← catalogue

A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front

by Percy F. Westerman · English · Gutenberg #40073 · 412,640 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: Walter Paget


        
Release date: June 24, 2012 [eBook #40073]
                Most recently updated: November 27, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40073

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIVELY BIT OF THE FRONT: A TALE OF THE NEW ZEALAND RIFLES ON THE WESTERN FRONT ***




Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen




A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT


BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
50 Old Bailey, LONDON
17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW

BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY

BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
TORONTO

[Frontispiece: HE HAD BLUNDERED RIGHT INTO A PARTY OF HUNS]


A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT

A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles
on the Western Front

BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Illustrated by Wal Paget

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW


By Percy F. Westerman

  Captain Fosdyke's Gold.
  In Defiance of the Ban.
  Captain Sang.
  The Senior Cadet.
  The Amir's Ruby.
  The Secret of the Plateau.
  Leslie Dexter, Cadet.
  All Hands to the Boats.
  A Mystery of the Broads.
  Rivals of the Reef.
  A Shanghai Adventure.
  Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
  The Junior Cadet.
  Captain Starlight.
  The Sea-Girt Fortress.
  On the Wings of the Wind.
  Captured at Tripoli.
  Captain Blundell's Treasure.
  The Third Officer.
  Unconquered Wings.
  The Riddle of the Air.
  Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
  Clipped Wings.
  The Luck of the "Golden Dawn ".
  The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
  Winning his Wings.
  A Lively Bit of the Front.
  A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
  The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
  East in the "Golden Gain"
  The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
  Sea Scouts Abroad.
  Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
  The Wireless Officer.
  A Lad of Grit.
  The Submarine Hunters.
  Sea Scouts All.
  The Thick of the Fray.
  A Sub and a Submarine.
  Under the White Ensign.
  The Fight for Constantinople.
  With Beatty off Jutland.
  The Dispatch Riders.

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow


  Contents
  CHAP.
      I. MALCOLM CARR'S DECISION
     II. No. 99,109, R/M CARR
    III. THE FIRST TREK
     IV. THE INTERRUPTED CONCERT
      V. BROKEN DOWN IN MID-OCEAN
     VI. MAN OVERBOARD
    VII. QUITS!
   VIII. LEFT BEHIND
     IX. IN THE RING
      X. VOLUNTEERS FOR THE STOKEHOLD
     XI. CORNERED
    XII. RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
   XIII. NEWS OF PETER
    XIV. THE ANZACS' HOAX
     XV. THE EVE OF MESSINES
    XVI. KONRAD VON FELDOFFER
   XVII. OVER THE TOP
  XVIII. THE CAPTURED TRENCH
    XIX. TRAPPED IN A DUG-OUT
     XX. THE WAY OUT
    XXI. OUT OF TOUCH
   XXII. A PRISONER OF WAR
  XXIII. AT DÜREN CAMP
   XXIV. ESCAPE
    XXV. ON THE BARGE
   XXVI. AT THE FRONTIER
  XXVII. THE END OF A SPY
 XXVIII. IN THE FIRING-LINE AGAIN
   XXIX. THE BATTLE IN THE MUD
    XXX. THE LAST STAND

Illustrations

  HE HAD BLUNDERED RIGHT INTO A PARTY OF HUNS (Frontispiece)
  "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"
  "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM
  "IT'S SPUD MURPHY AND JOE JENNINGS!"


A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT




CHAPTER I

Malcolm Carr's Decision


"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the open
doorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.

"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get your
letters before we start. Expecting anything important?"

Malcolm Carr was a typical specimen of the youthful New Zealander.
Although only seventeen years of age, he was a full inch over six
feet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, was
sparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut and
slightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. His
deep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness of
vision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.

He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskin
riding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latter
provided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leather
case that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather.
Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to his
up-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt a
canvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.

His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearance
and attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm--they
raise tall youths in New Zealand--of greater girth, and slightly
heavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrast
to the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr prided
himself.

Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of the
Dominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in the
survey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about to
be commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.

It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. The
month was November--late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen,
yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away to
the west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps,
some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To the
eastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly country
merged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores of
Pegasus Bay.

Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents there
were no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and far
between in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent road
separated the camp from the nearest village, while another forty
miles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch--Malcolm's
home--was reached.

"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as he
turned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour of
frying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding.
"Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be a
jolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of the
Boss yet?"

Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table for
breakfast--the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interior
of the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairs
occupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against the
walls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled with
plans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagre
supply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was a
door leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple of
sporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning one
of those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization--a motor tyre.

It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxious
for the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube was
wanted--badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernaut
making the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the coming
Saturday.

Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under a
rick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient and
composite design--partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with a
suspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the _tout ensemble_--the
wondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given to Peter and Malcolm
Carr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, the
two brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of servile
tractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare in
Christchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanent
record of Juggernaut's frailties.

Peter Carr--big, easy-going, generous Peter--had gone two years
previously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part in
the repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroic
yet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as a
scratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From Gallipoli
Peter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. But
before going on active service Peter had disposed of his share of
juggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping to
mitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older,
and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, and
vicissitudes of fighting the Boche.

"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.

"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into the
hut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu's
taken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in his
office at nine."

Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to a
thorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.

"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as a
buggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down the
dusty road.

Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited the
postman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While the
representative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the lad
could obtain his mails without having to go down to the works
office.

"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handed
him a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll be
able to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! More
of them? A regular budget, Mike!"

Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over four
newspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignment
showed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.

The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brother
Peter--"Somewhere in France".

  "DEAR MALCOLM (it ran),

  "U-boats and other noxious German insects permitting, I hope this
  will reach you. I cannot say much beyond that we are very busy on
  our sector of the Front. I'm afraid you'll be too late to join me
  out here, unless the war goes on for another two or three years.
  Our chaps are of the opinion that it won't. We are having a
  thundering good time, with plenty of excitement. I have a Hun
  helmet for you. I gained it properly, after a tough scrap in a
  mine gallery, but cannot give details. It's no more risky out here
  than it is driving juggernaut through the market-square on a
  Saturday night. By the by, how goes the old chariot? Must knock
  off now, as I have to write to the guv'nor. It is now a quarter to
  five, and we parade at half-past for (_words deleted with blue
  pencil_).
                          "Your loving brother,
                                     "PETER S. CARR."

The next letter was from Malcolm's father, above referred to as the
"guv'nor".

  "DEAR MALCOLM,

  "Just received a cablegram: 'No. 04452, Sergeant P. Carr, reported
  wounded and missing.' There are no further details, but as several
  of our Christchurch friends have received similar news, it is
  evident that the Nth reinforcements have been in the thick of it.
  Just what Peter wanted, dear lad! Cannot write more, as I can
  hardly realize the import of the cablegram. Hope to see you on
  Saturday.
                          "Your loving father,
                                     "FRANK CARR."

Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in its
envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded
and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were
greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the
mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New
Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother
had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left
behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood
less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able
to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun
brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into
the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the
only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate
friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great
sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of
the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder
brother----

"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are
two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a
farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru
dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"

"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.

For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping
his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the
lads within.

Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.

"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's
plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in
and join up."




CHAPTER II

No. 99,109, R/M Carr


"You can't," said Dick. "For one thing, you are tied to your job;
for another, you are not old enough."

"I'll have a jolly good shot at it anyhow," declared Malcolm
resolutely. "Plenty of chaps have gone to the front at sixteen or
seventeen. Ted Mostyn, for example; he's only eighteen, and he's
back with two buckshees (wounds) already."

"_Kia ora_, then, old chap," exclaimed Selwyn. "I hope you'll pull
it off."

Both lads set to work to fit the new inner tube and replace
juggernaut's front off-side wheel. This task completed, Malcolm
washed the dirt and grease from his hands, saddled his horse, and
set off for the office of Mr. Hughes, the Head of the Wairakato
Survey.

"Morning, Malcolm!" was that worthy's genial greeting. "Where's
Selwyn? Coming along, is he? That's good. I wanted to see you about
that section of pipe-line that has been giving trouble. Did you
bring your rough book?"

Not until the matter of the survey had been gone thoroughly into did
young Carr tackle his principal.

"I want to know," he began, straight to the point, "I if you could
release me at noon."

"Certainly!" was the ready response. "The work is well in hand, and
I believe you haven't had leave for some months."

"For the duration of the war, I mean," continued Malcolm.

"For the duration of the what?" exclaimed the astonished Hughes.
"Dash it all, what's the war to do with you? They haven't put you in
the ballot by mistake?"

"No," replied the lad. "It's like this. But perhaps I'd better show
you the governor's letter."

Mr. Hughes read the proffered document.

"I see," he said gravely. "And you wish to avenge your brother?"

"Not avenge--it's duty," corrected Malcolm. "I can't exactly
explain---- Now Peter's gone----"

"You have no positive information on that point, Malcolm."

"Wounded and missing--that means that there is no longer a member of
our family in the firing-line. I'm seventeen, I'm a sergeant in the
cadet corps, physically fit, and all that sort of thing. And I don't
suppose they'll be too particular as to my age if I forget to say
that I was born somewhere about the year 1900."

The Boss considered for some moments.

"I won't stand in your way, my boy," he said kindly. "After all, the
actual work here won't start until after the war. The preliminary
surveys can still go on. All right, Malcolm! jolly good luck and all
that sort of thing, you know. Come and lunch with me before you
start."

The morning passed ever so slowly. Contrary to his usual manner,
Malcolm found his thoughts wandering from his work. The desire to be
up and doing, to push on with his share in the great adventure,
gripped his mind to the exclusion of all other topics. In the ranks
of the Dominion lads there was one of many gaps waiting specially
for him to fill, and he meant to fill it worthily.

On his way back to the hut, after having lunched with Mr. Hughes,
Malcolm encountered a sturdy Maori.

"Hallo, Te Paheka!" he exclaimed. "You're just the man I want to
see. You want another motor-car? All right, come with me to
Christchurch, and you can have my blessed car. That's a bargain."

Te Paheka was a typical specimen of a twentieth-century Maori. He
was a tall, heavily-built, muscular man of about forty-five years of
age, and lived at a _whare_ about three miles from the camp. In his
youth he had been given a thoroughly sound college education, and
had gone to England in order to graduate. As a scholar he shone; as
a business man he was a failure, owing to the fatal and all too
common trait amongst Maoris of the educated class of pleasure in the
spending of money, and, oddly enough, to an inherent tendency to
relapse, if only temporarily, to an aboriginal existence.

Te Paheka owned a considerable amount of land. Frequently he sold
tracts of ground to settlers, displaying much shrewdness in the
various transactions. He never went back on his word. To those who
dealt fairly and squarely with him he was a stanch friend, but it
was his boast that no white man would have the opportunity of
letting him down a second time.

With the proceeds of the sales Te Paheka would come into the nearest
large town, and have a right royal time while funds lasted. Usually
his weakness in that direction was a motor-car. He had been known to
go to the largest dealers in Christ-church and purchase the swiftest
car procurable, drive it at breakneck speed until he collided with
something, and then sell the remains and retire to his _pah_ until
he found an opportunity for another exuberance of pecuniary
extravagance. But of late Te Paheka had fallen on hard times. The
war had hit him badly. With the heavy drain upon New Zealand's man
power and the sudden and marked diminution in the stream of
immigrants, the opportunities to sell land vanished, and with them
the prospects of buying another motor-car.

Malcolm knew this. He also had found the Maori ready to do him a
good turn. On one occasion Te Paheka had extricated the lad from a
dangerous position during a landslide on the Wairakato Ridge; and
now the chance had arrived to repay the courteous native by making
him a present of the ancient but still active Juggernaut.

"Would I not?" was Te Paheka's reply to the lad's offer. "Yes, I'll
take great care of her for your sake, Mr. Malcolm. What can I knock
out of her--a good fifty?"

"Hardly," replied Malcolm, laughing. The idea of juggernaut ambling
along at nearly a modest mile a minute was too funny. "Come along. I
am starting for home at three o'clock."

"I suppose you'll let me drive?" enquired Te Paheka.

Mental visions of seeing juggernaut toppling over the edge of
Horseshoe Bend, and crashing upon the rock four or five hundred feet
below, prompted Malcolm to a discreet reply.

"It's my last chance of driving a car for a very long time, Te
Paheka," he said diplomatically. "You'll be able to do what you like
with her after I get home."

