A prey to the wildest apprehensions, Malcolm Carr flattened himself on his hard, uneven bed. Rapidly he debated as to his course of action; whether to regain his feet and throw himself upon the two men before they had time to recover from their surprise, or to keep perfectly still in the hope that he would be unnoticed. He could hear Peter shifting his position, ready to join in the imminent struggle.
"Wer da?" shouted a guttural voice from the window of the house across the canal. Immediately after came the "pluff" of an air-gun being discharged, and a pellet thudded against a post on the tow-path.
With muttered exclamations the two men took to their heels, while the watchers, leaving their post at the window, ran downstairs, presently to reappear accompanied by a large dog.
For a moment or two they stood looking across the canal at the barge; then, calling the animal to heel, they walked rapidly in the direction of a bridge about a quarter of a mile away.
"This is too hot a show for us, Malcolm," whispered Peter, as he emerged from his hiding-place. "That dog will be our undoing. Those fellows are evidently crossing the canal to inspect the barge in case the thieves have had time to take anything."
Clearly it was too risky to land and run across the fields; the dog would track the fugitives with the greatest ease. The question was how they were to put the animal off the scent in the brief time that remained before the watchmen, or whoever they might be, arrived upon the scene.
"You said you were thirsty," continued Peter grimly. "Now's your chance. Overboard and hang to the rudder."
Silently the fugitives lowered themselves into the water, and, swimming cautiously, gained the slight protection afforded by the bluff overhang of the boat's quarter and long, projecting rudder. Hanging on to a chain, and keeping in the shadow, the brothers awaited developments, knowing that if the now open entrance to their dug-out were spotted, suspicion would be diverted from the marauders to them. Since the news of the escape of a numerous body of prisoners from Düren must have been sent far and wide, the inference that the barge had been a hiding-place for some of their number was obvious.
Up came the two watchmen, breathing stentorously, for they were middle-aged and corpulent. They were in uniform; each was armed with an air-rifle and a short sword.
Malcolm could hear them walking along the barge, testing the locks of the fore and after cuddies, and examining the metal fittings of the winch and the tiller-head. One of the men even flashed an electric torch over the side, but it was a purely perfunctory action. Meanwhile the dog was sniffing on the track of the would-be thieves, and made no attempt to go farther than the spot where the men had been brought up by the canal official's hail.
Finally, after a considerable amount of argument, the watchmen whistled the dog, regained the tow-path, and walked briskly in the direction the marauders had gone.
"Peter," whispered his brother, "I'm a silly ass!"
"Eh?"
"I forgot about my ration when I went overboard. It's sopping wet."
"So's mine," added Peter. "I took mine deliberately. It couldn't be helped. If we'd left the stuff on the barge that dog would have discovered it. A packet with the word 'London' printed on it would give the show away absolutely. For one thing, the stuff's been soaking in fresh water."
"And so have I," rejoined Malcolm. "At any rate, my thirst is quenched, and we have to spend the rest of the night in wet clothes."
"I'm going to try my hand at house robbery," announced Peter. "Although I couldn't understand all the conversation between those two fellows, I managed to learn that they decided to go to the nearest village and get the police to make enquiries of the whereabouts of a certain Karl Hoeffer--evidently one of the two men who gave us an unpleasant five minutes. You're not to come; this is a one-man job. Make your way back to our hiding-place, wring out your wet clothes--over the coal, mind--and wait till I come back."
Malcolm knew that his elder brother's word was law in such matters. It was useless to expostulate. As he regained the barge he could just discern Peter's figure creeping up the opposite bank of the canal.
In ten minutes Peter was back again with the best part of a rye loaf, a large sausage, and a piece of cheese, all wrapped up in a couple of blankets.
"'Nuff said!" he remarked. "Wrap yourself up and eat. I'll tell you about it later."
The blankets were dry and comforting, the food really appetizing, and, having made a satisfying meal, the brothers slept soundly after forty hours of unceasing vigilance.
As Peter had expected, he experienced no serious difficulty on his foraging expedition. The house was deserted, but by means of a stack-pipe he entered by the open window at which the watchmen had been sitting. Having raided the pantry, the New Zealander removed a blanket from each of two separate beds, taking care that outwardly the beds appeared undisturbed. To cross the canal without wetting the food and blankets he swam back with the spoils held over his head. By the time the things were missed, the barge, with ordinary luck, ought to be miles away.
With the first streak of dawn the sleepers awoke, feeling greatly refreshed. Malcolm had taken the precaution to fill a tin with water from the canal. The liquid was fresh to a certain degree, and men who have served in the trenches are not fastidious.
The main point was that the fugitives would be able to quench their thirst during the heat of the day. Their wet clothes were spread out against the wall of their retreat, so that the heat of the sun's rays, penetrating the absorbent coal, would dry them sufficiently for the men before nightfall.
Shortly after sunrise the remaining barges of the flotilla, which had been tied up for the night at some distance along the canal, came up and passed the solitary craft. Before her crew returned with the horse, the previously leading barge became the last of the group.
The second day passed much like the first, except that the heat was not so trying, and that the men in hiding did not suffer from thirst.
About four o'clock in the afternoon of the next day a longer halt than usual occurred. Making use of their observation-holes the stowaways saw that the craft had tied up alongside another barge which was fast to a long quay. Beyond was a row of tall, quaintly-built houses with picturesque red-tiled roofs and fronted by a line of closely-trimmed trees. Nearly fifty people were lounging about, regarding the new arrival with curious interest, while on the adjoining barge stood about a dozen men in grimy overalls, with planks, barrows, and spades, in readiness to commence work.
Like ants the coal-heavers swarmed over the heaped-up cargo, shovelling the coal into barrows and trundling them along the planks on to the quay, whence they disappeared into a large shed about a hundred yards away.
