Now, imagine the scene. The Glesca Mileeshy fighting like Trojans against the helmeted hordes who tried to envelop and crush them. Their trenches were filled with blood, and hundreds lay maimed and dead. Round their flanks swept rank after rank of the Germans, in vigorous pursuit of the little sections of retiring regiments who fired a few rounds, then ran on to the next bit of cover, where they repeated the same performance with a coolness truly wonderful and inspiring. Their volleys were deadly enough, but feeble against such a mighty deluge of men. Still, they lured them on, then finally disappeared behind the flanks of their second line of defence. Meantime, the German reserves had arrived. Inspired by the success of their first lines, they pressed bravely forward to finish their job, leaving the Glesca Mileeshy almost encircled by their friends.
Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p spat the machine-gun batteries behind the little knolls. This was accompanied by a terrific explosion of land mines, which burst beneath the feet of the enemy, as well as the rapid fire of the infantry and the crashing bombs from five aeroplanes above. Hundreds were blown lifeless and mutilated into the air, hundreds more were riddled with the traversing fire of the Maxim guns, while many were caught with the well-aimed musketry of the eager Tommies. The great host reeled with the blow. Death and fumes, the smoke and noise, stupefied them all. They were like lost sheep in a wilderness. Indeed, the enemy had reached that mental state when a counter-attack will always win.
"Double forward the reserves, and, when ready, charge," was the order flashed from the G.O.C. of the Mixed Division. Out of the earth rose the Indians and Colonials—brothers in arms. Their advance was covered by the men and Maxims on the knolls in front of them. Gleefully they ran—Indians mixed with Canadians, New Zealanders, and Australians. They reached the second line of defence and lay down for a breath.
"Fix bayonets—prepare to charge," was the next order flashed along the line. The clicking of the steel rings on the bayonet standards was a cheerful sound to all.
"Charge!" A wild hurrah was heard from seven thousand men. Seven thousand bayonets gleamed in the now sparkling sun. And down like an avalanche swept the sons of Empire. Words can never depict a charge. It is wild, almost insane, yet glorious. There is a thrill of pride in the veins that kills all fear and makes even the fattest and laziest envious of the fleet-footed subalterns, who always lead the way. And this was an Imperial charge—a charge of willing volunteers, who loved the Motherland.