"Look here, men," said Colonel Killem, "I want to talk to you about some interesting things, especially your conduct towards Mohammedans. First of all, Doolan, tell me what a Mohammedan means?"
"Sure, sir, it manes a nigger who jabbers 'Allah' when yis put a bayonet in his guts."
"Not exactly; but what would you shout if you got a bayonet in your tummy."
"A gill of the best, sir."
"Well, now, a Mohammedan's a sort of eastern fanatic who thinks he'll get a 'corner lot' in Paradise if he reads the Koran and dies on the edge of your bayonets. Mecca is his holy shrine, and the old Sultan acts as a sort of elder or high priest who takes up the collections. We meet 'em ourselves—religious beggars who're always passing round the hat for ninepence to make up another shilling. Religion is always an expensive business, except in Scotland, where you get free seats to support the Kirk and Government. Isn't that so, Brown?"
"Jist in the Auld Kirk, sir, but I belang tae the Wee Frees."
"Who are the Wee Frees?"
"The Wee Frees were started by a lot o' Hielan-men oot o' a job."
"What were they after?"
"Deevidends, sir."
The Colonel grinned. Continuing, he said, "Now, men, these Mohammedans are very touchy. You've got to be careful how you treat them. For example, their headgear is sacred. Don't touch it. And when you get a little of home-brewed Scotch into you, don't knock their head-dress off. They'll probably knife you. It isn't a pleasant thing to get a rusty blade stuck into your kidneys. Bad for the health, I assure you.
"Tell me something else you must not do?" inquired the Colonel, assuming the rôle of regimental schoolmaster.
"They hate pigs, sir," said Sandy Brown. "When I wis a stoker on a ship gaun East I flung a bit o' fried pork at a coolie. He nearly knocked ma lichts oot wi' a big hammer."
"Yes, pigs are regarded by these fellows as unclean beasts. To offer them pork is, as Brown says, a great insult, so be careful of that. Another important point is his carpet. This is sacred. He kneels on that and offers up his prayers to Allah. When you walk into his house, don't wipe your feet and spit on it. Give him a chance to remove it. Can anyone tell me what those buildings in Cairo are with the big domes on them?"
"Harems," piped Bill.
"Chapels," said Doolan.
"No, they are called mosques, or temples. Watch what you do there. Mohammedans always take off their shoes before entering. Inside is holy ground. If you go into them you must put a pair of shoes over your boots. These are kept for the purpose. Of course, don't walk away with the shoes, or there will be trouble. I have, also, a list here of other things regarded as sacred either in the town or country.
"Trees with rags tied to them.
"Tombs.
"Graveyards.
"Deserted mosques.
"Stones with inscriptions on them.
"Fountains, and
"Isolated clumps of trees on hill tops.
"Be careful, now, of all these things. They look nothing to you, but they are very important to them. You see, we are all Christians—or supposed to be—and a Christian is regarded by them as an infidel and son of a dog.
"Next thing is the ladies. We all love the ladies. What do you know about them?" said the Colonel, suddenly pointing to a grinning youth.
"And very nice too, sir," replied this youngster.
"If it wasn't for their veils," said another.
"Sure, sor, they've always a big, fat nigger trotting after them," remarked Doolan.
"Yes, Doolan, and be very careful of the big fellow behind. He's what is called a eunuch—a sort of guardian. If you give these ladies the 'glad eye,' or attempt to touch them, he'll probably slit your throat with a razor. These women are veiled to all men except their husbands and nearest relations. Many of them are harem women. Out here, a native can have two or three wives and as many concubines as he likes. For example, the late Khedive had about a hundred women in his harem, and they say the Sultan of Turkey has over five hundred. Some of these women are very beautiful, others are quite ugly. I heard of one man who followed a veiled lady for about three miles, thinking she was some wonderful Circassian beauty. He managed to talk to her too, but when she lifted her veil he was dumbstruck. Instead of being young and charming, she was old, haggard, toothless and revolting. All is not gold that glitters, and beauty is not always found beneath the veil.
"Yes, that reminds me, I've been hearing of one or two queer things which they say our fellows have been doing. In a certain part of Cairo the ladies of the harems frequently ride in carriages, taking the evening air. They often drive alone and use their eyes in the most inviting way. Some of our boys have jumped into the carriages and had a most pleasant and interesting drive with these ladies. That's risky, men; don't do it. It may come off ninety-nine times out of a hundred, but on the hundredth occasion it may end in a knife and a bullet. And quite right too. We have no right to interfere with the preserves of an Egyptian Pasha. Now I think that is all I have to say to you just now. Fall out, please."
