"Land in sight!"
The welcome announcement resulted in a rush on deck on the part of the motley throng of Anzacs, South Africans, English troops, and Maoris. Some men eager for a glimpse of the country of their birth, which they had not seen for many a long-drawn month of campaigning in the inhospitable waste of Mesopotamia; others for the first sight of the Mother Country; others out of mere curiosity; while the Maoris peered through the dim light to feast upon the prospects of speedily setting foot on dry land.
It was not much to look at, judged from a strictly optical point of view. Merely a slender lighthouse, rearing itself itself out of the sea, while miles beyond it, and just visible against the pale rosy tints of dawn, was a line of dark-grey cliffs, backed by higher ground that was totally destitute of trees.
ThePomfret Castleand the rest of the convoy had slowed down in the vicinity of the Wolf Rock Lighthouse. The attendant cruiser was circling round at top speed, as if to shepherd her flock before entrusting them to the care of another. Against the line of cliffs could be discerned a haze of smoke, Out of which appeared a number of indistinct dots that quickly resolved themselves into a flotilla of destroyers.
In double-column line ahead the greyhounds of the sea tore to meet the approaching troopships, then, at a signal from the senior officer, the destroyers "broke line", tearing hither and thither seemingly without order or reason--zigzagging, pirouetting, and crossing each others' bows as if participating in an intricate maritime dance.
"Putting the wind up any blessed U-boat that might be wanting to butt in," exclaimed Kennedy. "Hallo! There's our cruiser off. She's done with us."
The transports dipped ensigns; the cruiser returned the compliment in a similar manner as she swung round and retraced her course. Her mission accomplished, she set off on particular service to escort another convoy from somewhere to somewhere else, while the destroyers closed round thePomfret Castleand her consorts as if to welcome them into port.
For the most part the men ignored the call to breakfast. They had a different feast on hand--to feast their eyes upon the varying outlines of the rugged Cornish coast; for as the distance decreased the monotonous aspect gave place to one of intense interest.
"There's Rame Head," exclaimed a delighted Tommy. "Many a time I've stood on top of it. I was born an' bred at Cawsand," he added, gratuitously. "Just round the corner you'll see Plymouth."
"I've seen it three times before," remarked another--the inevitable grouser of the company; "and, every time it's been raining cats and dogs. Proper wet 'ole, I calls it."
"Let it, and a jolly good job too," rejoined the first speaker. "After Mesopotamia you won't hear men grumbling about rain--not 'arf. It can rain every day in the year, an' good luck to it."
"Just you wait till you gets ter France," chipped in another. "Up to yer neck in mud an' slush. You'll jolly soon wish yourself grilling again."
"You've turned your back on Mesopotamia, boys," exclaimed the licensed jester of the company. "Now you've the Mess-up-at-homia, an' so make the best of it. Blimy, wot's this comin'; a bloomin' Zeppelin!"
"Where?" exclaimed a dozen voices.
Following the direction of the speaker's outstretched hand Malcolm had his first view of an airship. It was not a large craft as airships go. Underneath its silver-grey envelope hung a small car like the fuselage of an aeroplane. As it approached, the whirring circle of a single, two-bladed propeller could be discerned. It was a "Blimp", or dirigible observation balloon.
The airship was flying rapidly "down wind" at an altitude of about two hundred feet. As it passed almost overhead the fuselage appeared to scrape thePomfret Castle'smain truck by inches. Presently the Blimp swung round and faced the wind, keeping on a course slightly diverging from that of the convoy. Plugging away dead in the eye of the wind its progress was not more than twenty miles an hour "over the ground", which in reality was a portion of the English Channel.
Suddenly thePomfret Castlestarboarded helm and broke out of line. The alteration of course had the effect of causing the huge vessel to list outwards. As she did so a long trail of foam almost parallel to the starboard side of the ship shot ahead until it was lost to sight in the distance.
For some moments not a single man moved. Attention had been shifted from the Blimp to the milk-white track in the water--the wake of the torpedo.
Only by prompt use of her helm had thePomfret Castleescaped destruction. Even in home waters she had to run the gauntlet, despite the encircling line of destroyers.
With the utmost audacity a U-boat had lain submerged across the track of the convoy, trusting to be able to launch her bolt and disappear before even the swift destroyers could take her bearings, and close upon the spot where the tips of her periscopes had appeared when the torpedo had been discharged.
She had seen the escorting vessels and had taken the risk, but she had reckoned without the far-seeing eyes of the Blimp.
Already the airship had spotted a dark elongated shape beneath the waves. Invisible when viewed at a narrow angle to the surface, the submarine stood out clearly against the grey waste of waters when seen from above.
Something, glittering in the dull light, shot from beneath the fuselage of the alert Blimp. With a mighty splash the missile struck the surface of the sea and disappeared.