With feelings of satisfaction the New Zealanders saw that the for'ard portion of the cargo was the first to be dealt with, and that, before the man with the first load returned with his empty barrow, five others were on the way, leaving six on board.
"No use waiting to be dug out," whispered Peter. "Now's our chance, if at all."
With a mighty heave of his shoulders Peter sent the barrel staves and their superimposed covering of coal flying. Before the coal-heavers could grasp what was happening, the two men leapt across the intervening barge and gained the quay.
With lowered heads they charged straight for the nearmost of the waterside idlers.
Right and left scattered the dumbfounded spectators, and without any attempt at obstruction the fugitives gained the open and unfrequented part of the quay.
Not until they had put fifty yards between them and the barge did the onlookers grasp the situation, then, joined by the coal-heavers, who had abandoned their task, the whole crowd started in pursuit, yelling loudly in an unintelligible manner.
At the end of the quay the main street bore off to the left, and from that point there were houses on both sides. Those on the right had gardens of gradually-increasing length running down to the canal, which was here a considerably wide waterway. Everywhere along the canal wharves were barges, often double- and triple-tiered, but alongside the waterside edges of the gardens were several small pleasure-craft. Every house seemed to possess one. Another thing Peter noticed was that the nearmost of the houses on the canal side of the street was separated from the quay by a supplementary waterway that burrowed under the road.
Along the cobbled street the two men ran, Passers-by stood stock-still in amazement. A grey-coated policeman drew his sabre and attempted to bar the way, shouting peremptorily in a manner that clearly indicated "Stop!"
"In here!" exclaimed Peter, and literally bundled his brother into an open doorway, then slammed and bolted the door.
"We've five minutes fresh start at least," he said hurriedly. "Come along through. There's a boat at the end of the garden."
Even as they made their way through a spotlessly-clean kitchen, to the consternation of a portly woman-servant, Malcolm could not help noticing the resplendant copper vessels on the shelves. Evidently the owner of the house had not conformed to the Imperial German Government's order to surrender all metal suitable for the manufacture of munitions.
At the farther part of the garden two men were sitting at a table. One was a rotund pleasant-faced man of about fifty who was puffing sedately at a long-stemmed, huge-bowled pipe. The other, holding a large cigar in his hand, was certainly not far off sixty years of age, clean-shaven, 'and dressed in a manner more like an Englishman than a German. Before the smokers could rise from their seats the two fugitives were past and dropping over the low wall into a boat.
"Push off, Malcolm!" shouted Peter, as he gripped the oars.
"What's your hurry, you fellows?" asked a deliberately cool voice from above. "Can't you behave yourselves in a neutral country? What's the trouble?"
Leaning on the wall, his grey eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth, was the elder of the two men who had been sitting in the garden. At his elbow was the other, gesticulating and protesting volubly at the bull-in-a-chinashop tactics of the intruders.
"Neutral country?" repeated the astounded Peter. "What do you mean? Where are we?"
"In Holland. To be more precise, in the town of Roermonde," was the surprising information. "You've done a bunk from Germany, I presume? I thought so. It's all right, Mynheer van Enkhuizen," he continued in English, addressing the Dutchman; "these are some of my compatriots who have escaped from Germany."
"In that case it does matter not at all," replied the owner of the house in the slow hesitating manner of foreign-spoken English. "It is of no consequence that your friends have trampled through my dwelling and over my garden. Excuse me. I will inform the noisy crowd also that it is not of any consequence, and then I will instruct Katje to provide food for your military friends."
"Come into the house," exclaimed the Englishman. "I'll hear your story presently, although I presume you are two of the men who got away from Düren. Eight of them have crossed the frontier up to the present, and I shouldn't be surprised if others do the same in the course of the next few days. My name? Oh, just Brown--of London! Yes, that will be all right. Von Enkhuizen, although his manner may seem a bit erratic according to British notions, is a genuinely sympathetic fellow. You've fallen on your feet, both of you."
For three days the two refugees enjoyed the Dutchman's hospitality. Then the Carrs were furnished with money and a ticket to enable them to travel via the Hook of Holland to England; and, with many earnest expressions of gratitude to their benefactors, Peter and Malcolm set out on their roundabout journey back to the firing-line in Flanders.
"By gum, Peter, we'll have to make ourselves precious scarce while this trip's on." exclaimed Malcolm as he rejoined his brother in the steerage of the S.S.Koning der Zeeafter a tour of inspection.
"Eh? What's wrong now?" enquired Peter, busily engaged in overhauling the contents of a small kit provided by his friends at Roermonde.
"Nothing wrong," said his brother. "On the contrary, it's a bit of quite all right. I've just seen a delightful old pal, Konrad What's-his-Tally, otherwise Pieter Waas of Muizenburg fame. You remember I told you about him just before we said good-bye to Düren: how he diddled Fortescue, Selwyn, and me at the Cape and was collared on board thePomfret Castle, and afterwards managed to join the N. Z. Rifle Brigade."
"I remember, but I thought he went sky-high when the great mine went off at Messines," remarked the elder Carr.
"There was a doubt about it," admitted Malcolm, "but the fact remains that he's on board this vessel. Except that he has bleached his hair, he has made no attempt to disguise himself. Suppose he imagined that it wouldn't be safe to trust to a false beard, or anything like that. The landing authorities would spot it. So we must keep well out of his way until we go ashore at Harwich."
"Why both of us?" asked Peter. "I've never met him, and he's never run across me as far as I know. I'm in mufti, and so are you. I don't suppose he'd spot you in that rig-out."
"I'm not going to give him the chance," declared Malcolm. "In spite of the fact that he's travelling first class and we're mere dirt in the steerage, I mean to keep below, out of sight."