When the Colonel had departed, the men formed up into little groups and discussed some of the points that had been raised.
"Old Sam's pulling our leg a bit about these holy places. I ain't had any bother, and I've found it quite a paying game digging up these old niggers' bones. Look here, boys, this is what I've found," said Sambo, a big-boned bushman from Queensland, showing Bill and his cronies a handful of old coins, rings and a bracelet.
"Some curios!" said Bill.
"Worth money, too," remarked Sandy.
"Where did you get them?" asked Claud, his interest roused in these wonderful old jewels of the East.
"Down in the Dead City on the other side of Cairo—behind the Citadel. I dig them up at nights. I can give you a cargo of shin bones and skulls if you want them."
"Is it safe?"
"I reckon so. You see, a lot of these are ancient graves. Nobody has a claim on them, so we can jump them."
"Do you want some partners?" asked Claud.
"Yes, a few of us could get something. I've had my eye on an old tomb there for some time."
"What about to-night?"
"That will do. Bring your entrenching tools in a parcel, nobody sees them. We can get an old cab or motor to go in."
"Right-ho!" agreed Claud, who also arranged with Paddy, Bill and Sandy to form part of the exploring squad. This digging for ancient treasures in the graves of the dead is an old game in Egypt. It is comparatively safe where there are no natives with an interest in the business. And it is really remarkable what interesting finds are made. Rings, bangles, necklaces, brassware, beads, and jewels are often found in these old graveyards.
The route to this particular place lay through Cairo. It was already dark when they started on a rattling old motor-car. Down the Mena Road they were whirled into the dazzling streets. The traffic sent the car slower through a long, narrow native quarter. This was lined with dirty shops, selling everything, from mouldy Turkish delight to poisonous-looking firewater called native wine. At the door of these places the proud owners lounged on chairs or squatted on the ground, haggling and dealing with thefellah(the peasant Egyptian, and the finest type in Egypt). In Egypt everybody is in business. You can find merchants dealing in broken bottles, merchants in discarded "fags," merchants in the manure from the streets, merchants in rags and bones, egg shells and cabbage stalks. They'll do anything but work. Work to an Easterner is designed for women and oxen.
Leaving the lighted streets behind, the motor at length turned round into a long, darkened road.
"This is the show," said Sambo, pointing to a wide field of little domes, tombs, and broken-down buildings just visible in the murky light.
"It's a gey queer place," said Sandy, with a tremor in his voice.
"It is, and there's sure to be ghosts in this ould world?" muttered Mick, crossing himself.
"There's diamonds, too—and tons of gold," remarked Claud.
"Paddy, you'll be a rich man after to-night," laughed Sambo.
"If I'm not a dead wan," said the Irishman, who, for the moment had become seized with a dread of the supernatural.
"Well, boys, here we are!" exclaimed the leader of the party as they neared a dark bend of the road. "Jump out!" The car was backed out of sight, and the driver told to wait.
"This way," and into the darkness plunged the Queenslander. They followed close at his heels, stumbling over graves, stones and old enclosures.
"What's that?" screamed Paddy, as he kicked a white-looking thing at his feet.
"It's a skull, man," said Sandy, picking up the bleached headpiece of an ancient.
"Mother of Jasus, preserve us," murmured the Irishman, crossing himself again.
"Now, boys, here we are. Get out your tools and start digging. Here's a little torch to use, now and again, to see what you've got. You fellows can pan out this show here, I'm going over a bit to do some prospecting."
"Right you are, I'll run this bit of the business," said Claud, as the Queenslander went off into the darkness. For a long time they picked and shovelled out the soft brown earth.
"What's this?" whispered Sandy, holding something in his hand. Claud switched the light on.
"It's a shin bone."
"Here's the goods," shouted Bill, holding up a bracelet crusted with earth and mildew.
"It's gold, too," said Claud, fingering it.
"And here's some quids," Paddy said, spreading some coins out in his hand.
"Coppers, you mean."
Resuming their task, they soon collected skulls, shin bones, thigh bones, some old brassware, a ring, some coppers, and many other things of an Eastern kind.