For five long-drawn seconds nothing appeared to happen. Unseen by the watchers on the troop-ship, a deadly aerial torpedo was worming its way through the water until it reached a depth of sixty feet.
Before the spray cast up by the impact of the missile had subsided, another and far greater column of water leapt a hundred feet or more into the air. A cloud of smoke hid the Blimp from view, while, out of the breaking spout of upheaved water, appeared a solid, dark-grey substance--the after part of a U-boat!
For a brief instant the wreckage was revealed to view. Even the horizontal and vertical rudders and the twin propellers were visible. Then, as if reluctant to sink into obscurity, the strafed U-boat disappeared from mortal ken for all time.
No need for the destroyers to tear at full speed across the ever-widening circle of oil; no need for explosive grapnels to trail over the downward path of the vertically-descending pirate craft. The diabolicalSpurlos versenktpolicy had recoiled with a vengeance upon yet another of the Kaiser'sUnterseebooten.
A hoarse roar of cheering broke from the throats of the men. Tommies, Anzacs, South Africans, and Maoris vied with each other as to who could produce the greatest and most prolonged volume Of sound. Other vessels of the convoy took up the hearty "Hip, hip, hurrah!" until the watchers on the distant Cornish cliffs must have heard the strenuous demonstrations of exultation.
Meanwhile the destroyers, their crews grimly silent, merely "carried on". The men whose lives they were guarding might well let themselves go, but these units of the great silent navy meant business. Time for shouting when the German navy ceased to exist as a fighting force--and "The Day" was yet to come.
The Blimp, also scorning to display any indications of its triumphant success, turned and flew serenely over the convoy, outwardly indifferent to the work of destruction it had accomplished. Not until the last of the convoy passed the western end of the breakwater, and gained the security of Plymouth Sound, did the modern counterpart of the
"Little cherub that sits up aloft,To keep guard o'er the life of poor Jack"
relinquish its task. Then, amid a farewell outburst of cheering, the Blimp flew eastwards, to disappear from view behind the lofty Staddon Heights.
Malcolm's first impressions on landing in Old England were far from agreeable. A drizzling rain was falling. It was yet early, and beyond a few dock hands Millbay Pier was deserted. No crowds of enthusiastic spectators waited to welcome the men who had made a perilous voyage of thousands of miles to take part in the fight for freedom. In almost complete silence the securing-ropes were made fast and the gangways run out by apathetic workmen, while with the utmost dispatch the disembarkation of men and stores began.
Wearing grey Balaclava helmets instead of their smart uniform hats, and without their accoutrements, the three New Zealanders found themselves drawn up in the rear of their Australian comrades.
"Who are these men?" enquired an embarkation Officer of the Anzac major who accompanied him.
"Three New Zealanders who missed their transport at Cape Town, sir," replied the latter.
"What regiment?"
The Australian turned to Fortescue and repeated the question.
The embarkation officer consulted a document.
"Thirty-somethingth reinforcements, eh? Dash it all, you men! You've arrived before they have. I don't know what to do with them, Major."
He spoke wearily. Dealing with absentees and men who had "got adrift" had occupied a good part of his time during the last two years. It was getting decidedly monotonous.
"Let them entrain with our boys, sir," suggested the kindly Anzac major. "I'll be responsible for them as far as Salisbury. They're for Codford, I suppose?"
"Very well," acceded the embarkation officer, glad to find an easy solution to the difficulty. "You are the senior non-com., I suppose," he asked, addressing Fortescue. "Here, take this, and when you arrive in camp report yourselves."
He handed Fortescue a yellow paper, and hurried off to find shelter from the downpour. The entrainment was a slow process. The men were hungry. They wished in vain for the breakfast that the majority had forgone when thePomfret Castlesighted land. There were rumours that tea and coffee were to be served out at a way-side station, but promises, Fortescue observed, do not fill an empty stomach.
In vain Malcolm looked for Te Paheka. Already the Maori contingent had been spirited away--to what immediate destination he knew not.
Handcuffed and under a strong escort, the spy arrested under the name of Pieter Waas was hurried along the slippery quay--the bent, dejected figure of a man who, although uncondemned, knows that his life is forfeit. Who and what he was yet remained to be proved, unless, like many a nameless spy, he went to his death preferring that the mystery that surrounded his life should accompany him to the Great Beyond.
Packed like sardines in a tin, the Anzacs filled the long train to overflowing. Again under cover, their mercurial spirits rose, and when at length the rain ceased, and the train rumbled betwixt the red-earthed, verdant coombes of Devon, bathed in brilliant sunshine, the Anzacs unanimously voted that there were worse places on earth than the Old Country.
