The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLII, no. 250 new series, April 1917)Various
History
The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLII, no. 250 new series, April 1917)
Various
England -- Periodicals; English literature -- Periodicals; Short stories, English -- Periodicals
Into the trench below him a knot of Germans scrambled scuffling, and he
lay huddled there almost within arm’s length of them while they hoisted a
couple of machine-guns to the edge of the trench and manned the parapet
and opened a hail of fire down the length of the struggling British line.
Under that streaming fire the line wilted and withered; a fresh torrent
of fire smote it, and it crumpled and gave and ebbed back. But almost
immediately another line swarmed up out of the smoke and swept forward,
and this time, although the same flank and frontal fire caught and smote
it, the line straggled and swayed forward and plunged into and over the
German trench.
The Corporal lying there on the trench edge was suddenly aware of a
stir amongst the men below him. The edge where he lay half screened in
a débris of green stuff and huddled beside a couple of dead Germans was
broken down enough to let him see well into the trench, and he understood
to the full the meaning of the movements of the Germans in the trench, of
their hasty hauling down of the machine-guns, their scrambling retirement
crouched and hurrying along the trench back in the direction from which
he had come. The trench the British had taken ran out at a right angle
from this one where he lay, and the Germans near him were retiring behind
the line of trench that had been taken. And that meant he was as good as
saved.
A minute later two khaki figures emerged from a torn thicket of tree
stumps and branches a dozen yards beyond the trench where he lay, and ran
on across towards the denser wood into which the Germans had retreated.
One was an officer, and close on their heels came half a dozen, a dozen,
a score of men, all following close and pressing on to the wood and
opening out as they went. One came to the edge of the trench where the
machine-guns had been, and the Corporal with an effort lifted and waved
an arm and shouted hoarsely to him. But even as he did so he realised how
futile his shout was, how impossible it was for it to carry even the few
yards in the pandemonium of noise that raved about them. But he shouted
again, and yet again, and felt bitter disappointment as the man without
noticing turned and moved along the trench, peering down into it.
The Corporal had a sudden sense of someone moving behind him, and twisted
round in time to see another khaki figure moving past a dozen paces
away and the upper half bodies of half a score more struggling through
the thickets beyond. This time he screamed at them, but they too passed
unhearing and unheeding. The Corporal dropped quivering and trying to
tell himself that it was all right, that there would be others following,
that some of them must come along the trench, that the stretcher-bearers
would be following close.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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