"You lucky bounder!" was Dick Selwyn's greeting when the chums met
at the hut. "The Boss is a decent sort. He might very well have put
the tin hat on your suggestion. Shall I lend a hand with your gear?"

"Packed already," announced Malcolm. "All except my .303 rifle and
the greenheart rod. Thought they might come in useful for you, and I
don't suppose I'll need them in a hurry."

With hardly anyone to see him off, excepting a couple of Maori lads
who were employed as messengers, Malcolm, accompanied by Te Paheka,
set off on the momentous journey that was to end--where? Perhaps in
France, perhaps on the high seas. He found himself counting the
chances of getting back to New Zealand. Would it be as a wounded,
perhaps crippled man, or as a hale and hearty veteran after that
still remote day when peace is to be declared, and German militarism
crushed once and for all time?

Without incident the lad brought the car to a standstill in the
market-place of Christchurch. Te Paheka, torn between the desire to
run away with his new gift and to wish his white friend farewell and
_kia ora_ in a manner worthy of a dignified and old-standing Maori
gentleman, looked like prolonging the leave-taking ceremony
indefinitely, until he leave-taking happened to see the tail-end of
a Napier racing car disappearing round the corner.

"There's Tom Kaiwarawara with his new motor, Malcolm!" he exclaimed,
making a dash for juggernaut's steering-wheel. "Golly, I'll catch
him up or bust. _Kia ora_, Malcolm."

And the last the lad saw of juggernaut was the car cutting round a
sharp corner at a good twenty-five miles an hour, whilst pedestrians
scattered right and left to avoid being run down.

"I'll see Te Paheka's name in the papers before a week's up," mused
juggernaut's late owner. "Either in the police-court intelligence or
in the inquest reports."

"I am not at all surprised at your decision, Malcolm," said his
father, when the lad had reported the progress of his quick yet
carefully considered project. "I can see that you are resolved, and
on that account I won't stand in your way. After all's said and
done, you are likely to make a far more efficient soldier than some
men I know who have had to go. And the old adage 'a volunteer is
worth two pressed men' still holds good. Unless a man has his heart
in his work he's not likely to shine at his job."

Two hours later Malcolm Carr duly enlisted, and for many a day his
official designation was to be No. 99,109, Rifleman Carr, N.Z. Rifle
Brigade.




CHAPTER III

The First Trek


"Cheer-oh, Malcolm!"

Carr gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment; then, recovering
himself, grasped Dick Selwyn's outstretched hand.

"Bless my soul, Dick, what brings you here?"

"Same job as yours," replied Selwyn. "Do you think I am going to let
you have _all_ the fun? You _impshied_ without even asking me to
chip in. Enough to make a fellow cut up rough with his joining chum.
So I rode down, and now I'm up."

"And Hughes?"

"He's great--absolutely! Never even murmured when he had two fellows
chucking their hands in on the same day. Told me he could get along
very well without us. I doubt it though. Smithers is an ass with the
theodolite, and Hedger's 'trig' is rotten. By the by, on my way down
last night I passed Te Paheka."

"Going strong?"

"Very," replied Selwyn, grinning. "He was sitting on a pine-trunk
half-way up the Horseshoe. There were a few disintegrated remains of
Juggernaut on the track, the bulk of the wreckage was down the
valley."

Early in the afternoon a batch of recruits, amongst them Malcolm and
Dick, left Christchurch for Port Lyttelton to embark for Wellington,
and thence to Featherston Camp.

With a very few exceptions the men, although still in civilian
clothes, bore themselves erect, and marched in a way that would have
evoked praise from an English drill sergeant. The exceptions were
those men who for some reason had not undergone military training
while at school. Now they had cause to regret the omission. They
were mere beginners at the great game of war, while others, younger
in years, were already their seniors in the profession of arms.

At Featherston Malcolm worked harder than ever he did before, but it
was interesting work. Drills and parades, from early morn till late
in the afternoon, soon brought the detachment up to a state
bordering upon perfection, and the word went round that the
Thirty-somethingth reinforcements would be sent to France some weeks
earlier than the usual time, thanks to the efficiency of all ranks.

There was one man, however, who proved a sort of
stumbling-block--Rifleman Dowit. It was soon a standing joke that
Dowit never could "do it" properly, except to grouse. Yet he was
justified in his boast that he had put the Brigade Staff to
ignominious flight.

It was on the bombing-instruction ground. The preliminary course
with dummy bombs had been completed, and now came the exciting part
of this particular branch of training--hurling live Mills' bombs.

A squad, including Carr and Selwyn, had been marched down to the
bombing-trench, where each man had to throw three bombs over the
parapet at a target twenty yards away. It was a bright moonlit
night, which perhaps accounted for the good attendance on the part
of the Brigade Staff to witness the operations.

"I wonder how Dowit will manage," remarked Dick to his chum. "The
man can't throw straight, or anything like it. He'll be hitting the
top of the parapet, and letting the bombs tumble back into the
trench. I vote we _impshie_ round a traverse when he starts."

"It wouldn't be a bad move to warn the sergeant," rejoined Malcolm.

The order to commence was given. Most of the men acquitted
themselves well, including Carr and Selwyn. Then came Rifleman
Dowit's turn.

"Here you are, Dowit," said the sergeant, handing him the three
dangerous missiles. "Do you want me to say it _all_ over again?
'Hold the bomb firmly in the right hand, at the same time gripping
the lever. Withdraw the safety-pin, and----' Here, you idiot, what
_are_ you doing?"

Rifleman Dowit had removed the safety-pin, and was whirling the
missile round and round at arm's length. At every complete circle
the head of the bomb missed the edge of the parapet by a
hair-breadth. If the wielder had omitted to grip the lever, then in
four seconds----!

Already, in anticipation of the rifleman's awkwardness, the rest of
the squad were either flat on their faces or else disappearing round
the traverse into the adjoining bays. The sergeant alone stood his
ground.

Describing a magnificent parabola, the released bomb hurtled through
the air; but instead of towards the target it was whizzing in the
opposite direction--straight for the group of officers standing a
dozen yards from the rear of the trench. They promptly and
precipitately scattered, some taking to their heels, others throwing
themselves flat upon their faces in momentary expectation of a
terrific explosion. A subaltern, however, did his best to avert the
threatened catastrophe. Picking up a conveniently-placed sandbag, he
hurled it at the now motionless bomb, missed it, but caught the
recumbent form of a portly major squarely between the shoulders.

Pluckily the subaltern did the next best thing. At imminent danger
he placed his foot upon the latent missile of destruction and
waited.

"It's all right, sir," exclaimed the sergeant, who had clambered
over the parados and run to the extended group of officers. "It's
only a dummy. I had my doubts about Rifleman Dowit, and a thundering
good job I did," he added grimly.

"Bring the man here," ordered the major breathlessly, for the blow
from the sandbag had shaken him considerably.

Thereupon Rifleman Dowit was given a good dressing down and promptly
transferred to the bearer section. For the time being he passes out
of this story, but we shall hear of him again.

Malcolm and Dick found bayonet exercise exciting work--thrusting at
suspended sacks stuffed with straw called for strength and strenuous
activity--while at the ranges both lads gained a high percentage of
bulls, and in a very short while the "crossed rifles ", denoting
marksmanship, ornamented the sleeves of their uniforms.

Before the training course at Featherston was completed, Malcolm won
his sergeant's stripes, while Dick was made full corporal. Both the
lads knew that it was but a temporary step, all non-coms. reverting
to riflemen on arrival in England, before proceeding across to
France. Nevertheless the rank conferred certain privileges upon the
holders, besides giving them valuable experience in the duties of
non-commissioned officers.

During their leisure hours there was plenty to amuse the men in
camp. A battalion picture-theatre, billiard rooms, voluntary
swimming parades, boxing, and a variety of other indoor and outdoor
games contributed to the men's enjoyment; and, although discipline
was well enforced, there was a total absence of irritating petty
restrictions that form a constant source of annoyance to the men of
the New Armies of the Motherland.

At last came the welcome news of a parade at midnight in full
marching order. Every man of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements
knew what that meant: a move to Trentham--the final camp before
embarkation. It was a point of honour that no man should fall out
during the arduous fourteen-hours' march over The Summit. Malcolm
would never forget that midnight trek. It was a perfectly still
evening. The Southern Cross was blazing in the sky. The air was warm
but bracing.

Out of the lines of tin huts the two thousand five hundred men
comprising the draft poured forth like bees. They made plenty of
noise, "barracking" each other like boys out of school. The utmost
enthusiasm prevailed, yet despite the turmoil the sense of
discipline made itself felt.

In full marching order the men set out briskly to the strains of the
band that was to play them for the first few miles of the route.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, crowds of civilian friends
of the departing troops accompanied them--in motor-cars, horsed
vehicles, mounted, and on foot. New Zealand knew how to bid her sons
a fitting farewell.

Once clear of the camp (the band having carried out its part of the
business) the men burst into song. It was an unwritten law that each
draft should attempt to sing all the way to The Summit, and the
Thirty-somethingth was not going to be outdone.

Mile after mile of the steep ascent the men toiled gamely. Backs
began to ache under the drag of the packs; entrenching tools began
to make their presence aggressively known as they chafed the men's
legs; rifles were being constantly shifted from shoulder to shoulder
or carried at the trail, as the weapons seemingly increased in
weight at each step. Yet not a man fell out, nor did the singing
cease until the order was given to halt at The Summit.

"A smart bit of work. The boys are in fine fettle," remarked
Platoon-sergeant Fortescue to Malcolm. "I had my doubts about Tosher
Phillips. He is the weak link in the chain, so to speak."

"As a matter of fact," rejoined Malcolm, "the man has galls on his
heels to the size of half-crowns, and one boot is almost full of
blood. He wouldn't take advantage of a lift in one of the
wagons--said he'd rather stick it."

"By Jove!" ejaculated Fortescue. "Is that so? Then I think I must
call back all I said concerning Tosher. All the same, I'll speak to
the Company Officer and get him to order the man to fall out. The
boy's shown his grit; that's the main thing."

Sergeant Fortescue was a man of about thirty years of age, and a
seasoned veteran. English born and bred, he had gained a degree at
Cambridge, and, failing to turn it to any good account, had been
sent to New Zealand by his disappointed father.

In the Dominion he found that he was "up against something" in which
an ornate classical education did not count. Down on his luck, he
tried for a clerical post in a Wellington lawyer's office.

"Any qualifications?" enquired the lawyer.

"Er--well, I'm considered good at Greek Iambics and Latin Prose,
don't you know."

"'Fraid you've come to the wrong shop," rejoined the man of law
bluntly. "This is a live country, not a dead one. Good morning!"

So Fortescue drifted up-country and found employment on a farm. It
was hard work. The polished 'Varsity man, who hardly knew how to use
a saw or to drive a nail in straight, found it particularly so. He
had grit. He got on well with his fellow farm hands, who promptly
dubbed him "Fortyscrews", a name that was eventually cut down to
"Screws". He accepted the nickname cheerfully, stuck to his job, and
in five years saved enough to start sheep-farming on his own
account.

Then came the war. Fortescue promptly "sold out" and enlisted. At
Gallipoli he acquitted himself manfully, was mentioned for gallantry
in an affair at Quinn's Post, and was brought back to Alexandria in
a hospital ship, with a wound sufficiently dangerous to smash many a
man up completely.

Given the chance of being sent either to England or to New Zealand,
he chose the latter alternative. In six months he was himself again.
Re-enlisting, he was offered a staff job at Featherston, but
declined it, preferring to see more fun at the Front. For the second
time Trevor Fortescue had marched over The Summit on the long trail
that ended within sight and sound of hostile guns.

Dusty, tired, footsore, but in high spirits, the Thirty-somethingth
marched into camp at Trentham. Their stay was but a short one, for
three days later the reinforcement embarked at Wellington on
Transport 99 for England--and France.




CHAPTER IV

The Interrupted Concert


Transport 99, otherwise the S.S. _Awarua_, was a single-screw vessel
of 8000 tons. Originally a combined passenger and cargo boat, she
had been ruthlessly converted into a troop-conveying ship, and the
internal rearrangements were not by any means suitable for her new
rôle. Nevertheless, after the first few days, when many of the men
were prostrate with sea-sickness, the troops soon accustomed
themselves to their new conditions, and settled down with the fixed
determination to make the voyage a sort of maritime picnic.