TheKoning der Zeewas still berthed alongside the wharf at The Hook. "Blue Peter" was hoisted at the fore, while the Dutch national ensign floated from her ensign staff. Her sides were painted in red, white, and blue horizontal stripes, while amidships her name was displayed in letters six feet in height--in conformity with an arbitrary regulation made by an unscrupulous nation whose U-boats did not hesitate to torpedo at sight, despite the distinguishing marks of neutral craft.
The mail-boat's passenger-list was a light one. There were about a dozen repatriated Britons from Ruhleben, a score of Dutch merchants, the two New Zealanders, and the spy, Konrad von Feldoffer.
The latter, posing as a Gelderland potato-merchant, was on a highly important mission on behalf of his Imperial master in connection with the landing of United States troops in England. At first scorning the idea that Uncle Sam could render personal aid, the Huns were beginning to realize that the Americans were doing something great, and not merely "talking big". Von Feldoffer was, therefore, one of the first of a small army of spies entrusted with the risky task of sowing the seeds of discontent and enmity amongst the men from "across the Herring Pond".
The German authorities knew full well the beneficial effect to their armies once they could provoke unhealthy rivalry and bitter dissension between the American and British troops, but they forgot the force of the trite quotation of an American admiral: "Blood is thicker than water".
Konrad von Feldoffer was firmly convinced that, with a carefully prepared forged passport in his possession, he would be able to land without difficulty. He had never previously landed at Harwich, and with the slight disguise he adopted--bleaching his hair--he stood the remotest chance of being recognized.
He had reckoned without Rifleman Malcolm Carr. The latter was watching the people on the jetty when he saw von Feldoffer, preceded by a couple of porters, elbowing his way through the crowd of onlookers to board the vessel.
The late-comer was typically Dutch as far as his clothes and appearance went, but his face was that of Malcolm's acquaintance on the Muizenburg train.
A second glance confirmed the New Zealander's suspicions. Promptly Malcolm turned and bolted down the companion, rejoining Peter in the steerage.
"Bother the fellow!" exclaimed Peter. "He's done me out of the salt sea breezes. All right, I'll keep below; but really I don't see the use of doing so. It's not likely that a first-class passenger would invade the quarters of the steerage passengers."
Assisted by a funny but powerful little tug, theKoning der Zeedrew clear of the wharf, and, slipping between the piers, gained the choppy waters of the North Sea.
Beyond territorial waters danger unseen lurked. All on board realized the fact--it was Germany's version of the freedom of the seas. Serving out the life-belts was in itself a significance. Yet undeterred, the captain of theKoning der Zeehad sailed regularly since the memorable 4th of August, 1914, risking U-boats and floating mines to uphold the flag of Holland on waters that were hers by equal right with other nations of the world.
Less than thirty miles from the Dutch coast theKoning der Zeemet her doom. Travelling at twenty-two knots, her bows struck the flexible wire bridle connecting a pair of mines. Like porpoises, the deadly cylinders swung towards the ship under the strain on the span. One struck the hull just below the water-line on the starboard side, nearly abaft the foremost funnel; the second bumped heavily under her port quarter. Practically simultaneously the deadly mechanical mines exploded. Calculated to blow a hole in the bottom of the most strongly constructed war-ship afloat, the mines simply pulverized the thin steel plating of the luckless Dutch vessel. Amidst the rush of escaping steam theKoning der Zeebegan to settle rapidly.
Well it was that the passenger list was a light one. Notwithstanding the fact that three boats had been blown to fragments by the explosions, the rest were practically intact. Promptly the undismayed crew bundled the passengers into them and lowered away--an easy task, since the vessel was sinking on a comparatively even keel.
The captain and the wireless operator were the last to leave, the latter striving in vain to get the damaged transmitter into working order until peremptory orders from his superior obliged him to desist.
Within eight minutes theKoning der Zeehad disappeared beneath the element which in name she professed to rule, leaving five boats tossing upon the choppy seas.
"You've got plenty of sea breezes now, Peter," remarked his brother as they sat on the stern grating of one of the life-boats. "And salt spray thrown in. I wonder what the next move is to be?"
"I don't mind very much, provided we are not picked up by a German ship," replied Peter. "Where's your pal the spy?"
"In there," said Malcolm, indicating one of the boats lying at about a hundred yards distance. "He was mighty sharp in nipping in."
The boats closed, their officers conferring with the captain as to what course to pursue. Since the conversation was in Dutch the New Zealanders understood not a word, but from the gestures of the skipper they concluded that the boats were to attempt to row back to the cost of Holland--a thirty-mile pull dead to windward, and in the teeth of a steadily-rising wind--unless picked up by another vessel in the meantime.
"It's a bit of a game," continued Malcolm, "when the spy is mined by his own people. I wonder what he thinks about it."
As a matter of fact, von Feldoffer was thinking furiously. He had been given to understand by the German Admiralty that instructions would be issued to U-boat commanders concerned that theKoning der Zeewas not to be molested on the day arranged for the spy to cross the North Sea. On the strength of this assurance von Feldoffer started for England; but, although the U-boats carried out instructions, the floating mines, once launched, did not conform to the mandate of the Berlin Admiralty.
"Hallo, what's up now?" enquired Peter, observing that the attention of the Dutch sailors was directed to something on the northern horizon.
He was not left long in doubt. Rapidly the "something" resolved itself into a long, lean, grey destroyer, from the mast of which two flags streamed in the breeze--and those flags were not the Black Cross of Germany, but the glorious White Ensign of Britain.
"We heard the racket, so we came up to investigate," shouted the alert Lieutenant-Commander of H.M. destroyerAngiboo. "Come alongside as sharp as you can."
"No, thanks!" replied the Dutch skipper in English. "I'm making for The Hook. If you'll receive some English passengers I will be obliged."
"Think twice about it," replied the naval officer cheerfully. "The glass is tumbling down, and the Dutch coast is dead to windward. You'll never fetch there, unless I'm greatly mistaken."
