The wheels ceased to revolve. To outward appearance the Tank was out of action. Her guns no longer fired, since the Germans had evacuated the trench and were either risking certain death by bolting across the open or else obtaining a doubtful shelter in their dug-outs. Then the traction bands were restarted, this time in a reverse direction. Slowly the huge mass of metal, disengaging itself from the debris, backed through the passage it had previously cleared in the parapet, and descended the glacis. Choosing another spot, the Tank again crawled forward, this time bridging the trench and disappearing beyond the parados. All save the first mastodon had now passed the fire-trench. The one that remained did so with a set purpose. While it bridged the trench it was certain death for a Hun to show himself. A few, armed with bombs, did issue from their dug-outs, but caught by a hail of bullets from a machine-gun they ceased to be effective units of the Kaiser's legions. The colonel of the Wheatshires saw the chance of straightening the line. He knew his men had suffered severely, but the time to rest was not yet. Armed only with a stick the gallant, grey-haired C.O. sprang upon the shell-scarred parados. "The Wheatshires will advance," he shouted. "Come on, men; we've stuck in this trench quite long enough." A hoarse shout rose from the parched throats of the indomitable Tommies as the remainder of the battalion leapt out of the trench they had held so stubbornly. In thirty seconds their former shelter was untenanted save for the dead and wounded and a handful of men told off to guard the entrance to the dug-outs that contained prisoners. "Hang on to the tail of that Tank," shouted Sergeant Ferris to the men of his section. "We'll have our work cut out to settle the Huns who aren't squashed. Don't leave a single Fritz with a rifle in his hand behind you--I've had some." The sergeant looked a most ferocious object despite his inches, for he was just five feet one and a half. His steel helmet was dented and bespattered with mud. His face was black with dirt thrown up by a shell that exploded less than twenty yards from him. His great coat was torn away at the waist, while one puttee was ripped away entirely. His left wrist was clumsily swathed in first-aid dressings that momentarily threatened to fall off, while to complete the picture a partly dressed goose dangled from his belt. Ferris had always the resources of an old campaigner. In one of the captured dug-outs he had found the bird, and with the idea that it would "come in handy after the dust-up" he had lashed the goose's legs round his belt. "Don't think I'm greedy, boys," he shouted. "You'll all stand in later on."