It was late in the afternoon when Malcolm and his two chums alighted at Codford station, and, making their way by a roundabout route along the main street of the village, where old-time cottages and hideous wooden shanties stood cheek by jowl, arrived at the vast array of tin huts that comprised the camp.
Things turned out better than either of the three chums had expected. They were reprimanded, but for the time being they were not deprived of their stripes. Until the arrival of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements they were given light duties and a generous amount of leisure time.
"Malcolm Carr, by all that's blue and pink!"
This was the greeting hurled at Malcolm a few hours after his arrival in camp. At that time there were comparatively few troops at Codford. Heavy drafts had just been sent to Sling Camp, preparatory to proceeding to France, while the expected reinforcements had not yet put in an appearance. Yet one of the first men young Carr met that evening was a Christchurch acquaintance who lived but a few doors away from Malcolm's parents.
"By Jove, this is great, Tommy!" exclaimed Malcolm. "Never thought I'd run against you here. You know Selwyn, of course? This is Fortescue, one of the boys--and one of the best. An old Christchurch chum, Tommy Travers."
"When did you blow in?" enquired Travers, as the four made their way along a narrow plank gangway between the lines of huts--the only means of preventing men sinking above their ankles in mud.
"Arrived at Plymouth this morning," replied Malcolm. "And you? Been across yet?"
Travers touched his coat-sleeve, on which was a faded gold stripe.
"Yes," he answered; "five months of it. I got this buckshie in that scrap in Delville Wood, when our brigade captured Flers. Shrap," he added laconically. "It was hell let loose, and our boys copped it. Six weeks in hospital, and then I came here. Managed to get dropped when the last draft went to Sling, so I suppose I'll be off with the next crush. Any news Christchurch way?"
"Did you hear that my brother Peter is wounded and missing?" asked Malcolm, after a flow of conversation on strictly personal subjects.
"Yes," replied Travers. "He was sergeant of my platoon. I think I was one of the last of our chaps to see him. It was like this: our battalion cleared the southern portion of Delville Wood in grand style. We fairly put the wind up Fritz. Bombs and bayonets all the time. We had a lot of casualties, though. When we rushed our objective your brother Peter was senior non-com. There were two subalterns left, but they weren't fit for much. Both hit, but too plucky to chuck their hands in. Well, we began digging ourselves in on the edge of the wood when the Boches started to pump in high-explosive, shrap, and gas shells. There was precious little left of the wood. Not a leaf to be seen, and at most a crowd of charred tree-trunks, many of 'em still blazing."
"Why Fritz treated us to an extra special dose goodness only knows. The battalion lying on our right barely copped it at all, and the Tommy regiment on our left came off lightly until the Huns had finished with us. We had little or no cover. The ground was chock-full of big roots, and we hadn't time to remove them. The trees were flying in big and little chunks all over the show, and all the cover we could get were a few shell-holes."
"Although it was night, the place was lit up as brightly as anything; a continuous slap-up of bursting shells and streams of liquid fire. I heard afterwards that our battalion was given orders to fall back and adjust the line, but certain it was that we never had any commands to retire."
"Then I got it properly. Shrap in the left arm and both legs. Went down like a felled ox, and lay there until my puttees--which I started to unroll but didn't finish--began smouldering. Things were looking and feeling bit warmer than usual when your brother nipped up. Remember, none of the boys were firing. There was nothing to let rip at. The Boche guns simply let us have it, and their counter-attack hadn't developed. If they were about to counter-attack we couldn't see them. The smoke was too thick for that, although, as I said before, we could see everything within twenty yards or so. Our only indication of the Huns trying to rush us was when their guns lifted and put up a barrage behind us.".
"Peter never said a word. For one thing, there was such a terrific din going on that you'd have had to shout close to a fellow's ear to make him understand; for another, your brother had got it in the jaw. Nothing much, I should say, as buckshies go nowadays, but still it was enough to look unpleasant."
"He finished unwinding my puttees and threw them away. I can smell them now, smouldering under my nose. Then he began hauling me towards a shell-hole, when down he went, all of a heap, shot through the ankle."
"After a bit he raised himself and pointed towards the crater we were making for, and we both started to crawl for it. By Jingo, didn't that journey give me gee-up while it lasted! Then, just as we were close to the shell-hole, a 'crump' burst somewhere close, and I remembered nothing more until I found myself in the advance dressing-station. Two men of C Company, Pat O'Connor and Sandy Anderson--both from Taranaki--brought me in, I was told afterwards, and I met them while I was in hospital at Brockenhurst. They were certain they never saw Sergeant Peter Carr."
"The Germans drove us in with their counter-attack, didn't they?" asked Fortescue.
"Aye, but we ousted them next morning," replied Travers, "and out of Flers as well. That's when Pat O'Connor copped it; but he swears that none of our fellows were left alive during the retirement in the woods."