"Say, Quarter," began Fortescue, addressing the
Quartermaster-sergeant, "how about a sing-song on the mess deck this
evening? Most of the boys have found their sea-legs, and there's no
lack of talent."

"Good idea!" replied the Q.M.S. "We'll form ourselves into an
entertainment committee. Let me see: there's Sergeant Thomson, he's
a bit of a vocalist."

"Unfortunately he shot his false teeth over the side last night,"
reported Malcolm. "He was so jolly bad that he never realized his
loss till this morning. He's out of it, I fancy."

"We'll put him down anyway," declared Fortescue. "There's M'Kie and
Macdonald: they'll open with a duet on the bagpipes."

Other names were submitted and approved, not-withstanding the fact
that their owners were not consulted on the matter.

"How about the officers?" enquired Selwyn. "They are to be invited,
I suppose?"

"Rather," replied Fortescue. "By the way, what has Lieutenant
Nicholson been doing to get his left optic in a sling? He wasn't
looking skywards out of one of the ports when Thomson jettisoned his
ivories?"

"Dunno," replied the M. S. "He was all right when he went the rounds
last night."

"I know," chipped in another N.C.O. "It was the Padre."

"The Padre!" exclaimed half a dozen voices. "Our Padre been
scrapping?"

"Hardly!" was the reply. "He shares a two-bunk berth with the
Lieutenant. Padre has, or had, the upper bunk, and he tops the scale
at sixteen stone. I don't insinuate, mind you, that any of the
fellows tampered with the ironwork, but all the same the bunk
collapsed, and our Padre subsided heavily upon poor little
Nicholson."

"We'll get the company poet to write up a special stanza and recite
it at the concert," declared Fortescue. "Sort of object lesson on
the way our Padre tackles sin."

The men, remembering that the Lieutenant's initials were S.I.N.,
laughed uproariously. These impromptu concerts gave them poetic
licence to joke at the expense of their officers. The latter, too,
were quite used to that sort of thing. In fact they enjoyed it. Even
the popular Padre found these entertainments a welcome antidote to
the dull business of censoring letters.

The concert--as far as it went--was a huge success. According to
_The Deep Sea Roll_, the Thirty-somethingth's magazine, the opening
items and the honorary reporter's notes were as follows:--

"A duet by the brothers Mac. I thought they would never finish, due
mainly to Macdonald, who had his Scotch blood up and his bagpipes in
good wind."

"Sergeant Thomson next stepped into the ring and gave 'Thora' a slap
up. It was a pity he lost his teeth, but, thank goodness, he has not
lost his voice."

"Tiny Anderson's voice was like his size--tremendous. 'Asleep in the
Deep' was his song. I thought he _was_ asleep at one part of it."

There was no lack of enthusiasm on the part of the audience. The
men, packed like sardines in a barrel, filled the mess-deck almost
to suffocation, their boisterous applause increasing in volume as
item succeeded item in quick succession.

"Item seven--Cornet Competition," announced Sergeant Fortescue.
"Sisters Howard and O'Dowd have kindly consented to act as judges."

Prolonged sounds of cheering greeted the two Red Cross nurses as
they stepped upon the platform with marked timidity. They would
perhaps--and did--unhesitatingly and calmly assist the medical
officers in their work of mercy and within range of hostile shells,
but their present task was an ordeal.

Four strapping young fellows, each armed with a highly-polished
cornet, appeared and stood facing their critical audience, receiving
their caustic comments with a studied indifference.

"Rifleman Gilway."

Rifleman Gilway advanced two paces, lifted the instrument to his
lips, and distended his cheeks. Beyond an eerie gurgle ("the last
gasp of a dying flounder", according to the above-quoted honorary
reporter) not a sound came from the cornet. The audience, rocking
with laughter, threw shouts of encouragement and advice to the
would-be musician, but all in vain. Rifleman Gilway's eyes were
riveted upon the half of a cut, juicy lemon displayed within six
inches of his face by a waggish subaltern. The sight of the acid
fruit effectually prevented the man getting a single note out of the
instrument. He puffed and blew like a grampus, the tears ran down
his distended cheeks, and the perspiration oozed from his forehead,
till in disgust he retired from the contest.

Cornet No. 2 shared the same fate, after a gallant struggle. By this
time the audience was almost silent. The men could laugh no longer.
They were almost on the verge of hysterical tears of excessive
merriment.

The third competitor withdrew without an effort, but the fourth was
something of a strategist. He used his music-card as a screen to
shut out the sight of the tantalizing lemon. By so doing he had to
lean forward slightly. His cheeks were bulging, but again
silence--mysterious silence.

Compared with Rifleman Gilway's efforts those Of Corporal Jephson
were simply terrific. His whole frame shook under the tremendous
force of lung power. The doctor began to shift uneasily in his
chair, anticipating a case of apoplexy. Jephson's face gradually
changed in colour fro light bronze to a deep purple. Something had
to go----

Something did! From the interior of the instrument a wad of paper
was ejected with the velocity of a stone from a catapult. In its
wake followed, a compact mass of viscous substance. Both struck the
waggish subaltern full in the face, and then the nature of the "main
charge" became apparent. It was treacle. A practical joker had
primed Jephson's cornet with the sticky stuff, plugging it with a
wad. Amidst renewed outbursts of cheering the subaltern retired for
repairs and renewals, while the lady judges were fortunately spared
the task of bestowing the palm upon the cornet champion of the
Thirty-somethingths.

More songs followed, then a series of recitations bearing upon
incidents and characters on board Transport No. 99. Many of the
references were pointedly personal; the victims enjoyed them as much
as anyone, for it is difficult to raise a New Zealander's "dander"
by means of a practical joke. And when the reciter commenced a
string of verses portraying the catastrophe in the cabin shared by
Lieutenant Nicholson and the Padre, the former's "Hear, hear!" and
the latter's deep bass laugh were heard above the roars of hilarity.

The composer of the verses had turned the accident into a work of
intent on the Padre's part, representing the latter combating the
evil influence of sin. The reciter began with slight hesitation;
then, finding that he was receiving unstinted approval, he warmed up
to his task.

  "Sin turned in, and soon was heard the music of his snore,
  And then the Padre set to work as none had worked before.
  He got a large belaying-pin, he got the vessel's lead,
  And everything that weighed at all he piled upon the bed.
  He took the screws out, one by one, that held the fixing frail,
  Till all that stood 'twixt him and Sin was but a single nail.
  Then with a fierce look in his eye, as one who thirsts for blood,
  He hurled his weight upon the bunk--there came a sickening thud----"

Crash!

The old _Awarua_ shook under the terrific impact of an unseen force,
listed to starboard, and then slowly recovered, to heel to port.
Simultaneously every electric light on the ship was extinguished,
while above the noise of escaping steam arose the babel of hundreds
of voices as the swarm of humanity slithered in a struggling mass
along the sloping floor of the mess deck.

"Torpedoed, by Jupiter!" shouted a voice. The ominous words were
taken up by others, and in the darkness an ugly rush was made for
the upper deck.




CHAPTER V

Broken down in Mid-ocean


"It's all right, boys!" came a deep voice. "It's only the Padre
fallen out of his bunk again."

The men recognized the voice.

"Good old Padre!" they shouted, and then silence fell upon the
crowd. Someone struck a match, and held it so that the feeble
glimmer shone upon his face. It was the C.O.

"File out in an orderly manner, lads," he ordered. "Fall in on the
upper deck. I'll _follow_ you out. We are not going over the top
this time; when we do I'll take good care to _lead_ you."

On the upper deck a bugle rang out shrilly. The seamen, assisted by
some troops, who, detailed for duty, had not attended the sing-song,
were "standing by" ready to lower away the boats.

Rapidly yet without confusion the mess deck was cleared. The first
signs of panic nipped in the bud, the men were now as cool as
cucumbers.

"How far is it to the nearest land?" enquired one as he ascended the
ladder.

"Less'n half a mile underneath your feet," was the grim answer.

True to his word, the Colonel was the last to leave the mess deck.
As he emerged into the open air he remarked to the Chaplain: "My
word, Padre, heaven forgive you for that lie, but you saved the
situation."

Like most of his comrades, Malcolm Carr was under the impression
that he would soon have to swim for it, unless he was one of the
lucky ones to get told off to the boats. If anyone had suggested
that he was afraid, he would have stoutly repudiated the statement;
but he was conscious of a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of
his stomach. To a man not a sailor by profession the knowledge that
only a comparatively thin steel plate, and fractured at that, is
between him and death by drowning is apt to be decidedly
disconcerting. He had voluntarily contracted to risk his life by
fighting the Boche, but to be "downed" without the chance of seeing
a shot fired in earnest was hardly playing the game.

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

Carr turned his head and peered into the face of his right-hand man.
It was Dick Selwyn.

"Hallo, Dick! I didn't recognize your voice. How goes it?"

"So, so!" replied Dick. "Look here, I vote we stick together. Why
aren't they lowering the boats? They don't seem in any sort of a
hurry."

"Perhaps it is as well. You know----"

Again a bugle rang out. The ranks stiffened.

"Boys!" exclaimed the Colonel; "the Captain has just sent word that
there is no immediate danger. There has been a slight explosion in a
bunker. One compartment--the for'ard stokehold--is flooded. For the
present the men will remain on deck. The cooks will issue a hot
ration. Stand at ease!"

Out came pipes and cigarettes. The men began chatting and yarning,
discussing the possibilities and chances of the catastrophe. The
explosion had been an internal one, sufficient to cripple the
vessel's engines. The question naturally arose as to whether it was
the work of a Hun agent.

"I'd like to know who the idiot was who yelled out something about
being torpedoed," remarked a rifleman.

"I did," owned up the man in question. "What about it?"

"If you were in C Company they'd give you poison," declared the
first speaker contemptuously.

"And," retorted the other, "if I were in C Company I'd take it. As
for----"

"Stop that!" ordered Sergeant Fortescue; then, turning to Malcolm,
he added: "It shows the boys are settling down again. Sort of
psychologic phenomenon; I've noticed it before. While there's danger
they are as well-behaved as kids in a drawing-room; directly it's
over they let themselves go and start treading on each other's
corns. Well, here we are, midway between New Zealand and Cape Horn,
with our engines broken down. A fine old jamboree!"

"We've wirelessed for assistance, I've been told," observed Malcolm.

"Aye," agreed Fortescue, "and received a reply. No. 101, which left
Wellington two days after we did, sends a reassuring message. She's
a faster boat, you know. But I might add," he said, lowering his
voice, "that we've been warned that the _See Adler_ is somewhere
knocking around, and we have to take due precaution. Ah! There you
are. They're serving out small-arms and ammunition to C Company."

The situation was a grave one. Lying helpless on the water was
Transport 99, unescorted and with no other friendly vessel within
ten hours' steaming of her. She was armed with two 4.7 guns both
mounted aft. These were of little use against a swift hostile craft
should the latter approach on a bearing three degrees on either side
of the _Awarua's_ bows. On the other hand there were half a dozen
Maxims and nearly two thousand rifles on board, although these would
be of little use if the raider kept beyond 200 yards' range.

Against an armed and mobile vessel the _See Adler_ would stand but
little chance. She was a sailing craft provided with a powerful
motor installation. Earlier in the year she had caused a certain
amount of sensation by her depredations in the Atlantic, until
British cruisers made that locality too hot for her. She vanished
mysteriously. There were vague rumours that she had been sent to the
bottom by one of the Allied warships. It was now evident that she
had rounded the Horn, making use of her sails only and keeping her
motors for cases of emergency, and at the present was within a few
miles of the transport _Awarua_.

Throughout the rest of the night the transport's crew manned the two
stern-chasers. The Maxims, protected by coal-sacks and mealie-bags,
were kept ready for instant action, while each company took duty in
turn to man the side, ready to supplement the machine- and
quick-firing guns with a fusillade of small arms.

Daybreak came, but with it no signs of the expected raider. Viewed
from the deck, the _Awarua_ showed no trace of the explosion beyond
a slight list to starboard. The steam had been raised from the
auxiliary engines, and the pumps were continuously ejecting water
that made its way from the flooded stokehold to the adjoining
compartments. The ship's artificers were busily engaged in repairing
the fractured main steam-pipe. It was just possible that the vessel
might be able to proceed under her own steam, either back to
Wellington or else to Port Stanley, in the Falkland Islands.
Meanwhile there was no line of churned water extending from under
the vessel's quarter as far as the eye could reach, no dull
reverberations of the "screw". The _Awarua_, lying helpless, rolled
sullenly in the swell at the mercy of wind and ocean current.