"Wonderful! Wonderful!" soliloquised Claud, as he occasionally surveyed the finds with the aid of his monocle and flash lamp. But the greatest find was a large brass urn of beautiful workmanship.
"Looks like old Rameses' whisky jar," said Bill, turning the urn round under the light of the lamp.
Things were really going well till the Irishman happened to look up. His eyes at once caught a moving spectre of white advancing slowly towards them.
"Holy Mary, there's a ghost," said he, crossing himself and gripping Claud by the arm. They all looked up, and, sure enough, there was something white and weird moving slowly across the plain of the dead. Their eyes riveted on it. Paddy muttered a prayer; Bill eloquently wondered what the white thing was; Sandy, remarkably cool, picked up the bracelet, coins and other trinkets and placed them in his pocket. He did this, as he explained afterwards, "in case the ghost wid get them."
"It's mighty funny," muttered Claud, frequently adjusting his eyeglass to see the dread apparition more clearly.
"It's a ghost, boys, I tell ye. My ould father has seen them when he lived in Kerry. Heaven preserve us!" he ejaculated, crossing himself for about the fiftieth time.
"Ghost or no ghost, Paddy Doolan, I'm going after it," Bill said. Quietly picking up his tool, he walked forward to the weird, white thing still advancing. He reached it, then turned with it towards the crouching grave wreckers. Halting about ten yards from them, Bill shouted, "Paddy Doolan."
"Yis, Bill," was the timorous reply.
"It's an Irish ghost—a Kerry one."
"What is it?" said Claud, rising and shaking off the supernatural fear which had held him for a moment.
"It's a white donkey on the loose," answered Bill, bursting into laughter. Paddy recovered instantly and joined with the others in the admiration of the innocent ass which had strayed from its usual haunts. After sniffing its new-found friends, the donkey let out a terrible bray, flung up its heels and departed into the night.
They recommenced their digging operations; so engrossed were they with their discoveries that they did not hear the approach of some chattering natives. These dusky gents were within fifty yards of them when Bill whispered, "Keep still—lie down." They obeyed, and lying flat on the ground saw some Arabs go by. They could just see their figures against the sky, and had time to note that they carried shovels.
"On the same game," whispered Bill.
"Yes," said Claud, "I believe they make a speciality of digging up these dead folks. Glad they weren't Kerry ghosts, anyway."
"Be aisy, boys, you'll meet a ghost yet before ye die."
The work was resumed once more. About 2 A.M., when all thought they had had enough of this body-snatching, they were startled with the cry of, "Help, boys! Help! They're killing me."
"By Jove! That's the Queenslander. These niggers are at him. Come on, boys," shouted Claud, lifting his entrenching tool and running towards the place from whence came the cry for help.
"Help! Help!" rang out the cry again, this time it was more muffled and weak.
"Where are you, Sambo?"
"In here," came a faint reply.
The sound came from a square building, the door of which was open. Claud dashed in, flashing his light as he went. Turning a corner, he was amazed by a strange and striking spectacle.
Sambo lay struggling and kicking surrounded by four great hulking Arabs, who had been beating, kicking and biting him in a furious struggle. The faces of all were bleeding and bruised, and blood was splashed over the white sort of overall that the natives wear. To the left of Sambo Claud saw an open tomb. Inside he could just see a kind of coffin arrangement, and on the ground, near at hand, the most varied collection of brass and other beautiful Eastern wares. This was the cause of the bother.
Crack! went Claud's fist into the eyes of the nearest Arab.
"Take that, ye son of a sea cook," chimed in Bill, giving another the knock-out blow.
"Here's one from Paddy Doolan," shouted the Hibernian as he, too, hit his man. The fourth one was dealt with by Claud. With shrieks and yells of "Allah, Allah!" the Arabs turned, and, jumping a low wall, fled off into the night. Sambo was at once released. Meantime, Sandy, as the unofficial cashier of the expedition, made an inventory of the treasure trove. It appears that Sambo had scented out in a strange way a very ancient and dilapidated tomb, which these Arab robbers had intended to despoil at the same time.
"Here, boys," said Sandy, "it's time we were hame. I've had enough o' skulls, shin banes and brass beer bottles."