"Then you think that Peter was killed?" asked Malcolm.
Travers squared his shoulders.
"Speaking as man to man," he replied, "I don't think there can be the faintest doubt about it. And Peter Carr was a downright good sort. . . . How about it, you fellows? Good for a game of a 'hundred up'?"
For the next few weeks events moved rapidly. With the belated arrival of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement, Malcolm Carr and Dick Selwyn found themselves reverted to the ranks. Fortescue, by virtue of having seen active service, still retained his stripes. Rumours of something great in the nature of a stunt about to take place gained credence from the fact that the men were put through their final training as quickly as possible. The "Diggers" accepted the "speeding up" with alacrity. They realized that the sooner they completed their arduous "field exercises" the sooner they would attain their ambition to "put it across Fritz".
The spring gave place to early summer, a spell of beautifully fine weather, so much so that the mud of Salisbury Plain vanished, and the green grass of the rolling downs turned russet for lack of rain. Yet, in spite of the heat, bayonet practice, bombing instruction, and long route marches kept the men lean, active, and in the very pink of condition.
"Ehoa!It's Sling."
The announcement ran like wildfire along the line of huts. It meant that the transfer of the brigade to Sling Camp was another milestone in the long trek to the Front.
It is futile to attempt to find Sling on the pre-war maps of Salisbury Plain. A large town of mushroom growth, it had been one of the places inseparably associated with New Zealand's part in the Great War. To the man who had yet to undergo his baptism of fire, Sling meant proficiency for the firing-line. To the wounded New Zealander recovering from wounds, being ordered to Sling meant that he was considered fit to "I get one back on Fritz". In brief, Sling Camp was a piece of New Zealand soil planted in England, where the pick of the manhood of the Southern Dominion forgathered for the final polishing touches of the noble profession of arms.
Before June was far advanced word went round that the brigade was to cross the Channel and go into camp at "Etaps"--as Étaples is almost uniformly designated by the khaki lads. Again rumour spoke truthfully, for at four o'clock the next afternoon the "Diggers" were ordered to entrain for Southampton.
"Wonder if there's any chance of looking round Southampton?" asked Selwyn. "I've a second cousin there."
Fortescue smiled grimly.
"No, you don't, my dinky lad," he replied. "After Muizenberg we steer clear of your relations. As a matter of fact, they'll push us straight on board a transport, and she'll sail as soon as it gets dark."
The train, upon arrival at the place of embarkation, ran straight into the docks, and brought up close to one of the many transports that were berthed there with banked fires ready to sail at any hour of the day or night.
In full marching order the men trooped up the gangways, divested themselves of their packs, and made themselves as comfortable as possible for their twelve or fourteen hours' voyage. Within the space of two hours twelve hundred troops, both Australians and New Zealanders, were embarked.
"Good-bye, Blighty!" shouted an Anzac. "Shan't see you again for many a long day."
"Stow your jaw and get your life-belt," ordered a non-com. "You'll be in the soup if the platoon commander finds you without it."
The wire hawsers were cast off. A couple of tugs began straining at their huge charge, and slowly the transport drew away from the side of the dock. Then, gathering speed, she slipped down the land-locked expanse of Southampton Water, through the fort-guarded Spithead, and gained the English Channel.
"We'll be airing our French by this time tomorrow," declared Malcolm.
"For the preservation of the Entente we would be wise to keep our mouths shut," said Selwyn. "From what I remember, Malcolm, you were last but one in French at the Coll."
"And you?"
"Absolutely the last," admitted Selwyn.
"Talking of French," began Fortescue, "reminds me of something that happened to me at Plug Street. Hallo, what's the move now?"
Fortescue's narrative, or rather attempted narrative, of what occurred at Plug Street was somewhat remarkable. On three previous occasions Malcolm and Selwyn had heard him commencing the tale, and each time something had occurred to "switch him off."
It was no ordinary interruption on this occasion. The transport had altered helm and was turning to starboard, with her bows pointing towards the Foreland end of The Wight. Still porting helm, she swung round until she reversed her former direction, then, standing on her course, began to make for Spithead once more.
"What's up now?" was the enquiry on the lips of hundreds of men.
"One of the brass hats' has dropped his toothbrush overboard and we're going back to look for it," declared a South Australian. "Corker, my boy, you were too sharp on your bead when you chortled, 'Good-bye, Blighty!'"
Presently it transpired that the transport had received a wireless message ordering her to return to Southampton, as four German submarines had been reported lying in wait at a distance of ten Miles south of the Nab Lightship. Since the night was pitch dark, the escorting ships could not carry out their protective duties with the same degree of efficiency as usual. In the circumstances prudence directed the temporary abandonment of the cross-channel voyage.