"Very well, then, I accept," decided the skipper of the lost mail-boat.
With her quick-firers manned, in case a U-boat lurked in the vicinity, theAngiboostopped until the last of the passengers and crew of theKoning der Zeegained her deck; then, quickly increasing speed to twenty-five knots, the destroyer shaped a south-westerly course to rejoin the rest of the flotilla.
Presently Malcolm made his way for'ard until he reached the foot of the ladder reaching to the destroyer's bridge.
"I'd like a few words with your captain," he said, addressing an able seaman.
The man eyed the erratically-clad New Zealander with tolerant amusement.
"A word with the owner, eh? Wot's wrong now, chum? Has your raggie pinched your dress-suit case?"
"Cut it out, my man," said Malcolm authoritatively. "In your lingo, 'stow it'. Request your captain to see Mr. Carr, of the New Zealand Rifle Brigade."
That did it. The intentionally-misleading use of the word 'mister' led the bluejacket to believe that Malcolm was a junior officer of one of the overseas contingent. For the first time in his life the young New Zealander received a Royal Navy salute.
"Very good, sir," said the bluejacket. "I axes your pardon, sir; no offence meant."
It was not long before Malcolm found himself in the presence of Lieutenant-Commander Sefton in the chart-room. Briefly he stated his case against the spy, Konrad von Feldoffer.
"You are absolutely certain?" asked the Lieutenant-Commander. "There would be a most unholy rumpus if I ran the fellow in and he turned out to be a neutral of unimpeachable character."
"I'll stake anything on what I say, sir," replied Malcolm. "If you will let me confront him----"
"No, no!" interrupted the skipper of theAngiboo. "We don't want the dramatic touch on board this craft. I'll send for the master of theKoning der Zee, and get him to% bring Herr von Feldoffer to me. We'll do the job as politely as possible."
Just at that moment the rest of the destroyer flotilla was sighted, bearing south-south-west. Until theAngibooresumed station her lieutenant-commander dared not leave the bridge.
"Now," he resumed, "you make your way aft, and keep out of sight until I call you. I'll interview friend Feldoffer on the quarter-deck. Messenger, pass the word for the master of the Dutchman to see me in the ward-room."
Malcolm followed the bluejacket down the ladder. Then, with every precaution, he made his way aft as far as the after funnel. From this position he was within hailing distance of the diminutive quarter-deck.
Presently the messenger returned to the bridge and made his report. Lieutenant-Commander Sefton descended and proceeded to the officers' quarters aft.
While the Dutch skipper was searching for the passenger, von Feldoffer was anxiously keeping an eye on the bridge, fearful lest any of the officers were shipmates with him on the armed merchant-cruiser. He saw Malcolm ascend the bridge, but, the latter being in mufti and having his back turned towards him, von Feldoffer did not recognize the New Zealander. But when Malcolm came down the ladder the astute Hun made the discovery that he was in a very tight corner.
Deliberating with himself, the spy decided to "mark time" until events shaped themselves. It was a pure coincidence that the New Zealander and he were on the same boat; it might be that the latter's visit to the bridge was utterly unconnected with him. He hoped so; but still, things looked black.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. Von Feldoffer started violently, and, turning, found the master of theKoning der Zeeconfronting him.
"I startled you, Mynheer van Gheel," remarked the Dutch skipper, addressing the spy by the name he had assumed before leaving Holland. "The English captain wishes to see you in his cabin."
"For what purpose, Mynheer?" enquired von Feldoffer uneasily.
"'t Spijt me!" ejaculated the Dutchman. "How can I tell, unless it be that your signature is required to the written report upon the destruction of my unfortunate ship? It is purely a matter of form, I should imagine."
Konrad von Feldoffer bowed, and, falling into step with the Dutchman, walked aft.
"Look out, Malcolm!" whispered Peter, who had joined his brother by the after funnel. "The fellow's coming this way."
Taken aback, Malcolm turned and faced the spy. The latter, betraying no sign of recognition, walked past him; then, before his companion or any of the bluejackets on deck could prevent him, he cleared the stanchion-rails and leapt headlong into the sea.
"Man overboard!"
Promptly a couple of life-buoys were hurled over the side. A petty officer proposed to dive after the suicide, but was instantly told to "Hold fast!" by one of the officers. A semaphore message was sent to the destroyer next astern to keep a look-out for the drowning man, but he was not seen again. Either his back had been broken on impact with the water, for the destroyer was making a good twenty-five knots, or else he had been caught by the blades of one of the two starboard propellers.
"Perhaps it's for the best," commented Lieutenant-Commander Sefton when the circumstances of the tragedy were told him. "It has saved the nation the cost of a trial and a dozen rounds of ball ammunition."
Ten days later Peter and Malcolm Carr found themselves told off to a draft that was about to leave Sling Camp for the Front. During that time Malcolm had been notified that the sum of one hundred pounds had been awarded him in recognition of his services in discovering the infernal machine in the coal-bunker of the transportPomfret Castle. Other awards had been made to Sergeant Fortescue and Rifleman Selwyn.
"A jolly useful sum!" remarked Peter. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Cable it to New Zealand," replied Malcolm. "I don't want to touch it here if it can be avoided."
"Think twice, old man," said his brother. "Bank it in a British bank, and then if you do want to draw it in a hurry it's there. You never know your luck. If anything should happen to you out there--one has to consider such a thing--the money can then be cabled to the governor."
The draft from Sling was a large one. Report had it that another big "stunt" was imminent, and that New Zealand was to have the honour of being well represented in the impending operations.
Almost without incident the draft crossed the Channel, and once more Malcolm found himself on the soil of France. It was now late September. Normandy looked its best, the leaves displaying their autumn tints, and the apple trees bending under the weight of fruit.