Meanwhile the troops were kept fully occupied. Ennui was at all
costs to be banished, and the best antidote for that was plenty of
hard work. Parades, boat drill, physical exercises, almost filled
the bill; but even then there were plenty of enthusiasts to take
part in strenuous games on deck, in which the C.O. and most of the
officers took a personal interest and prominent part.

Just before sunset a blurr of smoke was detected on the horizon.
Transport 101 was arriving upon the scene. Two hours later, in the
starry night, the new arrival came within hailing distance, and
preparations were made to take the _Awarua_ in tow.

By midnight Transport 99 was moving slowly through the water in the
wake of the towing vessel, three hearty cheers from the boys showing
their relief at the thought that the tedious period of immobility
was at an end. The repairs to the steam-pipe were almost completed,
and with reasonable luck the _Awarua_ might be able to proceed under
her own steam before daybreak.

At réveillé Malcolm Carr heard the welcome thud of the propeller.
Going on deck, he found that Transport 101 was hull down to the
west'ard, while a couple of cable-lengths on the _Awarua's_
star-board quarter was a long grey cruiser flying the White Ensign.

Just then one of the crew came aft. Malcolm knew him by sight. He
was a loquacious Welsh-man, always "in the know", and one of the
recognized media between the ship's officers and the rank and file.

"Hallo, Sergeant!" he exclaimed, jerking his thumb in the direction
of the cruiser. "How's that, eh? Sorter objec' lesson on the great
silent navy I'll allow. She's our escort as far as the Falklands."

"She's turned up at just the right moment," remarked Malcolm.

"She's what?" enquired the seaman. "My eye, you don't know nuffink,
Sergeant. She's been hoppin' about us for the last three days. I
'eard our Old Man tell the First Officer so. Got our wireless, but
wouldn't reply."

"Why not?" asked Carr curiously.

"'Cause she was waitin' to mop up that _See Adler_. Kept out of
sight, hoping, in a manner o' speaking, that the Dutchy would have a
smack at us, and then she'd butt in. Howsomever, they say as a jap
cruiser 'as got the hang of the 'Un, an' you chaps 'ave been done
out of a visit to Davy Jones this time."




CHAPTER VI

Man Overboard


"Party, fall in! Sergeant, march the men aft report to the Second
Mate for boat drill. Until you are dismissed you will take your
orders from him."

Sergeant Carr saluted, and then devoted his attention to the squad
fallen in on the upper deck. They were a set of stalwarts, but
without exception were up-country farmers and sheep-shearers before
they left New Zealand for the still distant Front. Until they joined
the S.S. _Awarua_ at Wellington, very few of them had ever seen a
ship's boat.

Transport 99 was forging ahead at a modest 10 or 11 knots. The
21-knot cruiser, although steaming under natural draught, was
cutting rings round her charge, as if reproaching her for her
tardiness. The wind was abeam and fairly fresh, making the old
_Awarua_ roll heavily.

Aft on the port side of the poop stood the Second Mate, a short,
bull-necked, burly man, whose attitude, suggested a bored interest
in the work in hand. He had the old salt's pitying contempt for
"flat-footed landlubbers". Very many times since the outbreak of war
had he been called upon to instruct troops in boat drill, and never
had he seen any practical result of his labours. The monotony of
imparting boat knowledge into the heads of men who possessed not the
slightest inclination towards things nautical irritated him.
Forgetting that his instruction classes were composed of men who
were not seamen, he was apt to give orders without explaining the
precise nature of the various terms he employed, and failure on the
part of his audience to follow his deep-sea phrases reduced him to a
state of profanity.

The boat selected for the drill was a "double-ender" life-boat
hanging in the old-fashioned style of davits. The davits were swung
inboard, the boat resting on "chocks" or hinged pieces of wood
shaped to fit the lower strakes of the boat.

"Now then," began the Second Officer. "In the event of this craft
being torpedoed, you men will form the crew of this boat. At a
prolonged blast on the syren all hands will come to attention and
await orders. At the bugle-call you will throw off coats and boots,
put on life-belts--suppose you know by this time _how_ to put 'em
on?--and fall in by numbers, facing outboard. We'll take the
life-belts for granted."

The men received this part of the instruction without emotion. They
had heard it many times before.

"You are bow, and you are stroke," continued the Second Mate,
addressing two of the men.

"Stroke the bow-wow, Tommy," whispered a wag in an audible aside.
"Now we are getting on. We'll finish up with a bloomin' menagerie."

"Silence, there!" snapped the instructor. "Bow and stroke will jump
into the boat, see that the plug is inserted, and hook the
falls--four hands to man each of the falls. You," addressing the
would-be humorist, "will attend to the gripes----"

"Should have thought that was a job for the doctor," remarked the
man _sotto voce_, at which several of the men within hearing began
to laugh.

"This is no laughing matter, you pack of jackanapes," bawled the now
infuriated ship's officer. "You'd feel a bit sick if you found
yourselves in the ditch through not knowing how to lower away. Now,
then, together."

Out swung the davits, the task rendered difficult by the roll of the
ship, until the boat was ready for lowering.

The Second Mate looked at the surging water, and considered the
erratic rolling motion of the lofty hull. To lower away with a
practised crew manning the falls would entail a certain amount of
risk should the boat surge against the ship's side; with a crowd of
raw amateurs the danger was magnified threefold.

"Good enough!" he ordered. "We'll suppose the lowering and hoisting
part is done. I'll put you through that another day when there's
less sea. Now, stand by."

A shrill rasping of chain and an involuntary cry of mingled surprise
and apprehension from the two in the boat interrupted the Second
Officer's explanation. Accidentally the "stroke" had released the
after disengaging-gear. The next instant the boat was hanging
vertically, held only by the for'ard tackle.

The bowman, making a frantic grab at the upper block of the davit,
hung on like grim death until his feet found a hold on the edge of
the foremost thwart. The boat, swinging like a gigantic pendulum,
was doing her best to stave in her quarter against the ship's side.

The "stroke" was not so fortunate. With the release of the gear the
lower block dealt him a numbing blow on the shoulder. Unable to
grasp any object that might afford security, he fell with
considerable force into the sea.

"Man overboard!" shouted the Second Officer, and picking up a
life-belt he hurled it close to the spot where the luckless fellow
had disappeared. Almost at the same time the sentry let fall the
patent life-buoy.

For some minutes the rest of the squad were too taken aback by the
suddenness of the catastrophe to grasp the situation. The bowman,
more scared than hurt, although considerably shaken, clambered out
of the boat and gained the deck.

"Good heavens," ejaculated Malcolm, "the man overboard can't swim a
stroke!" Heedless of the fact that of all the party he was the only
one who had not removed his boots, Malcolm ran aft. With a bound he
cleared the rail and dived overboard.

Fortunately for him, the _Awarua_ was moving at a comparatively low
speed. As it was, in spite of the momentum of his leap, he struck
the water obliquely, and with a thud that temporarily winded him.

Coming to the surface, he took in a deep breath of salt-laden air,
rubbed the water from his eyes, and looked for the missing man.

On the crest of a roller he espied the rifleman's head and shoulders
and outstretched arms. In the interval that had elapsed between the
accident and Malcolm's dive the ship had travelled a good hundred
yards. Midway between the would-be rescuer and the object of his
attentions floated the life-buoy, its position clearly indicated by
a cloud of calcium smoke. He could see no sign of the life-belt.

Using a powerful trudgeon stroke, Malcolm started and swam towards
the spot where he had caught a momentary glimpse of the man. In less
than two dozen strokes he found that his saturated sleeves hampered
his arms. His boots, too, were acting as a drag, yet there was no
time to tread water and kick them off.

On the crest of the third roller Malcolm again caught sight of the
man. He had ceased to struggle and was floating without any apparent
motion, his head and shoulders clear of the water.

Changing to breast stroke, Carr slid down the slope of the long
roller. Then, as he rose on the succeeding crest, he found that he
was within ten yards of the man.

"Hang it all!" thought Malcolm as he approached. "I might have saved
myself a job. He's better off than I am. The bounder's wearing a
life-saving waistcoat."

"Hallo, Sergeant!" gurgled the rifleman. "Did that rotten boat sling
you out too? When are they going to pick us up? The water's none too
warm. I'm feeling nipped already."

"Oh, it's you, Macready!" exclaimed Malcolm, recognizing a
Canterbury farmer, a fellow of magnificent physique. "When are they
going to pick us up, you ask? Can't say. I rather fancy they'll have
to reverse engines and stop before they lower a boat. That will take
some time."

He waited until he found himself on the crest of a long roller, and
then looked in the direction of the _Awarua_. The transport was now
nearly two miles away. Whether she had slowed down or was still
steaming ahead he could not determine. As far as he could see there
were no signs of a boat being lowered.

Macready was certainly right about the low temperature of the sea.
Already Carr felt the numbing effect of the water. His fingers as he
fumbled with the laces of his boots were practically devoid of
feeling.

"I have one of those air waistcoats," explained the man. "It's only
partly filled. Much as I could manage to do, that. I guess there's a
tidy drop of water got in while I was blowing. If we can get more
wind into the thing it'll support two; at least I hope so. The
fellow at the stores said it would."

"Don't trouble on my account," said Malcolm. "I'll swim to the
life-buoy and bring it back."

The patent life-saving device was still emitting dense clouds of
calcium smoke. Provided the expected rescuing-boat made for that
there was a good chance of Malcolm and the rifleman being picked up,
unless in the meanwhile they were overcome by the acute coldness of
the water.

"Any signs of a boat, Sergeant?" asked the man, as Malcolm,
evidently exhausted by his exertions, pushed the life-buoy before
him to within arm's length of his companion in peril.

Malcolm was reluctantly obliged to admit that the probability of
rescue from that direction was of a diminishing nature. The _Awarua_
was still holding on her course.

"Suppose they think that as we were a pair of fools to be slung
overboard we aren't worth picking up," continued Macready.

Malcolm did not reply. He did not attempt to enlighten the man as to
the reason why there were two "in the ditch" instead of one. He was
also at a loss to explain the apparent callousness of the
responsible officer of Transport 99 in not promptly lowering a boat
and effecting a speedy rescue.

The two men were too intent upon the disappearing _Awarua_ to notice
the approach of the escorting cruiser. The latter was circling round
the transport, and was on the point of turning at a distance of a
mile astern, when the alert officer of the watch noticed the
accident to the boat.

Bringing his telescope to bear upon the _Awarua_, he could see quite
clearly the life-boat hanging by the bow tackle only. As he looked
he was a distant witness of Sergeant Carr's leap into the sea.

Instinctively he grasped the situation and took prompt measures. At
his orders a signalman on the fore bridge set the arms of the
semaphore at "Attention". When the transport acknowledged the
preparatory signal the semaphore began to spell out its message:

"Carry on; we'll pick up your man."

"Away sea-boat's crew," was the next order, and quickly the falls
were manned, and the boat, containing her full complement, lowered
until the keel was within a few feet of the water. Meanwhile the
cruiser's engines had been reversed until her speed diminished five
knots.

"Lower away!" was the next order.

With a resounding "smack" the boat "landed" on the crest of a wave.
Dexterously the patent releasing-gear was operated, and, carried
onward with the momentum imparted by the still-moving cruiser, the
sea-boat shot away from the side of her parent.

The order, "Give way, lads, for all you're worth!" given by the
midshipman in charge, was somewhat unnecessary. At the prospect of
saving life every man was pulling his hardest. The sharp bows of the
boat literally cleft the water.

"Way 'nough. In bow," ordered the midshipman, a youth of sixteen or
seventeen with the assurance of a successful barrister.

As neatly as if he were bringing a picket-boat alongside the
flagship under the super-critical eye of the admiral, the midshipman
steered the boat close to the wellnigh exhausted men. Ready hands
lifted Malcolm and Macready into the stern-sheets, and within seven
minutes of the first order for the sea-boat to be manned, the two
New Zealanders were standing upon the quarter-deck of H.M.S.
_Gosport_.




CHAPTER VII

Quits!


"Take these men to the sick-bay," ordered the officer of the watch;
"they both look pretty well knocked up. Semaphore the convoy and
report that the men have been picked up. We'll see what's to be done
with them later on."

