mixed with curses, moans drowned in the awful din. Germans hate our British bayonets; in fact they loathe cold steel at any time. Seldom will they face such music, but this attack had been driven on. To turn meant death from the bayonets behind; even if they had escaped from the crush a German officer’s revolver would have quickly ended their flight. Brave as they are, when equal in numbers against our arms the British assert their superiority with natural ease. The Glesca Mileeshy, like their co-partners, had centuries of tradition behind them. Germans, after all, are young at the game of war. Colonel Corkleg viewed the awful struggle from the supporting trenches. The condition of affairs was uninspiring. He saw more and more grey masses of the enemy surging forward to swell the attacking line.