Everton was one of the first to reach the forward trench.  It had been roughly handled by the artillery fire, and the men in it made little show of resistance.  The Hotwaters swarmed into the broken ditch, shooting and stabbing the few who fought back, disarming the prisoners who had surrendered with hands over their heads and quavering cries of “Kamerad.”  Everton rushed one man who appeared to be in two minds whether to surrender or not, fingering and half lifting his rifle and lowering it again, looking round over his shoulder, once more raising his rifle muzzle.  Everton killed him with the bayonet.  Afterwards he climbed out and ran on, after the line had pushed forward to the next trench.  There was an awe, and a thrill of satisfaction in his heart as he looked at his stained bayonet, but, as he suddenly recognized with a tremendous joy, not the faintest sensation of being afraid.  He looked round grinning to the man next him, and was on the point of shouting some jest to him, when he saw the man stumble and pitch heavily on his face.  It flashed into Everton’s mind that he had tripped over a hidden wire, and he was about to shout some chaffing remark, when he saw the back of the man’s head as he lay face down.  But even that unpleasant sight brought no fear to him.

There was a stout barricade of wire in front of the next trench, and an order was shouted along to halt and lie down in front of it.  The line dropped, and while some lay prone and fired as fast as they could at any loophole or bobbing head they could see, others lit bombs and tossed them into the trench.  This trench also had been badly mauled by the shells, and the fire from it was feeble.  Everton lay firing for a few minutes, casting side glances on an officer close in front of him, and on two or three men along the line who were coolly cutting through the barbed wire with heavy nippers.  Everton saw the officer spin round and drop to his knees, his left hand nursing his hanging right arm.  Everton jumped up and went over to him.

“Let me go on with it, sir,” he said eagerly, and without waiting for any consent stooped and picked up the fallen wire-cutters and set to work.  He and the others, standing erect and working on the wire, naturally drew a heavy proportion of the aimed fire; but Everton was only conscious of an uplifting exhilaration, a delight that he should have had the chance at such a prominent position.  Many bullets came very close to him, but none touched him, and he went on cutting wire after wire, quickly and methodically, grasping the strand well in the jaws of the nippers, gripping till the wire parted and the severed ends sprang loose, calmly fitting the nippers to the next strand.

Even when he had cut a clear path through, he went on working, widening the breach, cutting more wires, dragging the trailing ends clear.  Then he ran back to the line and to the officer who had lain watching him.

“Your wire-nippers, sir,” he said.  “Shall I put them in your case for you?”