After divisions the Commander reported the circumstances to the
Captain. The latter, being a chartered humorist, signalled No. 99 to
the effect that when boat-lowering practice was again resorted to it
would be advisable to provide ring-bolts and securing lashings to
prevent the soldiers falling overboard; meanwhile he would make sure
of the two he _had_ picked up by keeping them on board the _Gosport_
until her arrival at Port Stanley with the transport under her
charge.

Thus Sergeant Malcolm Carr found himself an honorary member of the
C.P.O.'s mess on board the _Gosport_, one of the earlier type of
"town" cruisers detailed for convoying duties in the South Pacific.

Malcolm thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of being on board a war-ship.
What struck him most was the good order and discipline that
prevailed; everything was "carried out at the double", yet there was
a total absence of unnecessary noise. Compared with the somewhat
boisterous conditions obtaining on board Transport 99, the _Gosport_
was a floating model of smartness and efficiency.

"Do you know anything about a kangaroo, Sergeant?" enquired a burly
armourer's mate.

It was Thursday--"make and mend" afternoon. The ship's company was
allowed a period of comparative relaxation. Being fine weather, most
of the "I watch below" were on deck, sunning themselves upon the
raised fo'c'sle.

"A kangaroo?" repeated Malcolm cautiously, half suspecting that the
man was trying to "pull his leg".

"Yes," replied the other, a proper kangaroo. "You ought to know a
lot about them, since they come from down your way."

"I'm afraid you are mistaken," said Carr. "I have seen kangaroos in
New Zealand, but they were looked upon as animal curiosities. Why do
you ask?"

"We've got a kangaroo for a ship's mascot. Had it given us when we
were coaling ship at Sydney. The brute is pining. He won't tackle
ship's beef or condensed milk. His hay ration's expended, but the
cook's keeping him going on biscuit mashed in 'bubbly'. Some of the
men suggested cocoa as a change of diet. We thought perhaps, seeing
that you were an Anzac, that you Could tell us what's the correct
grub for the brute."

"It's want of exercise that's put Panjie off 'is feed, Bill,"
interposed a leading signalman. "That's what's done it."

"Maybe you're right," was the armourer's mate's grudging concession.

"And if," continued the "bunting-tosser", carried away by his
brilliant brain-wave, "Panjie was to fall in with the
physical-exercise party, an' skip round the ship 'arf a dozen times
afore breakfast, I'll allow he'd scoff his 'ard tack without a
murmur."

In the course of the afternoon a request was forwarded to the
Commander that the kangaroo should be allowed on deck for exercise.
The paper, marked "Approved, provided due precautions are taken",
was returned to the members of the "Mascot Committee".

Without further delay preparations were made for the kangaroo's
course of physical exercise. A space between two of the casemate
guns of the starboard side was barricaded off, the officers'
practice nets having been loaned for the event.

Practically all the ship's company crowded round to witness the
show. Every coign of vantage was packed with interested lower-deck
humanity, while from both the fore and after bridges the officers
forgathered to watch the performance.

Panjie's cage, carried by half a dozen lusty blue-jackets, was
deposited in close proximity to the only opening left in the
extensive corral. Not since the eventful day when the _Gosport's_
barbers close-clipped Bingo, the monkey, had such interest been
shown in any unofficial incident. Bingo was Panjie's predecessor, a
large Madagascar ape. Curiosity concerning a barrel of coal-tar led
to Bingo's undoing. Cropping, and afterwards washing the animal with
grease and paraffin, were the only remedies, and but temporary; for,
shorn of its warm fur, the monkey caught pneumonia and succumbed.

Heralded by the chief keeper, a corporal of Red Marines, the
kangaroo leapt lightly into the arena in an attitude reminiscent of
a light-weight boxer. It was a half-grown animal of about four feet
six inches in height. Apparently indifferent to the grant of limited
freedom, it ambled to a recess formed by the side of the casemate
and the raised coaming of a closed ammunition-hoist.

"Put a pair of boxing-gloves on him, Paddy," shouted one of the
Corporal's shipmates. "Take him on for half a dozen rounds under the
Marquis of Queensberry's rules."

"Enter him for the high jump," vociferated another.

"Take 'im on 'catch as catch can'," suggested a third.

To all these suggestions the marine turned a deaf ear. He had his
own idea of the correct method of exercising the animal and at the
same time contributing to his comrades' enjoyment.

"Now then, you concertina boys, give us a two-step," he called out.
"Come on, my lady, let's see if I can span your slender waist."

Either the kangaroo objected to the marine's mistake in the matter
of gender or else he was disinclined to be forced to perform, for,
as the Corporal grasped the animal's short fore paws, Panjie let rip
with one of his powerful hind legs. The kangaroo might have been off
his feed, but his muscular powers seemed in no way impaired. The
sharp claws, missing the man's face by a mere inch, sliced his
forage jacket and trousers from shoulder to knee.

At the possibility of a scrap the ship's company cheered, some
yelling encouragement to the kangaroo, others backing the
representative of His Majesty's jollies.

The outburst of sound terrified the animal. With a stupendous bound
Panjie leapt at the netting, ripping his way through as easily as a
pantomime clown jumps through a paper hoop. Over the heads and
shoulders of a tightly-packed throng of bluejackets the brute
vaulted; then, viewing a comparatively clear space, it bounded
towards the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck.

Here the Fleet-paymaster and the Engineer-commander, who were
keeping aloof from the revels, were engaged in a strictly official
conversation. Like a dart Panjie dived betwixt the bowed legs of the
accountant officer, and, in blind desperation, butted the senior
officer of the engineering branch full in the chest. Then with a
terrific leap the kangaroo cleared the rail and disappeared
overboard.

There was a rush to the side. Some of the men hastened to man the
sea-boat, but the upheld hand of the Commander indicated that they
were to "stand fast".

The sea was like glass. The usual Pacific roll was entirely absent.
A quarter of a mile on the starboard quarter the _Awarua_ was
resolutely plugging along at 10 knots.

Bobbing in the wake of the cruiser was a darkbrown object. It was
Panjie. The animal had escaped the suction of the propellers, but
the fall from a vessel pelting along at 20 knots had evidently
stunned it. At all events it made no effort to swim.

No order was given for the _Gosport_ to reverse engines or even to
slow down. She merely "carried on" describing a vast circle round
the slow-moving Transport 99.

"By Jove, sir!" exclaimed the Commander, addressing the Captain.
"The _Awarua's_ starboarding helm."

"She is," admitted the Skipper grimly. "We've played into her hands
this time, I fancy."

The "owner's" surmise was correct. Lining the side of the transport
were hundreds of troops. Some of them, and several of the _Awarua's_
crew, had provided themselves with running bowlines, and as the
unfortunate Panjie drifted close to the ship he was saluted with a
shower of lassos.

"They've hooked him, sir!" reported the Commander as the kangaroo's
limp body, firmly encircled with three or four bowlines, was
unceremoniously hauled on board the transport.

"By the powers they have," agreed the Skipper bitterly, and
straightway he left the bridge and went below.

Five minutes later the _Awarua's_ semaphore began working rapidly.
On the _Gosport's_ bridge a barefooted signalman wrote down the
message on a pad. He was unable to conceal a broad grin as he handed
the signal to the Commander.

No need for the latter to read the writing. He, in common with
nearly all the officers and crew, had read the semaphore verbatim.

With the utmost temerity the skipper of the _Awarua_ had sent the
following report:--

"One of your crew has been picked up by Transport 99. In view of the
heavy sea now running" (_it was a flat calm a regular "Paddy's
hurricane"_) "I propose retaining the said member, in order to avoid
a repetition of the accident. Do you concur?"

The message was sent to the captain of the cruiser. Sportsmanlike
the skipper accepted the sarcastic signal with a good grace.

Back came the answer: "Now we are quits! Congratulations!"




CHAPTER VIII

Left Behind


Seven days behind scheduled time the _Awarua_ crawled into Port
Stanley harbour. Here Sergeant Malcolm Carr and Rifleman Macready
were received in exchange for Panjie, who, thanks to the store of
fodder on board the transport, had been fed into a state of
adiposity.

Meanwhile a reserve transport had been sent across from Simon's Bay,
and orders were given to tranship the troops, stores, and baggage
from No. 99 to No. 109. Within three days the task was accomplished,
and, five other troopships having arrived from Australia, the convoy
left for Table Bay, still under the care of H.M.S. _Gosport_.

Although the transports were still a considerable distance from the
U-boat danger zone, every revolution of their propellers was
bringing them nearer to that part of the South Atlantic where
vessels had been known-to have been destroyed by mines.

On the evening of the third day Malcolm had to accompany Lieutenant
Nicholson on the rounds. After visiting the various mess decks the
upper deck had to be inspected. It was a pitch-dark night. The stars
were obscured. Beyond the long undulations the sea was calm.

Transport 109, otherwise the S.S. _Pintail_, was leading vessel of
the starboard column, the formation being that known as "double
column ahead". The _Gosport_ was two miles distant on the starboard
bow, her position indicated solely by a feeble stern lantern. The
vessels forming the convoy were steaming with all navigation-lamps
screened, keeping station merely by means of the phosphorescent wake
of the vessel next ahead.

"Hallo, what's the move?" exclaimed Mr. Nicholson as the six
transports altered helm, swung round until they formed double column
line abreast. "We're at right angles to our former course. What's
the _Gosport_ doing?"

The Lieutenant walked to the rail. Malcolm and the rest of the party
halted and watched a masthead signalling-lamp that was blinking
rapidly on the cruiser.

Suddenly the beams of two powerful search-lights from the
_Gosport's_ bridge pierced the darkness. The giant rays were
directed full upon the hull of a large vessel steaming about five
cable-lengths from, and on a parallel course to, that of the
cruiser.

The stranger had been showing no steaminglights. She was a
two-masted, double-funnelled craft of about four thousand tons. On
her side, clearly shown up in the rays of the search-light, were
painted the Dutch national colours, and the words _Waeszyl_, Holland
in letters six feet in height.

Again the _Gosport's_ flashing-lamp began signalling; but while the
message, whatever it might mean, was still in progress, two tongues
of flame leapt from the cruiser's side, and the simultaneous roar of
a double report crashed through the night.

An instant later a stupendous blaze of light, followed by a
detonation the volume of which completely drowned all other sounds,
dazzled the eyes and burst upon the ears of the spectators. A pall
of black smoke, tinted silvery in the rays of the search-lights,
marked the spot where the so-called _Waeszyl_ had been. For some
seconds objects of varying sizes, hurled high in the air, dropped
into the sea, some of them in perilous proximity to the convoy.
After that--silence.

From the troop-decks of the transports crowds of men poured through
the hatchways. It was an impossible task to try to keep the New
Zealanders below. They simply had to see what there was to be seen;
which, according to the general verdict, was precious little.

Presently boats were lowered from the cruiser, and a search was made
over and around the spot where the mysterious vessel had
disappeared. In less than half an hour the boats returned, the
searchlights were switched off, and the cruiser and her charges
resumed their interrupted course.

There was very little sleep that night for the men of the
Thirty-somethingth reinforcements. The men sat up discussing the
appalling incident, and forming ingenious theories as to the cause
of the _Gosport's_ speedy destruction of the supposed Dutchman. They
had reckoned on entering the danger zone when they came within the
normal radius of action of hostile U-boats. Already they had
practical proof that at almost every knot of the
twelve-thousand-miles voyage they were open to attack--Providence
and the armed unit of Britain's fleet permitting.

Just before noon on the following day the _Pintail_ passed close to
a water-logged ship's boat. Kept under observation by means of
telescopes and binoculars, the derelict told its own tale. There
were evidences that it had been hastily lowered. A gaping hole on
one side and a shattered gun-wale on the other, together with traces
of fire, showed that the boat had been shelled. There were distinct
signs that the perpetrators of the outrage had sought to obliterate
all traces of their dastardly work: the name of the ship had been
scraped off the boat's bows, her air-tight tanks had been stove in,
yet in spite of this precaution the boat still remained awash. For
once, at least, the policy of _Spurlos versenkt_ had failed.
Cold-blooded murder had undoubtedly been committed on the high seas.
The _Gosport_ was not in time to prevent this particular crime--but
she had avenged it.

Slowly, but no less surely, the details of the previous night's
engagement leaked out. It had not been, as Malcolm had surmised, a
one-sided engagement. A commerce-raider and mine-layer disguised as
a Dutch cargo boat had sighted the _Gosport_, and, mistaking her in
the darkness for a merchantman, turned and shaped a parallel course
to that of the cruiser.

