There's a difference between the New Zealander and Australian, and the difference is this: when an Australian says "Home," he means Australia; when a New Zealander says "Home," he means the Old Country. The sense of nationality is deep in the Australian's soul; the sense of dependence and kinship is wrapped round the New Zealander's heart. Australia is the older Dominion, and the Australian, like the Canadian, is keen on running his own affairs. New Zealand is younger; many of its first settlers are still alive, so their eyes and their children's eyes are always turned to the land called "Home."
Fifty years hence the New Zealander will be like the Australian—a keen exponent of nationhood and all that that means. But, understand, when I speak of nationhood as applied to the Australian and New Zealander, I mean pride of race, pride of dominion, pride of achievement, and the ability to be a partner in the great Empire that is ours. Our forefathers resented this attitude of our colonial cousins. For that reason we lost the American colonies. That lesson was good. We now realise that it is good business to let such as the Australian and New Zealander manage their own affairs. It saves us worry, it saves expense, it breeds a distinct type—a type conscious of their ability, but aware of the need of co-operation and co-ordination in Imperial defence and Imperial trade. Wise men ask no more.
Now in affairs of war there is also a difference between the New Zealander and Australian. The Australian resembles the Irishman—daring, desperate, and frequently reckless; the New Zealander resembles the Scot—equally daring, equally determined, but more canny and cautious. In brief, the New Zealander is more ready to weigh the issues and count the cost. Both types are necessary in war; both are extremely useful. Now I have reached my tale.
The General Staff had heard that the Turks were concentrating men and munitions for a great attack. Information was scarce; information was imperative, for on information the modern general depends. And this information had to come from the very centre of the Turkish defence. It was the hour for a man, and that man had to be found. That was the problem which faced the Chief of Staff. He knew that almost every officer would volunteer. He thought of many Australians; but no, their reckless bravery might wreck his schemes. And then he pictured in his eye the New Zealanders he knew. One by one they passed in review. At last he recalled "Tony," a young subaltern from Hawkes Bay. He was a graduate of an Auckland school—a strong, well-built, swarthy youth, with that coolness, daring, and acumen necessary for the job. "Yes, he'll do," muttered the Chief as he rang up the New Zealand Dragoons.
"Send Lieutenant Tony Brown to headquarters at once."
"Very good, sir," answered an orderly. In two hours Tony entered the dug-out and saluted.
"I've a job for you, Mr. Brown. It might mean your death; it might mean the D.S.O. Are you on?"
"I'm on, sir; but please explain."
"Get one of the Navy boats. Go up the coast for two miles. Land and get across into the Turkish camp. Find out the strength of these reinforcements, the guns, the ammunition, food and water supplies, and, more important, the probable date, if not the hour, of this big attack. I'll give you two days to do it. If you're not back on the third day I'll count you as dead. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, my lad. Here's an order to the commander of the torpedo boat at the beach. Make your own arrangements. Good luck to you," concluded the Chief, shaking him by the hand. And out went Tony on his job. It was a tough proposition for a youngster to tackle, yet he deemed it an honour. And there was no time for delay. He secured the services of two Maoris because of their strength and swarthy complexion. Turkish uniforms would make them "Turks," if need be.
The commander of the destroyer gave him a boat. This was loaded up with water, biscuits, some Turkish uniforms, and rifles, with other necessaries for the job. At night they pulled out. It was quite dark, so all was favourable at the outset. For hours the Maoris seemed to row, their only guide being the stars and dark coast-line. And then came the first peep of dawn.
"Come on, you fellows; get into these things," said the subaltern, pointing to the Turkish clothes. He did likewise. The disguise was perfect. They looked thoroughly respectable members of the Sultan's community.
"Ease in now, boys," ordered Tony as the light grew better. Gently they pulled to the shore.
"That place will do," muttered the observant sub, looking towards a shingly sort of beach beneath some cliffs. The boat grated on the pebbles. They had arrived on their daring mission.
"Now, look here, you boys; you've got to loaf round here for two days. Hide the boat and get into a dug-out. Keep a look-out for me. If I don't come back at the end of the second day, go back and tell them I've gone to Kingdom Come. Understand?"