It was one o'clock in the morning when the transport berthed in the Empress Dock. Orders were given for the troops to disembark and proceed to the large rest camp on the outskirts of Southampton. Disappointed though they were, the men maintained their cheerfulness, and before the long column was clear of the dock gates they were cheering, laughing, and shouting frantically, despite all attempts on the part of their officers to enforce silence.
Up the long High Street the khaki-clad troops marched boisterously. The inhabitants, roused from their sleep by the unusual clamour, flocked to the windows. Many a time had they seen troops fully equipped proceedingtowardsthe docks; never since the outbreak of hostilities had they seen soldiers in heavy marching order tramping in column of fours away from the place of embarkation.
"What's up?" was the oft-repeated enquiry from the invisible heights of many a darkened window in the High Street.
"Haven't you heard?" shouted a bull-voiced Anzac. "Peace is declared, and we're the first troops home from the Front."
At the prospect of a gigantic hoax others took up the mendacious parable, and long before the men reached their destination for the night the startling news had spread far and wide. It was not until the arrival of the morning papers that the good folk of Southampton realized that they had been "properly had".
The enforced detention at Southampton, was, however, not without certain compensations. The men were allowed out of camp during the following afternoon, a boon they thoroughly appreciated.
Selwyn had seized upon the opportunity to visit his relations, but when fie again invited Malcolm and Fortescue to accompany him they begged to be excused, and wandered round the town instead.
Old Southampton was both a surprise and a revelation to Malcolm Carr. Coming from a country where a fifty-year-old building is considered to be old, the sight of the fourteenth-century walls and fortified gates filled him with enthusiasm, while Fortescue was able to explain the nature of the various architectural features.
Wandering down a narrow and far from clean street they came face to face with an ancient stone building flung athwart the road. On the side of the archway a notice board announced it to be the old Westgate, through which the armies of Edward III and Henry V marched to embark upon the expedition that ended respectively in the victories of Crécy and Agincourt.
"One can imagine the throng of mailed knights leathern-jerkined archers pouring under the double portcullis," remarked Fortescue. "Those armies left this place as enemies of France; to-day ours also leave Southampton, but with a different purpose, to rid French soil of the Hun and all his works."
"And it shows," added Malcolm, "in another way how times change. Unless I'm mistaken, Henry V's army consisted of thirty thousand troops--not a third of the number of men raised in New Zealand alone."
"To carry the comparison still further," continued his companion, "our quota is roughly a fiftieth of the fighting forces of the Empire. For every man who levelled lance or drew bow at Agincourt against the French, one hundred and fifty are to-day fighting side by side with their former enemies. Those chaps--'island carrions, desperate of their bones', as Will Shakespeare aptly puts it--are our ancestors, Malcolm, whether we are New Zealanders, Australians, or Canadians, and although we are up against a big thing I haven't the faintest doubt that blood will tell, as it did in those days. But, by Jove, it's close on four o'clock. We'll have to get back as sharp as we can, or we may have the Muizenberg business all over again."
That evening the troops re-embarked. By this time the lurking U-boats had been dealt with in a most effective way. Their shattered hulls lay on the bed of the English Channel. The route was now clear, and the transport's voyage was practically devoid of incident.
Without the loss of a single man, thanks to the mysterious yet effective means of protection afforded by the British navy, the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement had completed yet another stage of their Odyssey. At last they were upon the soil of La Belle France, and within sound of the hostile guns.
"Now then, you chaps, if you aren't hungry your pals are. Look slippy and get those rations up. You'll tumble across the wagons at La Tuille Farm."
"Right oh, Sergeant!" responded a youthful corporal. "Come along, chapses! Best foot forward!"
The Sergeant, having seen that a start was about to be made, backed out of the dug-out, dropped the tapestried curtain--it was a ragged and soiled ground-sheet--over the entrance, and disappeared along the narrow trench.
Crowded into the small dug-out were seven New Zealand riflemen. Three of them are old acquaintances: Carr, Selwyn, and Macready, all looking lean, dirty, and unkempt, while their uniforms were caked in dried mud and frayed with hard usage. The final touches at Staples were a thing of the past. For four long days the men had been in the first-line trenches facing the formidable Messines Ridge.
The dug-out was comparatively dry. For one thing, the weather had been propitious, and the loathsome mud had almost disappeared. The roof was composed of untrimmed tree trunks on which were piled sand-bags sufficiently thick to stop shells of medium calibre. The walls were likewise timbered, while along three sides ran a narrow shelf on which were bundles of straw to serve as beds. Hanging from nails driven into the rough-and-ready wainscot were the men's haversacks and other equipment, while ranged alongside the door were their rifles. Those were the only objects upon which any great care had been bestowed. In spite of rain, mud, discolouring fumes of shells, hard usage, and a dozen other difficulties, the rifles were kept well-oiled and in perfect condition.