Detected by the war-ship's look-out, the suspicious vessel was
promptly challenged by flashing signals. The raider's reply was a
grim one. A torpedo fired from a submerged tube tore towards the
_Gosport_, passing within a few feet of her stern. The
phosphorescent swirl of the under-water missile told its own tale.
The cruiser put two shells into the raider's quarter, in the hope
that her steering-gear would be blown away and the vessel rendered
unmanageable. Unfortunately for Hans, one of the projectiles burst
in a compartment where a number of mines were stored--result, utter
and swift annihilation!

As the transport approached the Cape, justifiable anxiety consumed
those responsible for the navigation of the convoy. The _Pintail's_
skipper never left the bridge for thirty-six hours. Two merchant-men
had recently been sunk by mines in these waters. Although the vessel
that had laid these sinister instruments of death and destruction
had been destroyed, the results of her previous activities remained.

At last the convoy dropped anchor in Table Bay. The second stage of
the long sea voyage was accomplished. The _Gosport_ coaled and left
for the Pacific, Until it was definitely established that German
raiders no longer infested the route between Wellington and the Horn
the presence of a few light cruisers was necessary, otherwise armed
merchant-cruisers could effectually perform convoying duties, and
release the "pukka" warships for other duties in home waters.

"Now I think of it," remarked Dick Selwyn, "I have a second cousin
living at Muizenberg; I'll look him up. There's leave till six
o'clock. Coming?"

"Looking up" even distant relations is a characteristic of the New
Zealander. Wounded Anzacs, on receiving the ten-days' leave in
England before rejoining their units, frequently make railway
journeys running into hundreds of miles simply for the Purpose of
"looking up" a remote blood relation in the Old Country, In Selwyn's
case his relation lived at a small town on the shores of False Bay,
a distance of about twenty miles from Cape Town.

"I'm on," replied Malcolm. "It will give us a chance of seeing
something of South Africa. How about Fortescue?"

Sergeant Fortescue, when appealed to, promptly decided to accompany
them; and as soon as leave was granted the three non-coms. hurried
ashore.

The railway journey accomplished, Selwyn made the disappointing
discovery that his cousin no longer lived at Muizenberg. He had
moved to a farm near Slang Kop, a distance of about five miles
across the peninsula that terminates in the world-renowned Cape of
Good Hope.

"Game to foot it, you chaps?" asked Selwyn. "I don't like to be
done."

The others agreed without enthusiasm, although loyalty to their chum
left no plausible alternative; so at a steady pace they set out
along an upland track that led to the farm.

Selwyn's cousin "did his visitors right down properly", to quote
Malcolm's description of the reception. So much so that before
either of the three realized the fact it was a question of whether
they could return to Muizenberg station in time for the train. A
springless Cape cart drove them at the maximum pace obtainable by
the wiry horse and the vociferous exhortations of the native "boy".
In spite of every effort the trio reached the outskirts of
Muizenberg just in time to see the train steam out of the station.

Since Muizenberg is a popular seaside resort for the business folk
at Cape Town, there is a fairly frequent train service. Enquiries of
the railway officials elicited the information that a train would
leave at 7.15 p.m.

Malcolm and his companions accepted the situation calmly. Mutual
recriminations were absent, although they knew that it was a serious
matter to overstay shore leave.

"It isn't as if the transport were lying alongside a wharf,"
remarked Selwyn. "Our best chance is to hire a boat and trust to
luck to get on board without being observed by the officers. The
corporal on the gangway wouldn't give the show away."

"The main point is to get on board," said Fortescue. "If there is an
enquiry we must simply state plain facts and face the music. There's
an officer's boat at nine-thirty."

"I'm afraid there isn't," corrected Malcolm. "I saw the announcement
cancelled on the notice-board outside the orderly room."

"By gum, that looks fishy!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Supposing the
_Pintail_ sails to-night. That yarn about the convoy getting under
way on Thursday night may be a blind. They say Cape Town swarms with
pro-Germans."

When at length the train crawled out of Muizenberg station the three
"Diggers" (as New Zealand infantrymen are commonly dubbed amongst
themselves) had for company a sympathetic fellow-passenger, who on
hearing of their plight was quick to suggest a plan.

"I know your boat," he remarked. "No. 109 is lying nearest in-shore
off Woodstock--that's a suburb of Cape Town, you know. I'm a
transport officer, so I know a bit about it. Hop off the train at
Woodstock and enquire for Van Hoek's boathouse. It's at the mouth of
Salt River. Old Van will row you off for a matter of ten shillings."

The passenger seemed of a very communicative disposition. He evinced
considerable interest in various incidents of the New Zealanders'
voyage. Without much questioning he led the three Anzacs to give a
fairly detailed account of what had happened.

"It's all news to me," he remarked. "Even in the Transport Office we
hear but very little. Of course the heads know a lot, but the minor
officials, such as myself, are not taken into their confidence."

The train slowing down as it approached Woodstock station terminated
the conversation. With many thanks for the information, Malcolm and
his chums left the carriage, and, in giving up their tickets,
enquired of the Dutch ticket-collector the way to Van Hoek's
establishment.

The official had never heard of the place; nor had three or four
others to whom the enquiry was put.

"At any rate," said Fortescue in desperation, "I suppose there is
such a show as Salt River?"

"Oh yes, we know where that is," was the chorused reply.

Declining offers to be shown the way, the three chums set out, and
presently arrived at the low shore of the estuary. The opposite bank
was invisible, as at the spot the mud-flats were covered at high
tide. To all appearance it was open water right out to Table Bay.

The shore was deserted. The few buildings were evidently untenanted.
On the beach half a dozen boats were hauled up above high-water
mark. Farther out were others riding easily to moorings.

The night was calm. The brilliant starlight made it an easy matter
to discern the double line of transports.

"By Jove," ejaculated Fortescue, "they're raising steam! They are
sailing to-night after all!"

"No good cooling our heels here," said Selwyn. "Let's borrow a boat,
since we can't find an owner. The wind's dead on shore, what there
is of it; we can cast her adrift after we get on board."

"And put five shillings on one of the thwarts," added Malcolm. "The
fellow who finds it will be repaid for his trouble."

Of the six boats all were without gear save one. In vain they
attempted to launch it down the beach; their united efforts were
unavailing. Nor was Fortescue's suggestion to transfer the gear to a
lighter craft productive of better results.

"These boats are as heavy as lead," declared Malcolm, wiping his
heated brow. "I believe they're bolted and riveted to the ground.
How about it? Suppose we swim out to the nearest of those boats?"

This proposition was adopted. The three men stripped, secured their
clothing on top of their heads by means of their belts, and, two of
them taking an oar in case the moored craft was destitute If means
of propulsion, they slipped boldly into the water.

Malcolm was the first to reach the moored boat. Holding on to the
gunwale with one hand, he unbuckled his bundle and tossed it into
the boat; then, clambering over the stern, proceeded to dress while
his companions "got aboard". There were oars already, as well as
mast, sails, and other gear.

On the strength of having stroked his college boat Fortescue took
command. Under his directions the rudder was shipped, and an attempt
made to raise the anchor. The three men heaving together very nearly
put the boat's bows under, but the refractory mooring refused to
come home. Did they but know it, they were vainly trying to raise an
iron chain attached to a mass of stone weighing nearly half a ton.

"We're going the wrong way about the trick," declared Selwyn. "See
that rope with a chunk of wood on the end of it? That's fastened to
the chain, so if we chuck the lot overboard we'll be able to make a
start."

The mooring dropped with a resounding splash. Fortescue and Malcolm
manned the oars and gave way with a will.

"Jolly hard graft," muttered Malcolm breathlessly after a quarter of
an hour's strenuous work. "Do you think we're getting any nearer? I
don't."

Fortescue glanced over his shoulder.

"No, I don't," he admitted bluntly. "What's more, the transports are
'on the move. That's put the kybosh on the whole contraption."




CHAPTER IX

In the Ring


For a full minute silence reigned. The chums had light-heartedly
discussed the possibility of the convoy sailing; but now, when the
supposition merged into hard fact, they could hardly realize the
gravity of the situation.

Mitigating circumstances or otherwise, reduced to rock-bottom level,
the three non-coms, had overstayed their leave, and were actually
deserters, from a military point of view. It was just possible that
they might be sent back under arrest to New Zealand. The thought
that they would be done Out of "having a slap at Fritz" almost
stunned them.

"Let's get back," said Fortescue, as the grey-hulled vessels grew
more and more indistinct in the starlit night. "We'll make for the
transport office and report ourselves. If we hadn't taken that
fellow's advice and wasted precious time looking for Van
what's-his-name we might have caught the tender."

"I wonder whether that fellow in the train was all above board?"
said Malcolm. "Now I come to think over the matter it looks rather
fishy. And we told him a jolly lot, too. He might be a Boche."

"If he is a Boche, and I run across him, I'll bash him," said Selwyn
vehemently.

"Set to, you Diggers!" ordered Fortescue. "Selwyn, you take an oar
and relieve Carr. Now, then, you pull while I back."

Under the reverse action of the oars the boat turned towards the
shore, then both men pulled their hardest.

"We don't seem to be moving," remarked Malcolm after five minutes
had elapsed. "I've been watching those two lights, and they have
been in line ever since we turned."

"Perhaps we're aground," suggested Fortescue, and thrusting his oar
vertically into the water he sounded. The thirteen-foot oar failed
to touch bottom.

"Plenty of water," he reported. "Carr, you must be making a mistake.
Now, Selwyn, put your back into it. I've never had such a heavy old
tub to pull in all my previous experience."

"We're not gaining an inch," reported Malcolm.

"Current out of the river, most likely," was Selwyn's theory.

For once Fortescue lost his temper.

"Currents, you young jackal!" he exclaimed. "Do you think this is a
Bath-bun shop? We are a crowd of jackasses. We never unmoored the
boat properly."

The craft was fitted with a short bowsprit, from the end of which a
wire shroud or "bobstay" led to a shackle-plate in the stem. When
the mooring-buoy had been thrown overboard, the rope had caught
between the bobstay and the stem, with the result that for the last
hour the three raw amateurs in salt-water seamanship had been simply
keeping their craft straining at the end of the buoy-rope.

The tension was broken in a double sense. The mooring-rope was this
time properly cast adrift, while the mercurial spirits of the three
absentees rose to the occasion.

"We've been a crowd of mugs," declared Selwyn, laughing. "Swotting
for an hour or more and fancying we were on the move. Now what's to
be done?"

"I suggest that we sleep on board until daybreak," said Fortescue.
"No good purpose is served by jogging into Cape Town at this hour of
the night. I suppose neither of you thought to bring along any
tommy?"

The others had to admit that they were unprovided with food.

"Then tighten your belts, boys," continued Fortescue. "We've been
feeding like turkey-cocks; a few hours' fast won't do much harm."

With the first streaks of dawn they ran the boat ashore, secured her
with a rope, and set off towards the town. When the transport office
opened the three absentees reported themselves, and, after having
had a stiff "dressing down" were placed under open arrest.

"One advantage of being a non-com.," remarked Fortescue. "We are
lucky not to be in the 'clink'."

"That Tommy officer seems a good sort," declared Malcolm. "As you
say, he might have made things hot for us. So we have to cool our
heels here until we can proceed with the next draft."

Two days later the three chums received instructions to report on
board the _Pomfret Castle_, which was due to sail with a mixed
contingent on the following afternoon. The vessel was a Union Castle
liner commandeered by the Government. Capable of doing twenty-two
knots, compared with the _Pintail's_ seventeen, it was more than
likely, U-boats and mines excepted, that the _Pomfret Castle_ would
arrive at Plymouth days ahead of the convoy with the New Zealand
reinforcements.

Taking no chances this time, Malcolm and his companions went on
board a couple of hours before the authorized time. Baggage was
still being stowed, while the decks teemed with troops of various
nationalities. The bulk consisted of South Africans, mostly veterans
of middle age, with a sprinkling of youths; detachments transferred
from Mesopotamia to France; and Imperial troops from German
South-East Africa. A draft of Maoris, and about twenty Australians
who had overstayed their leave at Cape Town, completed the muster.

Instructed by the embarkation officer, the New Zealanders went below
to their mess.