"All right, boss," said the elder of the Maoris, a full corporal. And off went Tony. He climbed up the cliffs and found himself on a scrubby sort of soil dotted here and there with stunted trees. Away to his right he could just discern the Turkish defences, while immediately in front lay some scattered redoubts of the flanking outposts of the enemy. In the distance was a high, grassy knoll—a perfect place for observing things. He made for it, avoiding contact with some straggling Turkish soldiers on the way. By the way, it is really remarkable how one can walk through an enemy's lines when dressed in their uniform; but it takes a stout heart to do it.
Tony reached the foot of the knoll and commenced to ascend. Just as he reached the top he was startled by a Turk who cried out a greeting. He mumbled something in a boorish style and dropped down in a friendly way beside his man. Before the old Turk realised what was happening he lay dead with a revolver bullet in his brains.
"Phew! What a noise!" muttered Tony as he looked at his victim and then all round the hill to see if the noise had alarmed the land. Luck favoured him. A random shot is nothing in war. Finding a hole near by, he dumped the body in, then covered it over with grass. This done, he whipped out his glasses and commenced to study things. Away in front he could see the convoys slowly moving past. There were guns, ammunition wagons, water-carts, ration wagons, and streams of men. This was not the usual reliefs and supplies. There was something doing. The troops were new, their equipment was good, their bearing fresh and alert. All this was very interesting; but Tony was not near enough to get what he wanted. He decided to walk right through the lines. Leaving his rifle and placing his revolver and glasses in the Turkish haversack, he set off. He was soon one of the many straggling Turkish troops on various errands. They hailed him in their oriental way, but Tony simply grunted in reply.
That is a way of the East, so all went well. At last the daring officer was close behind the Turkish lines. He stumbled on the batteries well placed and well hid. Stacks of shells lay to hand in preparation for their attack. In another part he located a searchlight, and down in a little gully he found a forward base for gun and rifle ammunition. This was a sound discovery. He memorised the spot and tried to locate it on the map. Passing on, he came to a field hospital. This was being cleared, for wagons were taking the wounded men away to the ships which lay in the offing. When a hospital is being cleared, look out for a fight. A soldier understands what it means.
Tony finally arrived in a sort of rest camp. It was alive with men—fresh ones from Constantinople. There were plenty of German officers, too, also some sailors withGoebenandBreslauon their caps. He wondered what the sailors were there for. They seemed to be camped round an artillery park. He solved it; they were serving the guns. Down the lines he stumbled, grunting like an old horse, and, occasionally, sitting down to view the scene. They had plenty of biscuits, and even such luxuries as coffee, bread, and water melons. No signs of starvation or lack of supplies. That was an important point. Tony was doing well. His scheme was succeeding beyond his dreams. Indeed, he was beginning to feel quite cocky, till, on looking round, he found a swarthy little fellow behind him. He was being followed. Something gripped his heart. He had shot his bolt. Still he did not lose his head. This little man must be led on a little farther. Tony retraced his steps. The man followed him. He sat down; the Turk also sat down. This was unnerving, and the young sub. almost shouted in anger and agony. Rising again, he went on, striking into the open and less populated part. And, all the while, the officer wondered how he was going to deal with his sleuth-hound. He could not shoot him there.
At last his eye caught sight of the little knoll where his dead Turk lay buried. Good! He would lead him up there. He plodded on, and, behind him, stalked the patient-looking Turk. Oh! the agony of those moments. It was like a knife sinking by degrees into the human heart. It was the hour for nerve, coolness and caution. Tony reached the top of the hill. With a sigh he sat down, pulled out his pipe and commenced to smoke. The Turk also sat down, but at the foot of the hill. He too started to smoke. His face had the sense of ease, his eyes a humorous gleam. He, apparently, was in no hurry. What the devil did he mean? Tony wondered, and wondered. This torture was insufferable; so insufferable that the subaltern waved his arm, signalling the Turk to come up beside him. He obeyed. As he reached the top he took off his cap and said, "Good days, Mr. Ingleesman."
"Who's English?" said Tony, smiling at his own audacity and apparent admission.