"An' I've had enough of ghosts," growled Paddy, as they staggered down the road with their load of curios. The car whisked them back to Mena Camp again. Stealthily creeping through the lines, they arrived at their tents. All crept to bed, weary and wiser men. Claud was the last one to fall asleep. He was thinking of Sybil, the girl from the Bush. At last Morpheus claimed him. As he was slipping away into the dreamy unknown he heard Doolan muttering, "Ghosts! Be Jasus! Ghosts!"
"By Jove! What a stunning girl. She's a peach!" whispered a Yeomanry subaltern to his Australian friend as a beautiful girl entered the spacious dining-room of Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo.
"Why, that's Sybil Graham—haven't seen her since she was a kid. My word, she is a beauty now," said the Australian officer.
"Who is she?"
"One of our squatter's girls. That's her father and mother with her. They've got miles of land, plenty of sheep and heaps of tin. He'll be a lucky fellow who gets her."
"You know, old chap, I never thought you produced women like that in Australia. No offence, you know. What I really mean is that the sun, the want of what we call society, and the lack of cultured institutions such as we have at home, must be a great handicap in bringing up a girl."
"Young man, you're talking through your hat," was the blunt reply. "We have ladies in Australia just as we have at home. And can you guess what we haven't got?"
"No."
"Snobs! No time for all your damned conventions—'At Home' scandals and Society calls. These girls of the bush are natural, jolly, unconventional, but not loose. So far and no farther is their attitude to mankind. And they've got an independence of character which knocks you fellows sick when you meet them. They don't want any of these insidious palavers and hollow attentions, and they'll tell a man pretty quick what they think. My word! can't they choke a Johnny off."
"But, my dear fellow, all my friends who have visited Australia say they haven't got manners, and all have a cockney twang. When they open their mouths they always spoil the picture."
"I expect your friends have been dealing with the Pitt Street toughs or Manly larrikins. By the way you speak, I don't suppose they have ever been in the bush or visited some of our squatters' homes. Do you know that some of these squatters are descendants of some of the finest families in England. Apart from that, you will find better ladies on a squatter's veranda than you will in Park Lane. I have been in London, young fellow; in fact, I'm English, although I've been a long time in Australia. So don't say I'm biased. But I am speaking from an intimate knowledge of the people—not from a superficial glance which a hen-brained tourist gets. It isn't affectation, trinkets, dresses and a Society drawl that makes a lady. That's your standard. Society at home—at least, in certain circles, is the most hollow and unhappy creation I know. Everyone is in it, because they've got to be, but every real white man or woman knows that it's the rottenest show on earth. We don't stand for all that sort of thing out there. They accept folks for what they are worth—I mean, if a person is decent, law-abiding, cheerful and ambitious, the door of the Premier, squatter and merchant is open to him."
"Look here, old chap, you can't chuck convention overboard entirely; it's impossible."
"Rot! You speak as if Australia was a primitive land, without schools and culture. You're entirely mistaken. We can educate and create a most charming and distinctive type. I grant you that some of our people may be narrow-visioned and have one-eyed views. I admit you will find a few folks who think Britain is a land of peers, publicans and paupers. But haven't you got in Britain the same narrow folks, the same crude, ill-informed men and women who ignorantly air their views to the disgust of every Colonial?"
"Yes, there's something in that, I agree. We have got them, but I've heard Australian officers talk as if Australia was the only place on God's earth," the subaltern ejaculated a little warmly.
"You condemn a nation for a few. Young man, you haven't travelled far enough. And you make me tired to hear you talk in that way. You're a nice fellow spoiled, I reckon. Why, where I live there's dozens of English public school men working as cockies and jackaroos. They wouldn't go back home if you paid them. They like the life. Everybody makes them at home, and many of them have married our Australian girls. These women can milk, bake, ride, drive, sew and rear the most charming children. And they can meet you in a drawing-room with a natural grace that is their own. Intellectually, too, they are pleasant to meet, for the loneliness has given them time to think and read. Look at that girl there, doesn't she look a lady?"
"Yes."
"Isn't she absolutely perfect?"
"Well, yes."
"Does her dress fit?"
"Decidedly."
"Do you think her table manners are awkward?"
"No."
"Isn't there something easy and natural, no false pose, a sort of innate grace of mind and body?"
"Certainly, but is this not some strange exception, just as you find in many parts?"
"No, my boy. You still seem to be unconvinced. Hang it all, there's only one way to convince you. As they are rising from the table now, get up and I'll introduce you."
"Hallo, Sybil, how are you?" said the Australian officer going forward.