And yet, only a few miles away, was the war-tortured belt of terrain, a mass of ruined buildings, even now being rebuilt, where Briton and Gaul were slowly yet surely wresting French soil from the Hun.
Most of the New Zealanders around Étaples were now under canvas, the weather being fine, but with a sharp fall in temperature during the night. Upon the arrival of the new draft the men were told off to various companies, and once more the two Carrs were separated.
Malcolm took the matter philosophically, knowing that in war-time a soldier cannot pick and choose his mates; but to his astonishment and delight he found that Fortescue and Selwyn were in the same lines.
"Yes, I'm back again," remarked the former, after Malcolm had related his adventures. "I had a good time in Blighty, and when I was passed out by the medical board I was offered a staff job at Hornchurch."
"And like a jay he turned it down," added Selwyn. "He might have had a soft time in Blighty; instead, he puts in for France--and just as winter's coming on, too."
"One would imagine that you were a lead-swinger, Selwyn," exclaimed Fortescue.
"Not so much of that, Digger," protested the latter. "Of course I couldn't hang behind when I've to look after big helpless Sergeant Fortescue."
"What happened after you got your buckshie at Messines?" asked Malcolm.
"A regular holiday--it wasbonsor," replied Selwyn. "Nine hours after I got hit I was at Tin Town, Brockenhurst. Three weeks there and they pushed me on to Home Mead. Take my tip, Malcolm; if you get a buckshie try and work it to be sent there. Had the time of my life. The other boys will tell you the same. It is some hospital. Then back to Codford, where I had my leave."
"Where did you go?" asked Malcolm.
"The usual round; Edinburgh and Glasgow. Gorgeous time there, too; people were awfully kind."
When the young rifleman described his Scottish journey as the usual round, he was referring to the somewhat curious fact that a large percentage of New Zealanders go to Edinburgh when granted leave after being discharged from hospital. It is a sort of solemn rite, and few men from "down under" go back to New Zealand without seizing the opportunity of paying a flying visit to the "Land of Burns".
"So you saw a bit of Blighty, then?" remarked Malcolm.
"Yes, rather!" was the reply; "and now I'm going to see a bit of France, or is it Belgium this time?"
"Ask me another," replied Sergeant Fortescue. "All I know is that the division moves up to the front on the 3rd of next month, so it looks as if we're going to shake Fritz by the scruff of his neck."
"Hallo, there's Mike Dowit!" exclaimed Malcolm, as the stretcher-bearer passed by. "How goes it, chum?"
Stretcher-bearer Dowit stopped, crossed the road, and grasped the rifleman's hand. Being a man of very few words, he excelled himself by saying nothing.
"Ask him," prompted Fortescue, "when he's going to have another bath at the Estaminet Moulin Gris."
The stretcher-bearer flushed and shuffled his feet awkwardly.
"Mike's as shy as awahine," continued the Sergeant. "I'll tell you the yarn. We were billeted at an estaminet that had copped it pretty thick. Roof practically off, and the outbuildings nothing but a pile of bricks; you know the sort of thing. Well, Mike discovered a tub full of water, as he thought, and early one morning he slipped out to have a bath. He had only just started his ablutions when Madame's face appeared at the only window left in the inn. 'Arrêtez!' she shouted; 'arrêtez! You no use soap. Soap na poo. You spoil ze beer--compree?'"
"I've only got her word that it was beer," declared Dowit stolidly.
"It's a great joke with the boys," continued Fortescue, after the stretcher-bearer had gone. "They chip him frightfully about it; ask if that's why he's got the D.C. M. I suppose you didn't know that it was awarded him, for gallantry at Messines--rescuing wounded under heavy fire? My word! Mike was hot stuff that day. It was a thundering good job when he slung that dud bomb at Featherstone Camp, or I mightn't be here now."
In the dead of night of the 3rd of October the New Zealand Division, in heavy marching order, silently relieved a Tommy division on the Flanders Front.
"Where are we, Sergeant?" enquired Rifleman M'Kane. "This spot doesn't seem familiar."
"It will be before morning," replied Fortescue grimly. "We're opposite Gravenstafel, and those are the Heights of Abraham. If we are not firmly planted upon them by to-morrow afternoon I'm a Dutchman."
The new position was certainly a novel one as far as Malcolm was concerned. The seemingly endless lines of zigzag trenches were no longer in evidence. Shelter was provided by the simple expedient of linking up suitable shell-craters, with which the soft ground was liberally besprinkled.
Hardly were the New Zealanders settled when the Huns began a furious bombardment. It was not a spasmodic burst of shell-fire, but a concentrated and deliberate fire upon the series of field-works fronting the village of Gravenstafel. Every man knew what it meant; the Germans were about to attack in force, while a similar operation was impending on the part of the British. The question was, which side would get away quickest? Would the serried wave of infantry meet in the open?
Gamely the New Zealanders endured their gruelling; until the guns lifted and put up a barrage behind them.
Sheltering in a dug-out were Sergeant Fortescue, Corporal Billy Preston, Riflemen Carr, Dick Selwyn, M'Kane, M'Turk, and two others--youngsters for the first time under shell-fire, who were the objects of undisguised solicitude on the part of the non-coms. Up to the present their attention was thrown away; neither Henderson nor Stewart showed the faintest indication of "jumpiness".
The dug-out trembled under the terrific impact of shells bursting within an unpleasant distance. Even the more seasoned men were inwardly perturbed. Save for a few disjointed sentences--conversation was far from being a success--the occupants of the shelter remained silent.
"They're lifting, thank goodness!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Wonder if Fritz will attempt a raid on a big scale? If so, he'll have the shock of his life."
"What time do we assemble, Sergeant?" asked Henderson, who was hesitating over the opening sentences of a letter he was about to commence. "At five, my festive," replied Fortescue. "It will----"
The sound of heavy footsteps descending the steps leading to the dug-out interrupted his words. Then a voice enquired: "All right, down there?"
"All seats taken; house full," replied M'Turk. "Sorry; but try your luck somewhere else."
The ground-sheet hung up over the entrance was pulled aside, and the voice continued:
"That's all right, boys; hope you'll have a full house after the stunt."
The men sprang to their feet and stood at attention. It was well that the roof of the dug-out was a fairly lofty one. Sergeant Fortescue saluted.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he exclaimed, for standing in the doorway, cloaked and wearing his shrapnel-helmet, was the Brigadier.
"Glad to see you so chirpy, boys," remarked the Brigadier. "Good night, and good luck!"
The next instant he was gone, to continue his flying visits to the men. It had been an anxious time, especially to the commanding officers, and, in order to satisfy themselves that the boys were still in a position to carry out the attack, the brigadiers made personal tours along the firing-line.
"He's some sport," declared Selwyn. "What's it like outside, I wonder? I'll go and have a look round."
Malcolm accompanied his chum. In the open air the cold, contrasted with the warmth of the dug-out, was intense. The wind blew chilly upon their faces. Overhead the sky was darkened with drifting clouds, between the rifts of which the light of the full moon shone upon the ghostly expanse of shell-craters.
The German guns were still firing hotly, directing their missiles a good four hundred yards behind the New Zealand lines. The British artillery was replying, but lacking the intensity of the enemy's fire.
"Hanged if I'd like to be with the ration-parties to-night," remarked Selwyn. "There'll be a few of the boys knocked out behind our lines, I fancy."
"Let's get back out of it," suggested Malcolm. "It's too jolly cold to stand here. What's the time?"
He consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch.
"By gum--a quarter to five!" he exclaimed. "The boys will start assembling in another fifteen minutes."
"What's it doing?" enquired Fortescue when the chums returned to the dug-out.
"Fine so far, but threatening," replied Selwyn. "It'll be our usual luck--raining in torrents, I'm afraid."
"Anyone know our objectives?" enquired M'Kane as he slowly adjusted the straps of two empty canvas bags that later on were to be crammed full with Mills's bombs.
"Eighteen hundred yards on a two-thousand-yards front, and not an inch beyond," replied Fortescue. "That'll bring us on to the hill, which is what we want. Dry ground during the winter, you know."
At last Fortescue gave the word. The men, grasping their rifles, filed out, to find the fortified craters filling up with silent khaki-clad Diggers.
"Keep together," whispered Malcolm to Selwyn.
"Rather!" replied his chum. "Dash it all, I wish we were off. I always loathe this hanging-about business."
Just then the German barrage redoubled in violence. As it did so the long-threatening rain began to fall--a cold drizzle.
The New Zealanders could not understand why the Huns were putting up such a persistent barrage. They could only put it down to the fact that Fritz had a good inkling of the impending stunt and was getting "jumpy". As a matter of fact, it was owing to another reason.
For an hour a handful of New Zealanders clung to the crater defences in the front line. These men had orders not to go forward in the advance, the attacking infantry being in the second and third line of trenches. Quite under the impression that the nearmost German pill-boxes were lightly held, the New Zealanders in the advance posts were afterwards surprised to learn that they had been within a few yards of hundreds of picked German troops. The Huns intended attacking at about the same time as the New Zealanders, and the hitherto deserted block-houses had been reoccupied during the night by swarms of German infantry.
At six o'clock the British guns opened a barrage, compared with which the German fire paled into insignificance. Eighteen-pounders and 4.5-inch howitzers, supported by the giant 12- and 14-inch long-range guns farther back, threw tons of metal upon the enemy lines, the heavier projectiles hurtling overhead with a roar like that of an express train. The earth trembled, and the sky was lurid with the flashes of bursting shells, as rapidly the strongly constructed pill-boxes were beaten into fragments of riven concrete.
So intense was the fire that the German artillery now replied but feebly and inaccurately, while, a sure sign that Fritz was "done" red and green rockets sent their distress signals from the enemy position for aid that was not forthcoming.
"Fix bayonets!"
The order passed along the line. So deafening was the roar of the guns that the click of the bayonets as they were fixed was inaudible. Here and there men gave a final adjustment to their steel helmets or fumbled with their equipment, but for the most part the New Zealanders stood motionless, with firm, set faces, awaiting the command to unleash.
The British barrage lifted, the whistles blew, and out of their lines the khaki-clad troops surged.
It was as unlike a charge as could possibly be imagined. With rifles at the slope, the New Zealanders sauntered forward towards their objective, keeping almost at the heels of the barrage, save here and there where a "pill-box", presumably deserted, was found to be chock-a-block with Huns. Almost before he was aware of it, Malcolm found himself confronted by a practically intact concrete block-house, which was so near the New Zealand outposts that it had escaped damage during the bombardment. Looming ominously through the misty, drizzling dawn, the pill-box might have accounted for scores of gallant New Zealanders, for it was crammed with Huns, and well provided with machine-guns. Yet not a shot came from that isolated fortress. Unaware that it was tenanted, a dozen men of C Company strolled past the grinning loopholes.
"Kamerad! Kamerad!"
The words, just audible above the clamour, caused several Diggers to stop.
"By Jove," exclaimed Fortescue, "the place is full of Boches! Out 'em, boys!"
With levelled bayonets Malcolm, Selwyn, and half a dozen riflemen advanced towards the door in the rear of the pill-box, while M'Turk and M'Kane, each brandishing a bomb, ran close to the wall immediately by the side of the machine-gun aperture. Here, secure from bullets from the inside, they had the garrison at their mercy should the Huns show any signs of treachery.
"Out you come, Fritz!" shouted Fortescue. "We won't hurt you."
Furtively a German poked his steel helmeted head through the doorway. With arms upheld he stumbled out, terror written on his face. Behind him, after a brief interval, came another; then more, close at each other's heels, until fifty-three Huns, without firing a shot, were prisoners in the hands of the New Zealanders.