"You very Inglees—you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."
"What the devil are you doing here?"
"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes Inglees."
"But what are you following me for?"
"Well—monees—backsheesh. Me poor man."
"How did you spot me?"
"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an identity disc out of his pocket. This was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown, New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this damning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets in the camp below.
He inwardly cursed his stupidity.
"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found friend.
"Oh, wery nice—wery Ingleestoo," said the Syrian, looking at the inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in Stamboul—eh?"
"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.
Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.
"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way. The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily answered, "Well——"
"Me poor man—me tell you things. How much?"
"Fifty pounds—eh?"
"One hundreds—it worth it—good beesness. Me plenty savvy—me know."
"What?"
"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and—beeg attacks——"
"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled. He had divined his quest.
"Tell me then."
"Monees," said the Syrian, holding out his hand. The ways of the East are, at least, direct.
"There you are," said the subaltern, handing him ten crisp Bank of England notes. He had come prepared for this contingency.
"When is the attack, now?"
"Friday mornings early."
"The exact time I want."
"Half past fours."
"How do you know?"
"I orderleys and interpreeters to arteelery's staff."
"Oh! Now, isn't there a battery down there?" said Tony, pointing to a piece of rising ground which he had passed over.
"No—one batterees there," said the Syrian, directing his eyes to the exact place where Tony had discovered the first battery.
"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth. Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines, stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had entered the highest realms of the Intelligence Service. It was dusk when he had finished.
"Me go now," said the Syrian, rising.
"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."
"But I geeves you informations, what more?"
"Look here, old cock, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."
"Syrian good man," protested the informer.
"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, cocking his revolver suddenly.
"No' keels me—no' keels me!"
"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead—that way," said Tony, directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.
"Here—look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.
"Uh!" shuddered the man.
"Now, keep quiet," ordered the officer, pushing him down the hill. Stealthily they went, avoiding dug-outs, tents, and other hives of the Turkish army. For hours they seemed to walk. Something was wrong.
"Stop!" said Tony suddenly. Instinct suggested danger. He had been led astray. Pulling out a compass, he fixed it. The direction was wrong. This Syrian was playing his own game. He wanted another hundred pounds for this officer's body. It was worth more than that to the Turkish army. And he knew it. War breeds parasites and rogues.
"You scoundrel!" said Tony, springing at the Syrian's throat. The latter fought, kicked, and bit like a tiger. To have shot him would have been madness, for they were now back in the centre of the Turkish lines. Placing his great hands round the man's throat, Tony slowly choked him into a state of collapse. Another knock on his head with the butt of the revolver placed him in such a condition that he would be unable to recollect his thoughts for many days. That was all the subaltern desired. He left him. Taking a compass bearing again, he struck out towards the beach. Luck favoured him almost till the end. As he neared the top of the cliff which guarded the beach his foot slipped, and he fell into a dug-out, right on the top of three Turkish soldiers. Curses were mixed with shouts of "Allah!" Then questions were asked. But Tony could answer none. A little flashlamp next shone in his face. He was discovered.
"Inglees! Inglees!" exclaimed a Turk. The other two started and chattered volubly. One lifted a rifle to finish him off, but the man with the lamp stopped him. He knew his job. He wanted to know what this man was doing there. Tony was searched, and the map discovered secreted down the leg of his stocking. His heart quailed. He seemed doomed. He had been so near success; now he seemed so far. He inwardly shuddered at the prospect ahead. It would be death, and death of a cruel and unrefined kind. Oh, the mental horror of that moment. It was worse than a bayonet in the stomach, and that is bad enough. He longed for death—death, sure and sharp. But it did not come. He was seized and bound, then thrown into a corner to await the dawn, when this coast patrol would take him back to the Turkish lines. His cords cut into his hands and legs; his tongue was parched; his heart beating at the coming of the dawn.
Still, the light of day brought a certain physical and mental relief. He was given a drink; his cords were cut, and he was pushed out into the open and marched off to the Turkish lines. He stumbled along, in pain and confused. But deliverance was at hand.
