Promptly at 6 a.m. our barrage came down, 150 yards in advance of our front line, and from there it advanced, at a rate of 100 yards in eight minutes, with our men close behind. The morning was dull and overcast, and the attack appeared to be a complete surprise, the assailants following so close upon the curtain of shell-fire that they were amongst the enemy and using their bayonets freely before the surviving Germans had recovered from the whirl of flame and explosions that had so suddenly enveloped them. The German front line of defence consisted of fortified shell-holes, and many of the machine-guns established there were knocked out at once by our heavy fire; the occupants stood no chance against our men with the bayonet, and the Canadians swept over with scarcely a halt, catching up the barrage and reaching the outskirts of Passchendaele town just behind it. The troops holding the enemy's main line before the village had no desire to try conclusions with the owners of those free-swinging bayonets, and without hesitation they bolted, unfortunately for themselves, arriving in the middle of the ruined town simultaneously with our barrage, which had been arranged to play on this portion of the objective for a double space of time. But strong emplacements amongst the masonry still gave our men pause. On the left flank of the 27th Battalion a German machine gun, surrounded by uncut wire and broken, reinforced walls, formed an ideal point for stubborn defence. The flanking platoon charged this position three times, and on each occasion was driven back. The assaults were met by the point-blank fire of the machine-gun, and by bullets from riflemen in the ruined houses along the main street of the village. Then, while his platoon brought as heavy rifle and Lewis gun fire as possible to bear upon the emplacement, Private Robertson crossed the open line of fire alone, and running round the flank of the position, leapt the barbed wire and got in with his bayonet among the garrison. He had bayoneted several men before the gun crews had gathered their wits to meet the sudden onslaught, and his furious fighting daunted the remainder. They fled, nothing left them but the instinct of self-preservation. But Robertson did not intend to let them escape--he had been told too often at his training camp that his aim in life, nay, his whole ambition and purpose, should be centred on the elimination of the Bosche. Seizing the captured gun, he swung it about and opened fire on the running men, killing most of them before his platoon had arrived at the position he had captured so gallantly. Then, bearing the captured gun with him, he continued on his way towards the final objective, the eastern outskirts of the town, meeting with several opportunities to use his new weapon and wasting none. The troops followed him down the main Passchendaele street, past the broken church, mopping up the enemy's strong points