"What—Jack Gordon!" she said, shaking hands. "I haven't seen you since I was at school."
"How do, Jack?" said old Graham, in his blunt way. Then Mrs. Graham accorded him the same warm welcome.
"Let me introduce Lieutenant Gore-Jones of the Yeomanry. Take him in hand, Sybil. He's a good fellow spoiled."
"All right, Jack," said Sybil, smiling, and stepping towards the wide veranda with her new-found friend. Gordon remained behind with the parents to talk of old times.
"Thisisa pleasure," said Jones as they sat down. "I never thought of meeting such a charming person from down under."
Sybil frowned a little, then looking straight into his eyes said, "I don't like honey, Mr. Jones, it's too sweet, and sweet things are often sickly."
"I—I—I beg your pardon," he stammered, blushing a little.
"I'm afraid you expected to meet an aborigine, didn't you?" she said more kindly, remembering the cue she had received from Jack Gordon.
"Not exactly—I'm afraid I have not met any Australians except the troops."
"And what do you think of them? I'm rather interested, and like other people's views."
"You're not super-sensitive, I hope," he remarked, "because some of your fellows seem to be awfully touchy."
"Many Australians are; I'm not, now go on."
"Well, I like your men for their wonderful physique. They are as tough as the oldest soldiers. But they're not very respectful, you know. I mean, they don't salute; they stalk past with an air of equality and even contempt. That's a bad sign in a soldier."
"Yes?" said Sybil, daintily lighting a neat cigarette and settling down in her cosy chair.
"The officers, I hear, are excellent leaders, but, somehow, they don't quite look the part—sort of mixed, don't you know. Somehow, their build and clothes don't give them that distinctive touch which is the hall-mark of the British officer. I suppose it's really a question of breeding. They say in England it takes five generations to turn out a gentleman. Americans seem the same as Australians. In fact, I've read that all young and democratic countries are alike. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying they arenotgentlemen. The life, I suppose, knocks off the fine points."
"I see," said Sybil, turning her face towards him. "Then your conception of a leader is a thin-waisted, well-corseted man, all hair wash and side—a most perfect and arrogant dandy. I can't believe that the tailor, manicurist and barber produce the leader. And you say that our boys have not the fine touch about them. Do you think that really counts in war? I think a Tommy wants a man to lead him whether he looks a Caesar or Bill Sikes. You really infer that the Australian blood is coarse and unrefined. Is that so, Mr. Jones?"
"Not exactly. But look over there. See these two Australian officers. They seem ungainly in their clothes, and, apparently, feel awkward and ill at ease in this show. They don't respect the polite conventions of Society, and would turn the place into a sort of cowboy saloon if left alone."
"What nonsense, Mr. Jones. And if I didn't feel that there was a hope of you knowing us better, I would leave you. What I think you are suffering from is the conservatism of the Britisher, a truly appalling defect, as well as a lack of perception. I grant you that our Australian tailors are absolutely the limit in turning out a man. Still, I believe a man can die as gallantly in a flour sack as in a Bond Street khaki suit. You say they seem ill at ease, and don't lounge in their chairs as if to the manner born. You don't realise that these men are men of action. Their life is spent in a hustling way. They are workers, not idlers. Anything suggestive of luxurious ease is interpreted by them as effeminate."
Her companion made as though to speak. But the girl went on:
"Now, look here, Mr. Jones, I'll lay an even bet with you that they'll ride, jump and slice the lemon better than any of your troops in Cairo. They're practical people, not dreamers who worry about etiquette and the fine points. Now just you take a good look at their faces. You'll note that they're bronzed, strong, with a cleft in the chin, and a jaw-bone which speaks volumes. In fact, their whole make-up suggests a sort of rude strength, which can face the rough and tumble of life. They get that from their fathers, who, like my dear old dad, were the pioneers of Australia. These men landed poor and had to fight drought, aborigines, bushrangers, misfortune after misfortune. They were up against it all the time. They built their houses from the trees, dug their wells, fenced their land, scraped their pennies to get the shillings to buy their stock. In the midst of success, disease often struck them bare. Yet they stuck to it. Gradually the hard times passed away, and to-day many are wealthy. My dad is one. I'm not proud of his money, but I am proud of the grit and courage that has made him rich. These are just the qualities that the soldier must have."