True to their trust, his faithful Maoris were on the watch. One lay on top of the cliffs as a guard for the boat hidden away in the cove below; the other was a thousand yards ahead, directly in front of the line of march which two out of the three Turkish soldiers were taking him. This Maori's eyes were alert. A glance made him understand it all. Filling his magazine, he lay low. They were then six hundred yards away. Too far for a sure aim. He waited. Five hundred. Four hundred. Three hundred. Yes; that would do. He settled down and aimed.
Bang! The bullet told. The man on Tony's right dropped dead. The subaltern realised the cause. He let drive with his fist at the other man. The Turk stumbled back, recovered, then fled. But the Maori nipped him like a farmer does a running hare. He, too, fell dead. This was the one with the map which Tony had made. It was wrenched from his haversack.
"Near shave, boss," said the Maori corporal, running up.
"Yes; but come on." They ran towards the cliff.
Bang! went a rifle. The faithful Maori corporal dropped dead at his officer's feet. Tony looked to his front, and there was the third man of the Turkish patrol coolly aiming at him too. He ducked just as a rifle banged. For a minute he lay flat, and then a strange thing happened. The second Maori, on the top of the cliff, unable to sight his rifle at this assassin of his friend, was charging wildly down on the Turk with his bayonet fixed.
"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turk as he turned about and threw up his arms. A moment later he was bayoneted to death.
Tony jumped up and ran on, for in the distance he saw other patrols running towards the scene. The surviving Maori followed him to the beach. The boat was launched, and they pulled out from the shore. Danger, however, was not passed. Turkish patrols had found them. Volley after volley rattled through the air. They splashed all round; some hit the boat, one struck Tony in the arm, two more pierced the oars. But out and out pulled the plucky pair till, at last, they were clear of the fire.
"Hot shop, boss," said the Maori.
"Yes, a bit too hot!" muttered Tony as he bandaged his bleeding arm.
That night the Chief of Staff received the information desired. And a few days later Lieut. Tony Brown added the letters "D.S.O." to his name. Everybody said, "Why?" But the Chief of Staff simply smiled and passed on.
Night was falling fast over the Australasian lines. The darkness was welcome, for it brought a certain rest and coolness to the thousands of sun-baked and weary men. For two days they had slaved like navvies—digging, sand-bagging, reorganising trenches, improving communications, and bringing up supplies, Maxims, and ammunition. It was not the usual thing. Indeed, it was most unusual. Only the Staff knew why, for this war has taught us that we must not advertise our coming events. Of course the Tommies groused. They always do. It is the privilege of the soldier. And Bill Buster was not behind in this land of moaning.
"Thinks I'm an old mule. Me feet's skinned, me back's skinned, me heart's skinned carryin' them blessed boxes of crackers. Oh, why did I leave me little happy home?" he exclaimed, wiping the sweat off his sunburnt brow.
"Had to—ye frizzly-faced bushwhacker," said Paddy.
"All this means that there's something doing," remarked Claud, cleaning his monocle with a piece of rag.
"Ay, there's gaun tae be an attack. Say yer prayers the nicht, boys," added Sandy.
"Thank God!" uttered Claud. "I'm sick of inaction. I don't mind death; but it's a beastly bore waiting to be killed. One can't quite regulate supplies. Now, if to-morrow was the day for our dispatch, we might have a beano out of our spare biscuits and Woodbines to-night."
"It ain't all beer and skittles, as you say," Bill said. "Next war I'm goin' to be a general or a Navy bloke. Them's the safe jobs. These ole Turks have a spite at me. Think I'm a sort o' runnin' man."
"Let them come!" Paddy exclaimed. "We'd bate the life out of thim. Teach thim manners, the dirty blaggards!"
"Don't be too cocky about that. We're only hanging on the edge of this cliff by the skin of our teeth. The German Staff say they'll push us into the sea, and you bet they'll have a good try."
"It's a soft snap, if they come. They can't beat us," interjected Bill, who had all the self-assurance of the Australian born.
"That's where our boys always err," answered Claud. "They underestimate the power of the enemy. That isn't the thing in war. It's all very well to be confident, but it's equally important to be prepared to the last cartridge and bomb. Pluck's a very good thing, but pluck without brains is as useless as an engine without coal. If these Turks make a big show, they'll give us a run for our money. Now I'm going to sleep."