In the centre of the dug-out stood a cylindrical piece of perforated iron in which a fire was burning dully. The fumes filled the confined space to such an extent that it was difficult for any of the occupants to distinguish their companions' features, but that was a detail to be endured with equanimity in the trenches. As it was the month of June, and warm, the men were lucky to be able to have a fire, considering the scarcity of fuel and the difficulty of conveying wood and charcoal up to the firing-line.
During the day Fritz had been actively engaged in "watering" the line with high-explosive shells. Not only did the advance and support trenches get it hot, but for miles behind the lines hostile shells were dropping promiscuously, on the chance of blowing up one or more of the numerous dumps and otherwise hampering the supply columns. But as night fell the "strafe" became desultory, and under cover of darkness the fatigue and foraging parties were able to set to work with a reasonable chance of getting through without being "done in".
"Come along, boys," exclaimed the young corporal--Billy Preston from Timaru--a veteran of Egypt and Gallipoli notwithstanding the fact that he was within a month of his twenty-first birthday. "The sooner we get the job done the better."
The men were dog-tired. A couple of hostile raids had kept them on the qui vive the previous night, while throughout the day they had had but few opportunities for sleep. And now, just as they were preparing to snatch a few hours' rest, they had been told off to bring up the rations.
"We've got to assemble at two, haven't we?" enquired Rifleman Joliffe--commonly known as Grouser Joliffe. "They say our chaps are to attempt to take Messines Ridge. Attempt, I say, mind you, and our guns haven't hardly touched the job. There's uncut wire, you can see that for Yourselves, and machine-guns every yard of the way. 'Struth! I'm for swinging the lead. You don't catch me hurrying when the whistle goes."
His remarks fell on unheeding ears. The men were used to Grouser Joliffe's complaints by this time, They knew that when the critical moment arrived Joliffe would be amongst the first to mount the fire-step and clamber over the parapet. Yet there were grounds for belief in what the rifleman had said. The formidable ridge was to be attempted. The British knew it; the Huns knew it. With its labyrinths of wire and nests of skilfully-hidden machine-guns Messines Ridge was far more difficult to assault than in the earlier stages of the war, when French won and lost the important position.
Meanwhile Malcolm had rolled out of his narrow uncomfortable perch and was stretching his cramped limbs. Selwyn was fumbling with his puttees.
"Hang it," he exclaimed. "A rat has been gnawing at them. Anyone got a piece of string?"
The deficiency remedied, and the scanty toilet operations performed (the inhabitants of the dug-out had turned in "all standing", even to their boots), the men put on their shrapnel helmets, seized their rifles, and sallied forth into the night.
For some moments Malcolm could see nothing. The transition from the smoky, ill-lighted dug-out to the darkness of the open air confused his sight. All he could do was to keep in touch with the man preceding him until he grew accustomed to the change of venue.
Fresh air--is there such a thing anywhere within miles of No Man's Land? Malcolm doubted it. The atmosphere reeked of numerous and distinct odours. Traces of poison gas lurked in the traverses, pungent fumes from bursting shells wafted over parapet and parados, while the report, passed on from various successive occupants of this section of the line, that a dozen dead Huns had been buried under the floor of the support trench--the old first-line trench of a Prussian regiment--seemed to find definite confirmation.
A low whine and a terrificwumpas a high-explosive shell arrived and burst fifty yards in the rear of the trench showed that Fritz was still strafing. A fortnight previously Malcolm's heart would have been in his boots. Now he scarcely heeded the messenger of death and destruction, although showers of dust and calcined wood flew over the parados amongst the ration party. Familiarity with missiles of that description had quickly bred contempt.
At frequent intervals lurid star-shells lit up the sky. The Huns were getting decidedly jumpy of late. Expecting a strong attack, yet not knowing the actual time, they were massing their men on the ridge under the protection of their artillery. Away to the left machine-guns were delivering astaccato obbligato.
"Our heavies are quiet to-night," remarked Selwyn, who was trudging along the duck-boards literally on Malcolm's heels. "Why to blazes don't they give Fritz half a dozen for every one he throws over? Hanged if I can make things out."
Malcolm pulled tip suddenly, to avoid charging into the back of the man immediately preceding him. Those behind bunched up and halted, while from the front of the single file came a very strong exclamation of pain and anger.
"What's wrong?" enquired the Corporal "Someone buckshied?"
"Yes," replied the voice of Grouser Joliffe. "Copped it in my blessed arm."
"Then foot it to the dressing-station," ordered Corporal Preston.
"Me?" enquired the rifleman. "Me? Not much. Wait till we've brought in the grub, and then--you don't catch me going over the top tonight."
