See 'is hugly mug.
Hn-gah! Pint!!!" At the words of command, the sergeant major threw himself into his guard and attacked with such appalling ferocity as must have paralysed an ordinary foe, sending his bayonet clean through to his guard, and recovering it with a clean, swift movement.
Having secured a fairly satisfactory thrust, the sergeant major devoted his attention to the recovery of the bayonet.
"Fetch it hout!" he cried fiercely.

"There's another man comin'.

Fetch it hout! Ye may fetch 'is spinial column with it.

No matter, 'e won't need it." The final act in this gruesome drama was the attack upon the second line represented by the sacks lying upon the parapet of the trench beyond.
The completed action thus included the guard, thrust, recovery, the leap forward past the swinging line of sacks, and a second thrust at the figure prone upon the parapet, with a second recovery of the weapon, this second recovery being effected by stamping the foot upon the transfixed effigy, and jerking back the bayonet with a violent upward movement.
This last recovery appeared to cause number five again some difficulty.
"Now then, number five, put a little aight (hate) into it.

Stamp your bleedin' 'obnyles (hobnails) on his fice, and fetch it hout! This wye!" As he took the rifle from number five, the sergeant major's face seemed to be transformed into a living embodiment of envenomed hate, his attack, thrust, recovery, gathering in intensity until with unimaginable fury he leaped upon the prostrate figure, drove his bayonet through to the hilt, stamped his hobnails upon the transfixed enemy, jerked his weapon out, and stood quivering, ready for any foe that dared to approach.