Claud wrapped himself in his coat for a snooze. The others followed suit, little dreaming what the dawn would bring. While they slept, secure in their innocence of things, the General and Chief of Staff sat keen and anxious in their dug-outs; for the dawn was the time stated for the attack. Everything was prepared; still, they had all that mental worry which only an officer knows. They smoked and talked—and talked. While they passed these anxious hours their subordinate commanders were quietly filling up the reserve trenches with supporting troops. The gunners, too, were busy checking ranges and noting down the approximate position of the magazines and other stores as supplied by the map of Tony Brown. The doctors were also alive. They were clearing out the field hospitals preparatory to the gruesome slaughter ahead. Out at sea a flotilla of gunboats and destroyers had quietly arrived and were circling round, waiting for the coming fray. Everything had been thought of; everything was ready.
"It's getting light, sir," said the chief, looking out of his dug-out about 3.30 A.M.
"Very well; 'phone the brigadiers. Tell them to be prepared for the bombardment in accordance with our pow-wow of yesterday."
"Very good, sir." The 'phone transmitted the order and the chief sat down again.
Boom! echoed a gun in the Turkish line. A shell crashed right over the General's dug-out. Tony Brown's information was right. The battle had commenced. A sense of relief spread over the General's face. His suspense was at an end.
Boom! Boom! Boom! went the other guns. More shells, more splinters, and here and there the moan of a dying or wounded man. But this was only the preliminary business. In ten minutes every Turkish gun, from the giant howitzers to the more simple field pieces, were pounding shrapnel, common shell, and high explosives into the Australasian lines. There was no excitement; the men were used to the game. They crouched in holes or hard against the stony sides of the trenches. Still, the noise was deafening, and the gunners' aim was often good. Shells burst on the parapets and destroyed them, frequently killing or burying the men behind. Others burst above and sent their balls of death into the heads or backs of the crouching men. High explosives crashed with an unnerving boom in and around the trenches, pounding, killing, and maiming. Maxims rattled out a hail of lead, rifles squirted bullets into every corner where a living soul was likely to be found. There was no romance in this sort of business. It was butchery, blood, anguish, and death. Hell is the only word that fits such a bombardment. Those who read such things sit at home in tears and terror. Yet the men who live through them sit calm, even cool, and often in smiles.
"Bit hot," said Claud, looking at his hat, which had been pierced by a shrapnel bullet.
Bill ejaculated something unprintable and dropped a hot piece of shell he had intended to collar as a curio.
"I weesht I had a hauf o' whisky; this is a dry job," said Sandy, as he cuddled closer against the side of the trench.
"May ould Allah have mercy on yis when I get yis wid me can-opener!" muttered Paddy as he fingered his bayonet.
Boom! Boom! Boom! crashed three more shrapnels above them, scattering lead and iron in all directions. Old keys, brass fittings, nails, iron knobs and other things tumbled in, too.
"Queer shrapnel—eh?" said Claud, picking up one of these curios—and a sign that the Turks were surely scarce of the real stuff.
"Don't mind bullets," growled Bill; "but I objects to them chuckin' an ironmonger's shop at my ole head. It ain't nice——"
Boom! Boom! came two more.
"A miss!" said Sandy, signalling a "wash-out" with a shovel.
Boom! crashed another almost overhead. It was a narrow shave. Sandy, with that caution of his clan, resigned the post of marker. The gods were favouring this genial quartette, but in many parts of the line men lay dead, dying, and maimed. They bore their wounds with a wonderful patience, and few complained. Comrades ripped out their field dressings and staunched the blood. Doctors, regardless of whizzing shells and bullets, crept from patient to patient. Stretcher-bearers manfully did their job. Over shell-swept zones they carried and pulled the wounded to succour and safety. Despite the danger, men even found time to note and praise the deeds of these Red Cross heroes. The name of the R.A.M.C. ought to be printed in letters of gold on the dome of St. Paul's. It is one reminiscent of heroism, faith, hope, and charity.