For another hundred and fifty yards the party proceeded before the men turned into the zigzag communication-trench. This ran backwards for nearly a mile. In places it was eight feet deep, with sand-bags on either side in addition, In others, in marshy spots, where the high-explosive shells had spitefully disturbed the tranquillity of meandering streams and carried the sluggish water to overflow and swamp the surrounding ground, the "trench" was above normal ground-level, with a lofty and broad wall of sand-bags to right and left. Here and there the trench was roofed in, where, from experience, men had learnt it was unhealthy owing to being exposed to machine-gun fire. The Huns had got to know the weak spots. Aerial observation during daylight had enabled them to train machine-guns upon certain points of the communication-trenches. The lethal weapons would be ominously silent until after dark; then, on the off-chance of receiving a good bag, they would let loose a hail of bullets.
The men hastened across the more-exposed sections generally on their hands and knees. Even the bravest heaved a sigh of relief when the danger-spot was safely crossed. Going over the top they would unhesitatingly rush a machine-gun emplacement, but crawling away from the enemy, never knowing when a hail of bullets would sweep the ground, was enough to try the nerves of the case-hardened campaigner.
Presently the communication-trench ended, and the ration-party stumbled across a double line of narrow-gauge rails, part of the intricate system behind the lines. The track ran diagonally to the direction of the trench. To the left it led to and beyond the Army Service Corps dump at La Tuille. In the opposite direction it disappeared in the bowels of the earth, while a network of branch lines complicated the system. All through the hours of darkness, for several months past, heavily-laden trucks carefully covered with camouflaged canvas rumbled away from the lines to return empty ere dawn. Latterly the reverse conditions prevailed. Full trucks, each propelled singly by manual labour and with long intervals between the vehicles, proceeded towards the trenches but never reached them.
Subterranean works of an extensive nature were on the point of being completed. Every load of excavation was carefully taken miles to the rear in the dead of night, in order to baffle the enemy's aerial observers. So well guarded were these operations that even the men in the trenches were unaware of their nature, although many shrewd conjectures were not far out.
"Hallo, chums!" called out one of the ration-party as a truck hauled by three sappers rattled along. "How's your Channel Tunnel scheme getting along?"
"Fine!" was the reply. "Are you taking up any shares in the concern? There'll be a sharp rise very shortly, you know."
Another fifty yards and a word of command from Corporal Preston brought the squad to a halt. Out of the darkness came the sound of a hundred marching feet; then, almost invisible in their khaki uniform, a battalion of Australian infantry passed. It was significant that the men were in light marching order.
"By Gum! There's something up," whispered Selwyn. "Crowds of bombers and a whole crush of Lewis guns. Hallo! Here's more of them."
The progress of the ration-party was slow. A constant stream of infantry, swarms of transport of all conditions, clearly denoted that operations of more than minor importance were impending.
"There's enough to swamp our trenches," declared Malcolm. "Where on earth are they going to assemble?"
"That Sapper fellow evidently knew something when he talked about a sharp rise," said Selwyn. "And look! Tanks--crowds of them!"
Ambling along by the side of the tramway came a long line of armoured mastodons. The ground shook under the relentless pressure of the tractor bands, the air reeked with petrol fumes. Viewed in broad daylight the Tanks looked formidable enough; in the darkness, their weird outlines distorted by the misty atmosphere, they appeared like huge, grotesque monsters from another world.
"If I were Fritz I'd think twice before standing up to one of those brutes," soliloquized Malcolm. "Twenty-two of them. This will be a big stunt, and no mistake."
At length, after many delays, the ration-party arrived at the farm--or, rather, the pile of rubble that was known as La Tuille Farm before a nest of German machine-guns had attracted the notice of an observant battery-commander. That was three months ago. Already nettles and briers were covering the blackened debris, as if Nature were doing her best to disguise the destructive handiwork of Man.
At the rear of the mound was the A.S.C. advanced depot. Piles of bully-beef tins, tiers of barrels and cases, small mountains of loaves covered with tarpaulins, were diminishing rapidly under the heavy calls made upon them by deputations from the men in the trenches. Although within range of hostile guns, the "dump" had so far escaped serious damage, To bring the supplies nearer the lines by mechanical transfer would be to court disaster, so every ounce of food had to be carried by squads detailed for that purpose. Every scrap of provisions the men in the trenches received had to be brought at the risk of life and limb. The task was a hazardous one, but there was never any lack of men willing and eager to run the risk of being strafed for the sake of feeding their comrades in the firing-line.
Corporal Preston went off to find the non-com. who had to issue the rations to his section, leaving his men to stand easy until he returned.
Someone touched Malcolm on the shoulder.
"Bear a hand, chum, and help me turn off the tap," said a husky voice.
