Major
Kemp caught him in his arms, and laid him gently upon the chalky
floor. There was nothing more to be done. Young Lochgair had given his
platoon their target, and the platoon were now firing steadily upon
the same. He closed his eyes and sighed, like a tired child.
"Carry on, Major!" he murmured faintly. "I'm all right."
So died the simple-hearted, valiant enthusiast whom we had christened
Othello.
The entire regiment--what was left of it--was now firing over the
back of the trench; for the wily Teuton had risked no frontal attack,
seeing that he could gain all his ends from the left flank.
Despite vigorous rifle fire and the continuous maledictions of the
machine-gun, the enemy were now pouring through the cottages behind
the trench. Many grey figures began to climb up the face of Fosse
Eight, where apparently there was none to say them nay.
"We shall have a cheery walk back, I _don't_ think!" murmured
Wagstaffe.
He was right. Presently a withering fire was opened from the summit
of the Fosse, which soon began to take effect in the exiguous and
ill-protected trench.
"The Colonel is wounded, sir," reported the Sergeant-Major to Major
Kemp.
"Badly?"
"Yes, sir."
Kemp looked round him. The regiment was now alone in the trench, for
the gallant company upon their right had been battered almost out of
existence.
"We can do no more good by staying here any longer," said the Major.
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