Now, during all this gun and rifle firing not a reply was sent. The Staff allowed the Turks to expend their shells and bullets. That is always good business in war. It adds to the enemy's problem of supply. This bombardment lasted for two hours. No doubt the Turks were well pleased. But immediately they ceased their fire there was a universal Boom! from the Australian lines. Battleships, cruisers, torpedo boats, howitzer batteries, field batteries, and Maxim guns sent back salvo after salvo of a deafening and devilish kind.
The unerring aim of our gunners paralysed, for a time, the initiative of the Turkish Staff. This tremendous reply was unexpected. And the British shells burst in their magazines, their supply depôts, their headquarters dug-outs in a startling way. Never was gunnery so deadly. Never was slaughter so sure. Regiments waitingen massefor the assault were torn and butchered. Trenches were burst and destroyed. It was death, desolation, and disaster of an unexpected and amazing kind. Such is the value of information in war. A good Intelligence Officer is equal to a complete division of all arms.
Yet this bombardment did not deter the Turkish assault. It had been arranged; it had to go on. When the British bombardment ceased, they leaped boldly from their trenches and came onen masse. A strange silence now pervaded the Australasian lines. Not a shot was heard. It was the calm before the storm. They allowed the Turks to advance. On they came, great, dark, strong-looking men. They shouted "Allah!" "Allah!" as they ran. This cry for "Allah" was a bad sign. The Turks expected "Allah" to do what they felt they had not the confidence to do themselves. Still, the German task-masters had given them a certain assurance by sending them forward elbow to elbow, line upon line.
In brief, this attack was meant as an overwhelming flood of bayonets upon the Australasians' lines. The Turkish Staff argued that, after all, these troops were only volunteers; they could not withstand a violent offensive movement. But they did; they even surprised their General and the Staff. And the ability to wait for a signal to shoot was in itself a sign of perfect control, excellent fire discipline.
The Turks were now close to the barbed wire entanglements. This was the moment desired. A whistle sounded in the lines.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Z-r-r-p! went thousands of rifles and dozens of machine-guns. Gad! How these Turks withered and fell. It was brutal, yet it was inspiring. Shrieks, curses, and groans were mixed with pitiful cries for "Allah!" "Allah!"
Bravely these Turkish soldiers died, and bravely the more fortunate came on. They tore through the barbed wire with a fiendish frenzy and leaped down on to parts of their enemy's lines. With that mad ferocity which only a Moslem fanatic can display, they plugged their bayonets into the first opposing man. Cold steel is hard to face. Few armies can face it. Only Russians, Britishers, and Japs are good at the game. And these sons of John Bull stood up to the test with a magnificent courage. They plunged, thrust, hacked, butted, cursed, and fumed in this awful combat. Civilisation had gone. Primitive lusts were triumphant. Blood flowed in streams, men fought with gaping wounds, dying men fell crying to Allah or to God according to their race and creed. There was no time to moralise on the hellish side of modern war. There was only time to fight or die.
And in this awful combat The Kangaroos had a terrible time. Their redoubt was invaded. Yet they did not yield. One great Turk charged down on Claud. Sandy parried the thrust, the Turk recovered and thrust again straight into poor Sandy's heart. He gasped, and fell lifeless at Bill's feet.
With maddened fury Bill crashed his butt down on the foeman's skull.
Another Turk almost pinned Colonel Killem, but Paddy dashed forward, struck up the bayonet, and killed the man with a blow.
"Thanks, Doolan, thanks!" shouted the Colonel as he turned to deal with another man. This gallant defence, combined with the deadly musketry on the less exposed parts of the line, completely smashed the first Turkish attack. The enemy withered away, their survivors and wounded creeping back into the shelter of their trenches.
"Don't fire, men! Don't fire at those poor devils," shouted the officers as they watched them limp away.
This was chivalry, and chivalry can always be found in a British heart.
"Thank God for a breath," said Claud, leaning wearily against the parapet. But the attack was not finished. The Turkish reserves were swarming up the gullies and through the communicating lines. Lyddite, shrapnel, and Maxims tore great gaps in their ranks. Yet on they came. One regiment deployed from the top of a gully and made the charge.