Malcolm turned, and found that the speaker was Grouser Joliffe.
"Turn off what tap?" he asked.
"S--sh! Not so loud!" continued the rifleman. "It's my arm, I mean. Bleeding like anything. Help me off with my coat and clap a first-aid dressing on it, and I'll be all right. No dressing-station for me, I'll miss this stunt. Think we'll be back in time?" he added anxiously. "Corporal's a long time about it."
The two men withdrew a few paces, and Carr helped Joliffe to remove his coat. Already the sleeve was moist and clammy. On the left arm, just below the shoulder, was a nasty gash, caused by a fragment of a shell.
"It's good enough for Blighty, old lad!" exclaimed Malcolm.
"No dinkum Blighty for me!" expostulated Joliffe vehemently. "Never had a chance to fire a round yet--nor to use my blinkin' bay'net. But I mean to," he added. "If the boys go over the top without me there'll be trouble!" Malcolm bound up the wound, adjusting the bandages tightly. Although the dressing operation was a painful one, Grouser Joliffe never uttered a sound, although Malcolm could see beads of perspiration glistening on the rifleman's wrinkled forehead.
"How's that?" he asked.
Joliffe lifted his left arm with an effort.
"Feels a bit stiff," he admitted. "Maybe you've tied those bandages a bit too tight. Still, 'tisn't your fault. When we get back I'll have a few swings with my rifle and bay'net; then if the dressing wants altering you'll bear a hand?"
"Certainly!" said Malcolm, as he helped the man on with his coat.
"You'll be lucky if you don't fall out before we get back," he soliloquized.
Having drawn the stores, the ration-party set out on the return journey. Until they reached the commencement of the communication-trench they were able to make use of a couple of empty trucks which were lying on a siding close to the dump.
The vehicles each had four flanged wheels. The bodies were made of wood, originally painted grey, but little of the paint was left. Caked mud still stuck to the bottom of the trucks, but men in the firing-line cannot be fastidious. Loaves, bags of sugar, tea, and tins of bully beef were thrown in indiscriminately. The water-carriers lifted their heavy burdens--every drop of water had to be taken into the trenches, for, although there are springs and water-holes in abundance close to the firing-line, the risk of contamination had to be carefully guarded against--and the "homeward" trek began.
Beyond a few desultory shells the British artillery was practically inactive. Fritz had already been used to a furious bombardment as a preliminary of a "big stunt". For change, he was not being warned in this fashion, and, consequently, although expecting an attack within the next few days, the absence of a downright strafe put him off his guard. Nevertheless, the German guns on the spur of Messines Ridge, and miles beyond the heights, were persistently "watering" the ground behind the British lines.
Stumbling over the sleepers, the ration-party kept their groaning vehicles rumbling along the hastily-laid track. Grouser Joliffe was silent now, but Malcolm noticed that, although he used only one hand to help propel the truck, he was not lacking in energy.
"He won't last out at that rate," thought the lad; but when he offered to take the place of the wounded man, Joliffe turned upon him almost savagely.
"I'm all right," he persisted. "You keep your mouth shut and let me alone, or the other fellows will tumble to it. I was a blamed fool to holler when I copped it!"
A shrieking, tearing sound had the effect of making every man throw himself upon the ground. With a terrific crash an 8-inch shell exploded within fifty yards of the track, sending showers of dirt over the trucks and upon the prostrate party.
"All right there?" enquired the Corporal, as the men regained their feet. "Good! Carry on."
A short distance farther on the party came to an abrupt halt. The rails had vanished. Across the track was a crater twenty feet in diameter, from which acrid fumes were still slowly emanating from the pulverized earth. Already a fatigue-party was at work diverting the lines round the edge of the yawning pit. At all costs communication must be maintained, in order to leave no hitch in the arrangements for the morning's attack.
"You'll have to unload, mate," said the sergeant in charge of the Engineers. "Thank your lucky stars you weren't here twenty minutes ago. The Jocks copped it. They've carted fifteen of 'em off. There's been two of 'em already to-night, so look out for a third for luck."
The Diggers set to work to negotiate the obstacle. The idea of unloading did not appeal to them in the slightest. Leaving a man in charge of one truck--experience had taught them the necessity for that, where unguarded stores are anyone's property--all hands lifted the second vehicle clear of the rails.
The flanged wheels sank deeply into the soft ground, but by sheer hard work the truck was propelled round the crater to the spot where the lines resumed their-sphere of usefulness.
On the way back to the other track Malcolm glanced at the luminous face of his wristlet watch. It was nearly midnight.
Suddenly a blinding flash appeared to leap from the g round at the lad's feet. With a tremendous roar ringing in his ears, Malcolm found himself being hurtled through the air, and amidst a shower of debris he fell, a limp mass, into the smoking crater.