"Oh, certainly," interjected Jones, fascinated by the radiant glow on the animated features of this most charming girl. His logic was being battered to death. He felt his position weakening. It began to dawn on him that he was a conservative Britisher, who had simply been uttering the parrot talk of hide-bound Tories. "You know, Miss Graham, you're beginning to make me feel that I should go to Australia."
"If we were there now I would just whisk you away in my car and show you the Bush. I do love to convince people, especially folks from the old land. Then, Mr. Jones, you would see how free, how charming life is in the Bush. We have all got beautiful homes, plenty of horses, motors, even electric light on some of the stations. In fact, I know of one old squatter who can produce a butler and footmen in breeches. You can have joy rides on motors, picnics miles from civilisation, and dances with the jolliest band of girls and boys I've seen. Everything is natural, all is delightful. I love Australia. I'm awfully proud of it. And I'm proud of those boys over there and all the others who have come to help the old land. Don't judge them by trivial things, Mr. Jones. If they're unconventional, and not good at saluting, they'll stick to any man who can lead them through. In fact, they can fight just as the Tommies did at Waterloo and Mons."
"Well," said Jones with a gasp, "you're an absolute revelation. I have never quite met your type before."
"I'm different—Australian, eh?"
"And very nice too. That's honey, as you call it. But I have said it and you needn't protest," he said with boyish enthusiasm. "Do you think the girls would be kind to me if I went to Australia?"
"They'd spoil you; they spoil all Englishmen."
"Why?"
"Because they like them. They don't pick holes in them as you pick holes in us."
"I'm sorry, really I'm sorry. I had no intention to offend."
"You're a good fellow spoiled, as Jack Gordon said."
"Thanks," said Mr. Jones, secretly pleased.
"You know, Mr. Jones, I know a most charming Englishman. He was our Jackaroo. A public school man, he landed at our door and asked for a job. He had a glass eye and insisted on wearing that and a white indiarubber collar when working round the show. They ragged him, but he stood it all. When they went too far he simply took off his jacket and punched them soft. No matter what dirty job he got, he did it and never whined. He had no airs, and never trumpeted his family lineage or his school. He was just a dear, lovable English gentleman, who'd been a bit foolish at home. He is here in the Australian contingent; in fact, he's coming to see me to-night. Ah! here he is," she gleefully exclaimed, as a tall, well-built soldier, with a monocle, casually stepped on to the veranda. "Come and be introduced?"
"What! To a Tommy," said the surprised subaltern.
"Yes—and agentleman," Sybil emphasised.
"Hallo, dear boy!"
"Well, Sybil, what a surprise when I got your wire."
"Let me introduce Mr. Jones of the Yeomanry—Private Dufair."
Claud solemnly saluted. There was a twinkle in his eye as the surprised subaltern started back, exclaiming, "What—Claud Dufair? You were at Rugby with me!"
"The same, sir," said Claud, standing rigidly to attention, full of suppressed mirth.
"Well, shake, old boy! How the devil are you? And, Tommy or no Tommy, you must have a bottle of fizz with me to-morrow night. Now, I'm not going to spoil sport. I've had an awful wigging from Miss Graham."
"My fiancée," interjected Claud.
"Lucky dog—put me down as your next-of-kin when you make your will. Good night."
"Good night," said the happy couple, passing on to the shade of the palms, where they renewed that love which is mightier than the sword.
It was a sweltering heat—a day to drink squash and be on a cool veranda. But war has no respect for feelings or conditions, so the Australian, New Zealander, and Lancashire men had to hoof it across the sun-baked desert. The troops were divided into three columns, each striking for a different point. They were bent on a combined scheme in which the "General Idea," "Special Idea," and other vague military terms figured large.
"Ain't the heat hellish? My nose is feeling like a banana, and my shirt's glued to my back! Wish I had joined the Camel Corps or Donkey Brigade. Gravel crushing's no good to me," growled Bill, changing his rifle for the hundredth time.
"We're suffering for the sins of our predecessors," remarked Claud, shifting his eyeglass to look at the Pyramids.
"How's that?"
"In South Africa the Australians went any old way. They fought well, but, as Roberts said, they lacked discipline. That's why you and I are here. They're going to grind the insubordination out of us. They'll march us and sweat us to death. 'Trouble maketh a strong man, Pain maketh a true man,' so some old wag has said."
"Wish ould Kitchener had me thirst, an' this ould pack on his back," growled Doolan.