"Rapid fire!" roared Killem. A terrific fusillade burst forth. The Turks fell in heaps, moaning, shrieking, and yelling. The sight was sickening. Heaps of dead and dying all around. Butagainthe Turkish host came on. Two great columns of men burst out in front of the New Zealanders and The Kangaroos.
This was really the most critical moment of the day. Here entered the Drill Book maxim: "An attack should be met with a counter-attack." For this was to be the last and desperate throw of the Turkish Staff. If it broke the Australasian lines, the enemy would realise their boast of pushing them into the sea. The New Zealanders and Kangaroos appreciated the danger to the full. And so the command rang out: "Prepare to charge!" Every man placed his foot for the jump.
"Charge!"
Up leaped Killem and his willing men, and at their side charged the New Zealand boys. Grimly they gripped their rifles, bravely they ran and cheered. A charge is a thrilling and soul-inspiring affair. Danger and death pass away from the soldier's heart. He is alive, he is filled with the tingling blood and full of the traditions of his race. The Kangaroos met the Turkish host midway. A shock of men, a shock of arms, a blind confusion, a horrible fierceness and hacking of human flesh.
"Give it 'em, boys," roared Killem above the din. A Turkish officer heard him and aimed his revolver at Killem's head. But Doolan was there again. He pinned his man through the chest, and, with an oath, flung him off his bayonet—dead.
Claud got lost in themêlée. He found himself surrounded. Bravely he fought, but a bayonet was stuck in his shoulder, and he fell into the struggling mass of wounded men. Bill, though wounded in the head, fought with the madness of a fiend. With Doolan, he kept close to the Colonel's heels, preserving the body and life of the bravest man in the Australasian force. In that awful hour Killem could often be heard shouting out, "Thanks, boys, thanks!"
At last tenacity and courage told. The Turks broke and fled, yelling in pain and fear. But the price of victory had indeed been costly. Still, it was worth it all. The position had been saved. Australasians had again written deep in the annals of war a story of valour as great as Corunna or Waterloo.
"Paddy," shouted Bill as they jumped back into the trenches.
"Yis."
"Where's Claud?"
"He's hit," interjected a sergeant. "I saw him fall."
"What—dead?"
"Couldn't say." And the sergeant passed on. War does not allow of sentiment or lengthy harangues.
"Curse them!" said Bill, throwing down his rifle in anger. And then this great, strong man collapsed with grief. When a soldier weeps it is sad. This was but the climax of a highly nervous day. Bill's heart, like every bushman's heart, was full of that faith and devotion which passes all understanding. Claud was a pal whom he loved like a mother or a brother.
"D—— their bullets! I'm going back to get him," he muttered, preparing to jump out again.
"Paddy Doolan's wid you," said the Irishman. They both jumped out into the still bullet-swept zone.
"Come back, you fools," roared a sergeant.
There was no answer. Bill would not allow discipline or danger to interfere with the call of duty or friendship. On their hands and knees they crawled round the heaps of dead and dying.
"Here he is—here he is, poor boy! Poor boy!" said Paddy as he gazed at the pale, bloodless face of Claud below some battered Turks.
"He's livin', he's livin'. God be thanked!" mumbled the faithful Irishman as he crossed himself. Bending near, he pulled the listless form from under the dead weight of the men above. Claud groaned.
"That's a good sign, Paddy, eh?"
"Sure, an' he'll drink a glass wid us yet! But, Heavens! what a hole!" exclaimed the Irishman, looking at the gaping wound in Claud's shoulder.
"Get his dressing out," said Bill.
Paddy made to rip the dressing out of Claud's jacket. Alas! man proposes and the Turk disposes. A sniper's rifle pinged, and a bullet hit Paddy in the arm. It fell, shattered and useless.
"Back, Paddy—into the trenches for your life. I'll carry Claud."
The brave Irishman, realising he was now useless, reluctantly obeyed. Bill then heaved Claud over his shoulder and followed hard.
Bang! Bang! Bang! went the Turkish rifles. Claud was hit in the hand, and poor Bill struck in the leg and back; then he fell exhausted into the trench, the wounded Claud on top.
"Bravo! Buster—you're a white man, anyway," said the Colonel.
"A done man, Colonel," said Bill with a wan smile as he fainted away. His wounds and Claud's wounds were bound with the Colonel's own hand. Then commenced the weary procession through trench after trench to the hospital below. They were but two in a cavalcade of thousands. They passed from the zones of dead into the camp of tears and moaning. Men shattered and dying were there; others, more fortunate, wetted their lips and eased their way to God.
Poor Claud and Bill arrived, senseless, almost lifeless. But kind hands staunched their wounds, allayed their thirst, and carried them on board the ship for Alexandria. There they found the first taste of that gentle peace which is soothing to the heart of every nerve-racked soldier. Nourishment soon brought them round. And, strange to say, both returned from the land of wanderings to the delights of reality at the same time.
"Bill! Bill!" muttered Claud as he came round. "I'm here, ole sport," said Bill, holding out his pale, wan hand.
"Good! But where's Paddy?"
"Sure, an ould Paddy's here," roared Doolan from a berth on the other side of the deck.
"Thank God!" And Claud tumbled into a more natural sleep, refreshed with the thought that at least two out of his three friends still lived.
Sips of brandy, drops of milk, clean bandages, and willing Australian nurses soon brought the genial three round to a more normal state. And in speaking of Australian nurses, let me say that they are the finest girls in the hospital world. They may laugh, they may flirt, but they can work. They have no side and no false airs. They want to do their job in the quickest, kindest, quietest way that can be found.
The great ship slipped through the breakwater of Alexandria. Hundreds awaited her coming—nurses, doctors, and friends. Bill and Claud could not get up to view the scene. But Paddy watched it all. His eyes scanned the faces on shore. At last they rested on a familiar figure—a girl with a beautiful form, a charming but an anxious face. Yes, it was Sybil Graham. He slipped down to the ward below and stepped to Claud's bed.
"I've seen her, and doesn't she look swate?"
"Who?" said Claud in a knowing way.
"Sybil, ye fathead! And, mind ye, mine's a kiss for bringing the news."
"Right, old chap; and I'll see that you get it," said the now excited owner of this Australian girl's heart.
The boat was now alongside. Ropes were down and fixed. The shore gangway was up, and, in response to the somewhat wild and frantic shouts and grins of Paddy Doolan, Sybil Graham dashed up the steps three at a time.
"Oh, Paddy!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "Where is he?"
"This way, ye darlint." And down into the ward leaped the now madly excited Irishman. Sybil followed. As she reached the foot of the stairs she saw her lover. Nurses, doctors, and patients were then startled with a shriek of delight from a beautiful vision who pounced to a bed and smothered her hero with kisses. Bill and Paddy watched it all.
"Say, Miss Sybil, where do I come in?" said Bill with a sort of well-feigned growl.
"Surely! There'sonefor you, you dear, dear old bushman," she said, kissing his black-bearded lips.
"Here, Sybil, isn't it Paddy's turn now? He brought the news of you."
"Oh, you lovable Irish rogue—you're worth the kissing—you helped my boy to safety too." And so Paddy received his dues.
"And now, miss," said a smiling nurse, "we're going to take those three lovers of yours to hospital in Cairo."
"How mean of you," said Sybil with a smile. "Of course, you can't prevent me from seeing them there?"
"Certainly not, my girl. That will be the biggest part of their cure."
"Oh, by the way, I've news for you, boys," said Sybil, turning again:
"Bill, you've got the V.C."
"Paddy, you've got the V.C."
"Claud, you've got a commission."
"And you—eh?" smiled Claud.
"Well—yes."
"And very nice too," whispered a doctor into the nurse's ear as the very happy girl went out.
(Extract from Cairo Press)
"At Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo, Lieutenant Claud Dufair, eldest son of Lord Dufair, to Sybil Graham, daughter of "Bob" Graham, of New South Wales. Private Bill Buster, V.C., and Private Doolan, V.C., acted as groomsmen. Colonel Killem, D.S.O., also attended the ceremony. The happy couple left for a three days' honeymoon, as Lieutenant Dufair is returning to the trenches."