As far as Tom could see along the line in either direction this shell-torn area was being crossed by hundreds of boys in khaki holding fixed bayonets, some going ahead of the tanks and some perching on them.
Above him the whole district seemed to be in pandemonium, men shouting and their voices drowned by the thunder of artillery.
His first real sight of the attack was when he clambered out of the trench where it crossed the road and faced the flattened meshes of barbed wire with its splintered supporting poles all tangled in it.
Never was there such a wreck.
"All right," he shouted down.

"It's as flat as a pancake--careful with the machine--lift the back wheel--that's right!" He could hardly hear his own voice for the noise, and the very earth seemed to shake under the heavy barrage fire which protected them.

In one sweeping, hasty glance he saw scores of figures in khaki running like mad and disappearing into the enemy trenches beyond.
"Do you mean to let the wire rest on this ?" he asked, as his machine was lifted up and the first of the wire carriers came scrambling up after it; "it might get short-circuited." "We'll run it over the poles, only hurry," the men answered.
They were evidently the very last of the advancing force, and even as Tom looked across the shell-torn area of No Man's Land, he could see the men picking their way over the flattened entanglements and pouring into the enemy trenches.

The tanks had already crossed these and were rearing and waddling along, irresistible yet ridiculous, like so many heroic mud turtles going forth to glory.

Here and there Tom could see the gray-clad form of a German clambering out of the trenches and rushing pell-mell to the rear.
But it was no time to stand and look.