"Ay, an' these damnt moskeetes are ay chowin' ma face off," said Sandy.
"Couldn't we have been trained in Australia instead of this confounded hole?" added Bill, who was in a nasty mood that day.
"Too many pubs, too many ma's, and too many politicians about for that," Claud answered. "Besides, Kitchener's a smart fellow. He knows his job. We're here to keep these bally niggers in order, and, at the same time, train for war. You can't push it on to 'K'; he's too mighty quick for you an' me."
"But when the blazes are we goin' to the war? I'm thirstin' to cut some fellow's throat, but all I gets is march and sweat—sweat and march—and fourteen days C.B. if I look sideways at these officer blokes. No good to me, boys. I'm here for killin', not for road punchin'. I've got a head like a barrel and feet like boiled tomatoes."
"Ye shouldna' drink beer," piped Sandy.
"Wot should I drink then?"
"Proosic acid," Doolan muttered, giving Claud a nudge.
"You've got a bad liver to-day, Bill. I think you've been drinking the Gippies' firewater. I thought the old parson had got you to sign the pledge."
"Who could sign the pledge in an 'ole like this? It's sand and flies, flies and sand, C.B., bully beef, jam, and No. 9 pills. Wot a life!" concluded Bill, relapsing into silence. They left him alone. It was Bill's "off day." He would come round again.
Bill's attitude at that period of the war represented the feelings of many a Tommy in the Australian and New Zealand forces. These men, accustomed to the life of freedom, action, and the daily use of initiative, cursed the seemingly endless days of drill, shooting, marching, manoeuvring, with the firm discipline and immediate punishment when rules were ignored. Eight long months of this was their lot, and during that time there seemed little prospect of their seeing war. It was a hard test.
To them it seemed a cruel test. The younger and more inexperienced thought it useless and a waste of time, but the officers understood the reason why. It was Kitchener's way. "K" knew that these men were the finest fighters in the world. But to get the fullest value for their courage he realised that training and discipline, discipline, discipline was absolutely essential. Every officer of the General Staff expected them to curse and kick. The Staff also assumed that, in the end, the Australians' true sense of justice would compel them to admit that all this "suffering" would make them infinitely superior to any Australian units which had hitherto shared in fighting for the Motherland. This is exactly what did occur. Kitchener was, therefore, right! Kitchener is always right.
The Australian column had reached its rendezvous. While the men were resting, General Fearless, the Australian G.O.C., was issuing his orders to the Brigade Commanders.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the General Idea is that the Red Force, composed of the Lancashire Division, holds the ridge of sand hills which dominate the road to Cairo. We, who represent the Blue Force, have orders to make a reconnaissance in force. That means that we must so manoeuvre our units as to draw the enemy's fire, and, if possible, reveal his position, his strength, and the weakest point in his line. This, let me tell you, is not exactly an offensive movement. It is a drawing game. That must be distinctly understood. Of course, in such a reconnaissance, if a G.O.C. saw something whichwouldjustify his assuming a vigorous offensive, then the game might develop into a general action. That, however, is a matter for me, not for an individual brigadier. Now, to-day, I want the Bushmen's Brigade to cover our advance, the remaining brigades will act as in my operation orders. Remember, too, gentlemen, that units must keep up communication. Don't let the show develop into a sort of Donnybrook, where each little unit is fighting for its own band. That is all—fall out, please."
The Brigadiers saluted, and returned to their units. The scheme was again explained. Ten minutes afterwards the brigades moved into position. The Bushmen's Brigade took post away in front; in the centre of this front line was the Kangaroo Marines. Covering the whole advance was a screen of men, and in front of the screen, little patrols with scouts ahead. When all were in the position the G.O.C. signalled "Advance." An army on the move is a fascinating sight. It is like an octopus—the main body with a thousand tendrils, or arms, thrown out. These recoil as they touch the enemy, telling the brain that danger is near.
In selecting the Bushmen's Brigade for the advanced guard, the G.O.C. was right. They were born scouts, especially the Kangaroo Marines. These valiants wriggled, crawled, and occasionally doubled across the burning sands. It was hard work—mighty hard work—but they didn't mind. They were doing something useful, and as long as a Bushman is doing that he is all alive and interested.