"Who'll take them back?" asked Fortescue.
No one seemed at all anxious for the job. Every man whom the Sergeant looked at enquiringly shook his head. With the prospect of a scrap ahead, none would accept the task of escorting fifty demoralized Huns.
"Send 'em back on their own, Sergeant," suggested M'Turk. "They'll go quietly, you bet. We want to get on. Look where our barrage is."
Already the line of bursting shells was a couple of hundred yards away. The advancing infantry-men were almost invisible in the drifting smoke and rain.
"Off you go!" ordered Fortescue, pointing in the direction of the New Zealand advance posts.
Like a flock of sheep the Huns, with hands still upraised, shuffled on the first of their long trek to captivity--to some delectable spot in England, where, far from the sound of the guns, there is food in plenty for Hun prisoners of war, German U-boats notwithstanding.
At the double the New Zealanders hastened to overtake the rest of C Company. Away on the left sharp rifle and machine-gun fire, punctuated by the crash of exploding bombs, showed that there were other block-houses where a strenuous resistance was being maintained. Men, too, were already returning wounded, cheerful in spite of pain; others, lying in the mud, would never rise again, for machine-guns were busy beyond the Hannebeke stream.
Ordinarily a quiet, well-conducted brook, the Hannebeke stream had been rudely disturbed by the terrific bombardment of the British heavies. Where a shell had fallen in the bed of the stream the lip of the upheaved crater had formed a dam--and there was not one but many such. Over the low-lying banks the water had flowed, until for nearly a hundred yards in width there was water everywhere, hiding the tenacious mud, and acting as a camouflage to thousands of deep craters.
Into the morass the New Zealanders plunged boldly, only to find that they were quickly up to their belts in mud and water. When a man stumbled into a shell-hole, he simply disappeared, until, rising to the surface, he managed to scramble out with the aid of a more fortunate chum. Here and there huge spurts of mud and water leapt towards the rainy sky as German shells burst indiscriminately in the swollen stream; while everywhere the slowly-flowing water was flecked with little spurts of spray as the machine-gun bullets ricochetted from the surface. When a man was hit when crossing that forbidding morass it generally meant death to him--death by suffocation in the pestilent mud of Flanders.
Looking like muddy replicas of Lot's wife, Malcolm and Selwyn at last emerged from the morass, Fortescue was ahead, Corporal Preston too, while M'Turk, with his chum M'Kane hanging on to his back, was just extricating himself from a deep crater.
"Thanks!" he exclaimed, as Malcolm gave him a hand. He was too breathless to say more. Setting his burden down in the shelter of a ruined pill-box, M'Turk bound up his chum's wound--a machine-gun bullet through the calf of his right leg.
"Now you stop there till I come back," he admonished the "buckshied" M'Kane, "unless the bearers pick you up. Just the silly thing you would do, to try and crawl through that muck. S'long. See you presently."
He overtook Malcolm, swinging along with prodigious strides despite the tenacious slime. "There are the swine who knocked my pal over," he shouted, pointing to an insignificant heap of stones about eighty yards to his right front.
"There's a blessed tic-tac in there. I'll blow 'em to blazes."
The fragments of concrete marked the former position of a pill-box which had been built over a deep dug-out. The German machine-gunners had lain low when the first wave of New Zealanders had swept overhead; then, hauling up their deadly weapon, they had trained it on the khaki lads still struggling through the Hannebeke stream.
Grasping a bomb, M'Turk edged cautiously towards the flank of the machine-gun emplacement; but before he had gone ten yards he stopped and stood upright with his left hand raised to the rim of his shrapnel-helmet. For quite five seconds he remained thus, then his knees gave way under him, slowly and reluctantly, it seemed, he fell in a huddled heap face downwards in the mud.
"M'Turk's down, by Heaven!" ejaculated Malcolm.
He threw himself on his hands and knees and crawled towards the luckless bomber, Selwyn following. With an effort they dragged the man on his back. He was beyond mortal aid. A rifle bullet had struck him fairly on the left temple, causing instantaneous death.
Slinging his rifle, Malcolm possessed himself of three of M'Turk's bombs. He would attempt to carry out the task the bomber had essayed when a chance bullet struck him down: to wipe out the viper's nest and to silence the deadly machine-gun that was loosing a fresh bolt of ammunition upon the floundering men making their way across the swollen stream.
He advanced rapidly. Time was the first consideration, caution second. Every instant instant meant death to his comrades in the mud.
Suddenly one of the machine-gunners caught sight of the approaching danger. With a yell he sprang to his feet and raised his hands. The machine-gun began to spit fire once more, and that decided it. The Hun who offered to surrender was a negligible quantity.
With splendid precision the Mills's bomb flew straight at the group of grey-coated men. One missile was enough. Malcolm turned and doubled after his comrades, and, again under shelter of the slowly-creeping barrage, was once more in comparative safety.
On and on pressed the now-exultant Diggers, until the steady advance was checked. Somewhere through the mist and smoke came a hail of machine-gun bullets. Men were dropping right and left.
"Take cover!" shouted an officer.
It was easier said than done. The muddy ground afforded little shelter, while the shell-craters were filled with water. The barrage had passed on and was "squatting" at about two hundred yards distance.
The obstacle was then revealed. Away to the left front of C Company was a concrete redoubt built around a heap of rubbish that marked the site of Van Meulen Farm. Bravely a number of New Zealanders rushed forward with bomb and bayonet, only to drop in the mud under the hellish machine-gun fire.
How fared the rest of the advance the men on this particular sector knew not. They were most unpleasantly aware that a formidable barrier lay athwart their course, and that it must be rushed before the troops could storm the heights. Not only was Van Meulen Redoubt strongly constructed and well armed; it was stubbornly held by some of the pick of the German army--men resolved to fight to the last cartridge rather than surrender.
"Why don't they send along the Tanks?" asked little Henderson, as he thrust a fresh charge into his magazine.
"Never mind about the Tanks, sonny," replied Sergeant Fortescue. "We've got to do our own dirty work."
For nearly twenty minutes the men maintained a hot fire, concentrating their aim upon the narrow apertures through which the machine-guns were delivering their death-dealing bullets. It was a thankless task. A machine-gun would be silenced for a few seconds and then resume its fire; for each weapon, in addition to the protection afforded by the massive concrete walls, was equipped with a steel shield through which a narrow sighting-aperture afforded the only vulnerable spot.
At last one of the battalions forming the reserve stormers came up, eager for the fray. If courage and sheer weight of numbers could win the day Van Meulen Farm was doomed.
"Come on, boys!" shouted a young officer. "I'll lead you. Rout the beggars out of it."
With a cheer the men leapt from their scanty cover. Bombers, Lewis gunners, and riflemen surged forward, heedless of the gaps in their ranks. The intervening ground was all but covered when the gallant young officer fell. His death, far from disheartening the men, added fuel to their burning ardour.
Into the machine-gun slits bombs were tossed in dozens, until the confined space within the redoubt was filled with noxious smoke from the loud-sounding missiles of destruction. Still the Huns held out. When one machine-gun was disabled another was brought up; but by this time the deadly weapon had lost much of the sting.
The entrance to the blockhouse was forbidding enough. A flight of narrow and steep stone steps gave access to a low doorway. On the metal-cased woodwork the Diggers rained blows with the butt-ends of their rifles; others, placing the muzzles of the weapons close to the stout fastenings, strove to blow them away. It was not until a dozen men, bearing a massive beam, appeared upon the scene that the difficulty was overcome. The battering-ram simply pulverized the already-weakening barrier. With a cheer, and preceded by a shower of grenades, the riflemen poured in to complete the work with cold steel.
Within was a terrible scene. In hot blood civilized men went back to primeval instincts and fought like wild beasts, clawing, tearing and gouging when it was too close work for the bayonet. The smoke-laden air was rent with shouts, oaths, shrieks, and groans, punctuated by the clash of steel and the whip-like cracks of automatic pistols. Like rats in a trap the Huns fought and died, while the survivors of the storming-party staggered out of the shambles and threw themselves on the ground in sheer bodily exhaustion.
Rifleman Carr had come off lightly. One of the first to force his way through the shattered entrance, he presented a sorry appearance. His right sleeve was torn away at the elbow, the left was ripped almost to ribbons. His Webb equipment was twisted and cut; he was plastered in mud and filth from head to foot, while his steel helmet bore the splayed marks of the impact of two pistol-bullets fired at close range. Nevertheless, with the exception of a slight cut across the cheek, and the mark of a Hun's teeth showing angrily above his left wrist, he was uninjured.
A burning thirst gripped his throat. He felt for his water-bottle. It was no longer there. Unconcernedly he reached out his hand and secured one belonging to a dead comrade. The bottle was full. The liquid put new life into him.
"Hallo, Henderson!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the man, who was vainly struggling to unfix the remains of his bayonet. "Seen Selwyn?"
"Half a tick ago," was the reply. "He's all right. Seen anything of Stewart?"
"Chuck it!" ejaculated Sergeant Fortescue. "What's the use of worrying about your pals when the job's not finished? Come along; if you can't run, walk; if you can't walk, crawl. We can't have C Company out of the last lap."
He spoke imperiously--savagely. A greater contrast to the mild-spoken, 'Varsity-educated greenhorn, who, a few years previously, was down on his luck in New Zealand, could hardly be imagined. A great responsibility had been thrown upon his shoulders. With the lust of battle gripping him, he found himself a leader of men.
C Company was widely scattered. Many had fallen; others had gone forward with other companies; platoons and units were mingled indiscriminately. After the fall of Van Meulen Farm Redoubt Fortescue discovered that he was senior non-com. of the remnants of C Company, while not a single commissioned officer was left standing.
The men resumed their advance. Scores of prisoners, making their way in the opposite direction, were visible and comforting signs that the day was still going well; while wounded New Zealanders, painfully making for the dressing-stations, were able to augment the news by the announcement that the Diggers were up and over the Abraham Heights. Beyond that there were no indications of how the battle fared--whether the Tommies on the left or the "Aussies" on the right were maintaining equal progress. Mist and smoke and the deafening clamour of thousands of guns limited both range of vision and hearing.
The ground was better going now. On the slope, the mud, though still ankle-deep, was a hardly-noticeable impediment. Stolidly the handful of men comprising the remains of C Company held onwards, eager to renew a closer acquaintance with Fritz.
"Cheer-o, Malcolm!" exclaimed a voice. "Didn't recognize you."
Rifleman Carr glance indifferently over his shoulder. Dick Selwyn, his jaw enveloped in a bandage, had just overtaken him.
"Buckshie?" enquired Malcolm laconically.
"Nothing--just a mere scratch," was the reply. "I thought you were done in back there. In fact, I was looking for what was left of you."
"I might have been," rejoined Malcolm. He found himself wondering at his apathy in the matter. In the heat of combat the grim figure of Death stalking up and down amid his comrades hardly concerned him. The horror of it all would be apparent after the battle--if he lived to see it.
"Young Stewart's gone," continued Selwyn. "A shell copped him. Corporal Preston, too, and goodness only knows who else. They've played the very deuce with the boys."
"It'll be worse before it's finished," added Malcolm. "But I wouldn't miss it for anything."
Over the already-won ground, pitted with shell-holes and thickly strewn with khaki and field-grey forms, the men of C Company continued their advance, until they fell in with a swarm of Diggers preparing to rush another formidable obstacle to the achievement of the objective.