Here was open ground with practically no cover at all.
'Come on!' shouted Ken. 'A last sprint.'
He saw Dave spring to his feet and make a dash. Then suddenly he stumbled,
flung out his arms and fell flat on his face. At the same moment two
Turks, big, black-bearded fellows, came leaping out of a patch of scrub,
barely twenty yards behind Dave.
Ken spun round, and taking quick aim at the nearest, pulled the trigger.
There was no report. He had finished the last cartridge in his magazine.
There was no time to reload. Dave, hurt but not killed, was trying to
crawl away on hands and knees, but it was clear that in another moment he
would be a prisoner.
Without an instant's hesitation, Ken charged straight at the two Turks.
They, intent on their prisoner, failed to see him until he was almost on
them. Then one, uttering a hoarse cry, sprang forward, stabbing at him
with his bayonet.
Ken's blade clashed against the other's as he parried, then side-stepping
like a flash, he drove his bayonet into the man's ribs, and with a choking
sob he fell dead.
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