Bang! went a rifle ahead of them. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the reply. The fight had commenced. Bill, who was in command of Doolan and Sandy, was right ahead. Claud was away on his right with another little squad. But it was Bill's keen eyes which had first seen little groups of the enemy ahead. One little group, grown tired of waiting, was snoozing peacefully on a sandy hollow. Bill and his cronies crept on their stomachs towards them. Nearer they drew, then, with a yell, leaped down on them.
"Hands up, boys; we've got you."
"Who are ye kiddin'?" said a Lancashire lad, jumping up with his pals.
"There's no kiddin' about this business," said Bill. "Chuck them rifles over here."
"All right, lad; thou can 'ave 'em—give us a fag," said the leader, glad to be out of the hurly-burly.
They were sent to the rear.
Meantime, the firing had become stronger. Away ahead, Bill's party saw a long line of men lying about on a ridge of sand. They were firing furiously at the advancing scouts.
"I reckon that's a patrol. We'd better scatter them," ordered Bill, going forward in the most brazen manner to capture about twenty men. According to the rules of war this was impossible. Hence the sudden appearance of a "Brass Hat" with a white band on his arm.
"Here—you!" he shouted to Bill and his men.
"Well, matey—what's wrong?"
"You're out of action—clear out," said the officer, a little annoyed at the term "matey."
"Hands up," said Bill, shoving in a round of blank and presenting his rifle at the man on the horse.
"Confound your cheek—how dare you——"
"No lip, old cock. Get off that gee-gee."
"Don't you know who I am? I'm Colonel Redtabs——"
"And I'm Bill Buster, boss of this scoutin' show. You can't fool me—I'm an Australian."
"Hang it all! Don't you know I'm an umpire?"
"Look here, this ain't a cricket match. Get off, or I'll blow you off," said Bill, fingering his trigger. The old colonel, realising that he was dealing with a too zealous scout, unacquainted with the rules of mimic warfare, jumped off his horse.
"Now, Sandy, get on that horse."
"What?" said Sandy, a little confused.
"Get on that horse or I'll blow youon," ordered Bill, somewhat annoyed at the waste of time.
Sandy jumped up.
"Now, take this bloke back to Colonel Killem. Tell him he's a poor fellow wot's wrong in his head, an' thinks he's at a cricket match."
The captured umpire, who was a sportsman with a real sense of humour, laughed heartily as he was led away.
"Knew he was mad," commented Bill, as he watched him go. "Now, Paddy, that patrol has scooted; let's get after them."
The attack was now well into the first stage. The scouts of the Lancashires were fighting a running action with the scouts and patrols of the Australians. From knoll to knoll they were pressed, both sides skilfully using every fold in the ground. Bill, by this time, had increased his army to about twenty men. Using the most original adjectives and assuming a superior air, he ordered his command about like some old fire-eating colonel. His vigorous pursuit kept the enemy busy, but eventually they pulled him up in front of a roughly-made sangar. This was a strong detached post thrown out in front of the outpost line. The defenders gave his little army a fierce fusillade of blank.
"That's upyou, Buffalo Bill," said the mischievous Doolan.
"Silence in the ranks," roared Bill, who was taking himself very seriously. He carefully surveyed the position, which held fifty men. They were not to be moved, that was evident. Bill determined to do so.
"Fix bayonets!" he shouted.
"Ain't allowed," said a stripling at his side.
"Fix bayonets!" he ordered again.
"I tell you it ain't allowed at these sham shows. Colonel's orders."
"Look 'ere, you take Bill Buster's orders, or you'll get a thick ear." That settled the matter.
"Charge!" roared the leader, jumping up and leading the twenty full-blooded desperadoes up to the redoubt.
"Halt, you fellows! Halt!" roared a Lancashire subaltern, jumping up. "Are you off your bally heads?"
"'Ere, mate, you're supposed to be dead," said Bill, panting and blowing, but holding a bayonet at his chest. The remainder of his party were, meantime, tickling the fast retreating Lancashire lads with the points of their bayonets.
"Don't you know who I am?" said the indignant subaltern.
"Look 'ere, young fellow, you're supposed to be dead."
"How dare you—I'm an officer!"
"I'm Bill Buster. Now will you lie down an' kid you're dead. That's wot you've got to do at these shows."
"Don't be a bally ass!"
"All right, cocky; hand me that sword."
As Bill's bayonet looked rather unpleasant, the officer complied. Then Bill sat down. Pulling a black stump of a pencil out of his pocket, he proceed to write a dispatch. It was as follows: