The enemy rifles rattled in one long, terrible roll.  Men dropped by dozens and scores.  Some fell where they lay, others rolled helplessly back down the steep slope to the beach.  But those left never paused or hesitated.  They scrambled desperately upwards through the pelting storm of lead, guided by the flashes from the muzzles of the Turkish rifles.

Ken was conscious of nothing but a fierce desire to get to close quarters, and he and Dave Burney went up side by side at the very top of their speed.

Before they knew it, a dark hollow loomed before them.  A rifle snapped almost in Ken’s face—­so close that he felt the scorch of the powder.  Without an instant’s hesitation he drove his bayonet at a dark figure beneath him, at the same time springing down into the trench.  The whole weight of his body was behind his thrust, and the Turk, spitted like a fowl, fell dead beneath him.

[Illustration:  ‘He drove his bayonet at a dark figure.’]

With an effort he dragged the blade loose.  Only just in time, for a burly man in a fez was swinging at his head with a rifle butt.  Ken ducked under his arm, turned smartly and bayoneted him in the side.

The whole trench was full of struggling men.  The Turks fought well, but good men as they are, they were no match for the long, lean six footers who were upon them.  Inside three minutes it was all over.  Most of the Turks were dead, the few survivors were prisoners.

‘Lively while it lasted,’ panted Dave’s voice at Ken’s elbow.

‘You, Dave.  Are you all right?’

’Lost my hat and my wind.  Nothing else missing so far as I know.  Are you chipped?’

’Not a touch.  But keep your head down.  This is only the first act.  There’s another trench above this one.’

During the struggle in the trench the firing had ceased entirely, but now that it was over a pestilence of bullets began to pour again from higher up the slope, and Ken’s warning was useful—­to say the least of it.

‘What comes next?’ asked Dave, as the two crouched together against the rubbly wall of the trench.

‘Get our second wind and tackle the next trench,’ said Ken briefly.

His prophecy was correct.  A couple of minutes later the order was passed down to advance again.

In grim silence the men sprang out of their shelter and dashed forward.  There were no more star shells, but from up above began the ugly knocking of a quick-firer.  It sounded like a giant running a stick along an endless row of palings, and the bullets squirted like water from a hose through the thinning ranks of the Colonials.

It was worse than the first charge, for not only was the slope steeper, but the face of the hill was covered with low, tough scrub, the tangled roots of which caught the men’s feet as they ran, and brought many down.  The result was that the line was no longer level.  Some got far ahead of the others.