"Hallo, here are three Diggers!" exclaimed a strapping Queenslander.
"Make them at home, you chaps. Now our mess is quite filled up. By
Gum, I don't quite cotton on to those Dutchmen. I'm a believer in
Australia for the Australians, and You fellows stand in with that
crush."

The speaker introduced himself as Jack Kennedy,
quartermaster-sergeant by rank, and sheep-farmer in civilian life.
His left hand was in a sling, a strip of surgical plaster
embellished his cheek. During his stay at Cape Town he had been
forced into a squabble with a crowd of disloyal Cape Dutch. Words
led to blows, with the result that three of his opponents were
picked up insensible, while Kennedy was taken to the military
hospital with a broken wrist and a nasty contusion of the forehead,
caused by the nail-shod boot of an eighteen-stone antagonist.

"No kits?" continued Kennedy. "Your chaps went on and left you
behind? We were much in the same sort of hole, only Buck-up Miller
here knows the ropes. We'll soon see that you are comfortable. How
about a pannikin of tea?"

Under the attentions of their new chums Malcolm and his companions
soon adapted themselves to present conditions, and before the
_Pomfret Castle_ cleared Table Bay the Anzacs felt as if they had
known each other for years.

Although the troops on board were going to fight a common foe--a foe
that victorious would speedily prove more than a menace to
Australia, to United South Africa, and to civilization in
general--there was a certain amount of misunderstanding between the
Afrikanders and their brothers-in-arms. In spite of the utmost
endurance on the part of the Imperial officers, petty squabbles were
frequent. The Boers, for instance, were prone to treat the Maoris in
a similar manner to the Kaffir "boys". They could not understand how
a white man could treat a Maori as an equal, being ignorant of the
high moral and physical standard of the latter, that has justly
earned the appreciation and admiration of the New Zealand colonists.
For their part the Maoris accepted the Afrikanders' remarks with
courteous equanimity, but there were others on board who championed
them--with no uncertain voice.

Big Kennedy 'was as good as his word, and before nightfall each of
the New Zealanders had a full kit, although they wisely refrained
from asking questions as to the origin of the source of supplies.
Already they were well advanced in the ways of the old campaigner.
If they kept rigidly to the codes of civil life they would soon have
found themselves very much out in the cold as far as personal
comforts were concerned, although on board, in camp, and on active
service, it was noticeable that personal property was rightly
considered as inviolate.

One of the morning parades had Just ended, and Malcolm was hurrying
down the accommodation-ladder to the mess deck when he was brought
up sharply by a huge fist tapping him on the centre of his chest.
Coming out of the brilliant sunshine to the comparative gloom 'tween
decks, young Carr could not at first discern the features of the man
who barred his progress.

It was a Maori. The man was grinning broadly, yet he did not say a
single word.

"Te Paheka!" exclaimed Malcolm in astonishment. "You here?"

A few months previously, when Malcolm saw Te Paheka vanishing round
a corner as he drove juggernaut at a furious rate, the lad had come
to the conclusion that he had seen the last of his Maori friend for
many a long day. And now, by one of the vagaries of fate, Te Paheka
was on board the _Pomfret Castle_, rigged out in khaki, and bound
for the goal of freedom--the Western Front.

"Yes, I came along," explained Te Paheka. "Since you added a few
years to your age I thought I would make a corresponding reduction
in mine. Things were a bit dull. You heard about the car? Selwyn
told you, then? I've cleared out. Sold every acre of land that I
could legally dispose of. The rest the paternal Government prevents
me getting rid of; but it's let, so I think I'm good for about four
hundred a year. By the time I return--if I ever do see Wairakato
again--I'll have enough to buy the out-and-out top-hole racing car
in New Zealand."

Just then four men hurried along the alley-way. By the letters
S.A.H.A. on their shoulder-straps, Malcolm knew that they belonged
to the South African Heavy Artillery. As the foremost passed by he
deliberately lurched against Te Paheka.

"Out of my way, Zwartnek!" he shouted, adding something in _Taal_
which, fortunately for him, neither Malcolm nor the Maori
understood.

As the last of the four men passed, Malcolm, seething with
indignation, caught a glimpse of his features.

"Dash it all!" he soliloquized. "Where have I seen that fellow
before?"

Te Paheka took no notice of the insult.

"I would have told that fellow to _impshie_ pretty sharp if I'd been
you, Te Paheka," observed the lad.

The Maori shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Manners, Malcolm, or the lack of them," he remarked. "This evening
I hope to teach him a lesson. There's a boxing-match fixed up, and I
hear that this fellow is the champion of his battery. I'll do my
best to take him down a peg."

The two men separated, Te Paheka going to his mess, while Malcolm
made his way to his quarters, where he informed Selwyn of his chance
meeting with the Maori.

"And," he added, "although I'm not absolutely sure about it, I have
an idea that the blighter who let us down on the train from
Muizenberg is on board."

"A transport officer?" enquired Fortescue.

"No; in khaki--an Afrikander artilleryman."

Fortescue whistled softly.

"Sure?" he asked.

"No, I said I wasn't," declared Malcolm. "I only caught sight of him
as he passed. The blighter looked a bit sheepish, and didn't want to
catch my eye."

"Golly!" ejaculated Selwyn. "That's fishy! We'll keep a look-out for
him. Wonder if he'll put in an appearance at the boxing-match?"

"We will, in any case," observed Kennedy. "All our boys will be
there to give your Maori chum a buck up. I'll pass the word to some
of the Tommy soldiers. They're good sports, and will shout with the
rest of us."

With the laudable intention of keeping the men's minds fully
occupied during the hours of leisure, the officers had arranged for
the boxing-tournament at an early stage of the voyage. The contests
were to take place on the promenade deck, a space having been roped
off and seats provided for the officers. Every other available part
of the deck which would command a view of the "ring" was packed. Men
were clustered like flies in the boats on the boat deck, others
swarmed up the shrouds, to the choleric but ineffectual protests of
the ship's officers.

Several pairs of sparring-men having displayed their prowess and
received indiscriminate praise and rebuffs from their respective
supporters, the event of the evening was announced.

Gunner Jan van Eindhovengen was open to engage upon a ten-round
contest with any non-commissioned officer or man amongst the troops
on board.

Amidst the vociferous shouts of "Oom Jan" from his compatriots, the
Afrikander stepped into the ring. Stripped to the waist, his huge
bulk, bull neck, and massive limbs showed to their fullest
advantage. Across his chest and back the muscles stood out like
knots on a gnarled oak. His arms were as thick as the thigh of an
ordinary man, while his seconds had considerable difficulty in
placing the gloves on his enormous hands. With a supercilious and
self-confident smile he folded his arms across his chest and
surveyed the dense crowd of spectators.

Having summed up the formidable champion, Malcolm directed his
attention towards the group of men from which van Eindhovengen had
just emerged. From the other side of the ring the lad scanned the
faces of the Afrikander's comrades, but Without the desired result.
In vain he looked for the man who, he felt confident, was the
selfsame individual they had met on the Muizenberg train.

"A freak of the imagination, I suppose," decided the lad, whereupon
he devoted his attention to the events in the ring.

A counter-blast of cheering announced the appearance of a
challenger--Sergeant Smithers, of the 2nd Battalion West
Othershires. The Sergeant was the best boxer of his regiment, but he
had forgotten that a protracted sojourn in the reputed site of the
Garden of Eden--where a boundless expanse of glaring sand, a total
absence of verdure, millions of tormenting flies, and a meagre menu
consisting chiefly of bully beef and tepid water, are the
outstanding characteristics--is apt to undermine one's physical
condition.

Severely punished, Sergeant Smithers held out for five rounds, while
the gigantic Jan, disdaining the services of his seconds, grimly
eyed the circle of spectators in the hope of meeting another
antagonist.

Softly, then gradually increasing in volume until it rose to a
tremendous roar, the Maori war-song greeted the appearance of Te
Paheka. In wonderment, for, with few exceptions, none of the other
troops had heard the chant-like chorus before, the white men
relapsed into silence. For the moment all attention was shifted from
van Eindhovengen to the new challenger.

Although middle-aged, Te Paheka displayed the figure of an athlete.
His well-developed muscles rippled under his olivine skin. They
lacked the gnarled appearance of those of his antagonist, but their
easy, rhythmic undulations contrasted favourably with the jerky,
bombastic movements of the Afrikander's muscles and sinews. In
height van Eindhovengen exceeded him by two inches, and was a good
two stone heavier. Standing alone, Te Paheka would have been
regarded as a huge man. Confronting the artilleryman, he looked no
more than of medium height and build.

Clad in a pair of shorts of a vivid orange hue--for Te Paheka shared
with the rest of the Maoris a love of brilliant colour--and with a
silk red ensign emblazoned with the New Zealand stars round his
waist, Te Paheka grinned amicably at the Afrikander. The Maori's
bare chest and back were covered with elaborate tattooing, but,
according to modern custom, his face was unmarked.

"Allemachte!" exclaimed one of van Eindhovengen's supporters. "He is
not nearly so big as Oom Jan. Oom Jan will wipe the floor with him."

"The presumptuous nigger!" said another. "He does not know Oom Jan!"

Even Malcolm felt doubtful concerning Te Paheka's chances. He knew
the Maori to be a good boxer, as most natives are, but age, if only
ten or fifteen years, together with inferior reach and weight, must
assuredly handicap Te Paheka considerably. The two men advanced and
shook hands, van Eindhovengen with obvious disdain, Te Paheka as
naturally as the gentleman he was.

"Take your corners, men!"

Round No. 1 commenced. The Afrikander, confident of knocking out his
opponent quickly and completely, led off with a tremendous blow with
his left. Had the glove hit its mark Te Paheka would have been shot
over the ropes like a stone from a catapult. Stepping smartly back a
couple Of paces, he allowed the blow to fall on empty air.

"Jehoshaphat!" ejaculated Kennedy. "Why didn't the Maori take
advantage of it? The Dutchy nearly overbalanced himself with the
force of his blow."

Malcolm, to whom the remark was addressed, made no reply beyond a
confident nod. Already he was tumbling to Te Paheka's tactics. The
Maori was fighting a rear-guard action hoping that his staying
powers and agility were greater than those of his ponderous
opponent.

Round and round the ring the two men went, until the South Africans
yelled to their man to hurry up and the Anzacs began to mutter
impatiently.

Thud! Te Paheka had got one home on the face of the Afrikander.
Outwardly it had little or no effect upon Jan's rugged figurehead.

The Maoris yelled with delight, but the next instant their hopes
were dashed to the ground as Te Paheka, incautiously attempting to
follow up his advantage, laid himself open to a terrific blow from
the Afrikander's right. With a dull crash he landed heavily on the
sanded floor.

Over him stood van Eindhovengen, ready to strike him down should he
attempt to rise. The cool, deliberate voice of the timekeeper
calling off the fateful ten seconds silenced all other sounds of
approbation or encouragement to the fallen man. In the intervals
between the numbers one could have heard a pin drop. For the first
time since the tournament started could be heard the plash of the
waves against the ship's sides and the gentle moan of the wind
through the rigging.

Seven--eight--nine!

The Afrikander struck--but struck emptiness--where Te Paheka had
been a fraction of a second before. With an agility so rapid that
the spectators had not time to grasp its significance, the Maori
regained his feet, dealt a numbing blow upon the biceps of his
antagonist, and was off to the opposite corner of the ring.

Before the boxers could engage again "Time" sounded.

Te Paheka was glad of the respite. It was also remarked that Jan did
not scorn the attentions of his second. A dull mark on the upper
part of his brawny right arm promised trouble to him in the near
future.

During the second round the Maori kept strictly on the defensive,
while van Eindhovengen tired himself considerably in making blind
and ineffectual rushes at his nimble opponent. His supporters no
longer yelled to him to "hurry up and knock the black out", while
the Maoris sung their choruses again and again every time Jan failed
to drive Te Paheka over the ropes.

The third round was a slow one. The Afrikander, realizing that he
was fatiguing himself with futile efforts, adopted semi-defensive
tactics, in the hope that the Maori would close. It was not until
the close of time that the latter succeeded in getting home a "body
punch", which did not improve Jan's temper.

"Do something this time, you chaps!" shouted a Tommy as the men
faced each other for the fourth round. "You're supposed to be
sparring, not going in for a waltzing race."

"By Jove, he's cornered!" exclaimed Fortescue, as Te Paheka,
stepping back to avoid a left-hander, came in contact with the
ropes.

The Afrikander's glove rasped the Maori's ribs. So violent was the
effort that again Jan was on the point of overbalancing. This time
Te Paheka followed up the advantage. An upper cut caught van
Eindhovengen full on the point of his chin, while almost
simultaneously the Maori drove home a resounding blow on the
Afrikander's solar plexus.

Down like a felled ox the huge South African dropped. In silence the
spectators heard the fateful ten seconds called, then a vociferous
cheer from Afrikanders, Anzacs, and Maoris alike greeted the victor.
For that instant the sporting instincts of the men triumphed over
racial prejudices, and for the rest of the voyage--and after--the
Maoris and Afrikanders "hit it off" splendidly.

[Illustration: "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"]




CHAPTER X

Volunteers for the Stokehold


Day after day passed, and although the _Pomfret Castle_ was pelting
along at full speed there were no signs of the convoy of which the
_Pintail_ formed part. If the liner were in wireless touch with the
transports the fact was never communicated to the troops on board.
As far as they were concerned the South Atlantic was a desert, for
not another vessel had been sighted since leaving Cape Town.

At Sierra Leone the _Pomfret Castle_ found two more liners awaiting
her. Having coaled, the three vessels, under the escort of a light
cruiser, left for Plymouth.

The troops were now approaching the U-boat danger-zone. For four
days a course due west was maintained, until the vessels ported helm
and Stood north, it being the rule that no two convoys should shape
the same course through the North Atlantic.

"You've been torpedoed already, have you?" enquired an Australian,
addressing Jack Kennedy. "What did you do?"

"Do?" replied the Queenslander, with a laugh. "Why, simply put on my
life-belt and made tracks for the boat. We only had ten minutes
before the old hooker sank. The boys had a high old time. They
actually put the ship up for auction as she was foundering. It was a
calm----"

"Periscope on the starboard bow!" shouted a stentorian voice.

Already the 4.7-inch guns were manned. The Maxims began hurling
nickel at the rate of 450 shots a minute, with the idea of either
disabling the periscope or churning up the water in its vicinity, in
order to make it impossible for the U-boat to discharge a torpedo
with any degree of accuracy. Simultaneously the helm was
starboarded, and the _Pomfret Castle_ steered straight for the patch
where the machine-gun bullets were ricochetting from the water.

The escorting cruiser, then two miles to wind'ard, also altered
course, but, owing to the _Pomfret Castle_ being in her line of
fire, could not take an active part in the proceedings.

The "Cease fire" sounded as the liner approached the spot where the
periscope had been observed.

Some of the troops began to cheer at the thought that a U-boat had
been sent to the bed of the Atlantic, but their jubilation was
quickly nipped in the bud.

In the centre of the patch, and torn by machinegun fire almost to a
state of unrecognizability, was a bird known as a diver. The
_Pomfret Castle_ look-out had mistaken the unfortunate fowl for the
periscope of a hostile submarine, at the cost of the bird's life and
an extravagant waste of ammunition.

Although the three New Zealanders were keenly on the alert to renew
the acquaintance with their supposed transport official, the man, if
he were on board, had not come under their observation. At every
available opportunity Malcolm and his chums were on deck when the
South Africans paraded, but without satisfactory results.

"I am forced to come to the conclusion that you are the victim of an
unaccountable hallucination, my lad," observed Fortescue to Malcolm,
shortly after the diver incident. "I The fellow, if he is on board,
couldn't lie doggo all this time. This morning I found an excuse to
have a look round the sick quarters, and our Muizenberg pal isn't
there."

"I am certain I spotted him when I first met Te Paheka on board,"
insisted Malcolm.

"Pardon me, laddie," said Fortescue firmly, "but you weren't at all
sure about it at the time. An impression grows until you are certain
of something that never occurred. I've known a fellow pitch an
altogether impossible yarn before to-day. He also was aware of the
fact, but in time he became firmly convinced that his statement was
gospel truth."

That afternoon the course of the convoy was abruptly changed to due
west again, in obedience to a signal from the escorting cruiser. It
was quite a simple matter that resulted in the alteration of course.
The cruiser found that she was in the track of an unknown vessel
that, although invisible, left a tell-tale track by throwing
overboard ashes and other debris. A keen-witted _kapitan-leutnant_
of a U-boat would not fail to take advantage of these it "signs and
portents", hence the advisability of giving the steamer's track a
wide berth.

The vessels comprising the convoy were also cautioned when in the
danger-zone to avoid "starting" ashes from the stokehold, and
throwing garbage and refuse overboard, except at specified times, in
order to baffle the hostile submarines' quest. Day and night a guard
of riflemen stood to arms on deck, Maxims were ready for instant
action, and the crews of the quick-firers slept at the guns. Hourly
the game of U-boat dodging became more exciting.

The troops, however, were quite composed, beyond indulging in
friendly bets as to their chances of arriving at Plymouth without
being torpedoed. They ate heartily, and for the most part slept
soundly.

"You were hard and fast in the land of dreams last night, Malcolm,"
remarked Dick Selwyn in the morning.

"Why do you mention the fact? I plead guilty to the indictment,"
rejoined his chum.

"There was a bit of a flutter in the night," explained Selwyn. "The
cruiser reported that there was a light flashing through one of the
scuttles. Our skipper sent for the C.O., and he turned out the
guard. Every part of the ship was visited, but without success, for
the dead-lights were in position over every scuttle. Then, almost as
soon as the rounds were over, the cruiser complained about the same
thing again. Twice a corporal's guard was in here, and yet you slept
through it all."

Selwyn had not erred on the side of exaggeration. On the contrary,
he had not attached the fullest importance to the incident. Not only
was a light showing from the _Pomfret Castle_; it was blinking,
sending a message in Morse, although the signalman of the cruiser
was unable to decipher the code.

"Boys," exclaimed Kennedy, "there's a call for volunteers for the
stokeholds! How about it?"

"Firemen on strike?" enquired an Australian, as he tumbled out of a
comfortable attitude on a locker, and stretched his arms and gave a
prodigious yawn.

"No, chum," replied Kennedy. "The convoy has to increase
speed--we're about to cross the intensive zone--and the old tub
requires a lot of whacking up."

"Then I'm on," said his questioner with alacrity.

Fortescue, Selwyn, and Carr were also amongst the volunteers, and
after breakfast twenty men paraded in dungarees to take their
"trick" below.

"Hanged if I'd like to do this for a living," remarked Malcolm, as
the men gingerly made their way down the greasy and polished
perpendicular ladder, one of many that gave access to No. 2
stokehold. "It's all right for the novelty of the thing. What with
this pitching and rolling it reminds me of Point Elizabeth Colliery
in an earthquake."

"If a blessed torpedo should----" began one of the Anzacs, but
Kennedy promptly shut him up.

"Less chin-wag going; you'll want all your energy for elbow grease,"
he exclaimed. "Now then, chum, give the word and we'll do our best."

The last sentence was addressed to one of the regular hands, who,
stripped to the waist like the rest of the _Pomfret Castle's_
firemen and greasers, was responsible for this particular stokehold.

"Just you wait till we've got shot of this crush," said the man,
indicating a number of South Africans who had just completed their
two-hours' voluntary task. "They've stuck it jolly well. If you
chaps do as good we'll make the old boat hop it like billy-oh."

A crowd of Afrikanders, black with coal dust and running with
perspiration, filed along the narrow passage between the huge
boilers. Amongst them was Jan van Eindhovengen, proud as a peacock
at having broken all records in shovelling coal from the bunkers.

When the twenty South Africans had left the stokehold the relieving
gang was set to work. Malcolm's task was to remove coal from a
cavernous recess, the fuel being handled by Fortescue and Selwyn,
who had to transport it to one of the furnaces. At other bunkers a
similar operation was performed by their comrades, the "trimmers"
being specially instructed to remove the coal in a methodical
manner, so that there was slight possibility of the remaining
contents being thrown out by the roll of the vessel. Others, armed
with long-handled shovels, fed the capacious furnaces so frequently
that the place reverberated to the clanging of the red-hot metal
doors at the ends of the multi-tube boilers. At intervals the
ash-hoists had to be supplied with still-smouldering embers, for so
quickly did the heaps of ashes accumulate, that, unless removed
constantly, they would seriously hamper the fireman at work in the
already-congested space.

Before Malcolm had been twenty minutes at his task he began to
realize the necessity for careful removal of the lumps of coal. In
spite of every precaution, masses of black, shiny fuel would clatter
down from the steadily-diminishing heap. Since he was wearing a pair
of canvas shoes and no socks, he had to display considerable agility
in avoiding the miniature avalanches.

Presently he came to a tight "pack". The lumps were so closely
wedged that the only way to attack the sloping wall of coal was by
means of a long "fireman's rake".

Just as Malcolm was releasing the top tier, the vessel gave a
heavier roll than usual, and a regular cataract of coal shot towards
the mouth of the bunker. Back sprang the lad, crouching the while to
prevent bringing his head in contact with a low girder. Even then he
was too late. A huge lump, fully eighteen inches in diameter,
trundled over his left foot and brought up against the sill of the
bunker.

Fully expecting to find his foot crushed, Malcolm was agreeably
surprised, and at the same time astonished, that nothing of the sort
occurred. Beyond a few slight grazes, he was uninjured. Desisting
from his labours, he regarded the mass of coal with studied
interest.

"Buck up, laddie!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Keep the pot boiling! Don't
go to sleep!"

Disregarding the admonition, Malcolm stooped and grasped the huge
mass. He could lift it with the utmost ease. At the very outside it
weighed less than five pounds.

"What do you make of this?" he bawled, tossing the lump to
Fortescue. The latter, prepared to receive a weighty object, was
quite as surprised as Carr had been.

"By gum," he remarked, "that's a mighty queer chunk of coal!"

"Found a nugget?" enquired Selwyn, glad of an opportunity of a
respite.

"It's hollow, and it's been filled with water," continued Fortescue.
"The thing, whatever it is, is still leaking. Chuck it aside, and
let's get on with the job. We'll examine it later."

"What's all this jawing about?" asked the leading hand. "Chauvin'
yer fat won't empty this 'ere bunker."

"I agree," rejoined Fortescue complaisantly. "But cast your optics
on this, my festive shoveller."

"Ain't you seen a lump of coal afore?" demanded the man.

"Not like this one," said Fortescue. "Handle it."

The man took the proffered object; then, muttering an unintelligible
ejaculation, simply bolted with it to the nearest ladder.

"Hallo, here's another find!" exclaimed Selwyn. "This yours,
Malcolm?"

He held up a small pocket-book, black with coal dust.

"Not mine," replied Carr. "Must have belonged to one of those
fellows we relieved."

"Possibly," agreed Selwyn, throwing the book into the pocket of his
overalls. "We'll soon find out if it is."

The interrupted task was resumed, but in less than ten minutes the
leading hand returned, accompanied by three of the regular firemen.

"You three," he announced, indicating Carr and his chums, "are to
knock off and report to the Quartermaster."

Going on deck they duly reported themselves, and were conducted to a
cabin on the lower bridge, their protests about having to appear in
a coal-grimed state being ignored.

Within were the Captain and the Chief Engineer of the ship, while in
two pieces on the table lay the lump of "coal".

"Which of you found this?" enquired the "Old Man" brusquely,
indicating Malcolm's find.

"I did, sir," replied the lad. "I It rolled on my foot, and, finding
it was remarkably light, I examined it."

"A thundering good job you did," rejoined the Captain. "Look here,
this is in confidence--you must not mention the affair to
anyone--had that thing been thrown into the furnace, the chances are
that the ship would have been blown up. No. 7 bunker---- Let me see,
Jephson," he continued, addressing the engineer; "that was
replenished at Sierra Leone, wasn't it?"

The officer addressed consulted a memorandum.

"No, sir," he replied; "7 and 8 of No. 2 stoke-hold were bunkered at
Cape Town. They hadn't been touched when we arrived at Sierra
Leone."

The infernal machine--for such it was--was an
ingeniously-constructed piece of work. The hollow shell of
papier-mâché was made to resemble a lump of coal. Within was a slab
of wet gun-cotton, while to make up the deficiency of weight the
hollow was filled with water. Fortunately the bomb must have been
cracked in contact with lumps of genuine coal, for the water had
escaped. The contrivance would have been thrown into the furnace,
with disastrous results; but Malcolm's astuteness had saved the
situation.

"Mind, not a word!" cautioned the Skipper again as the three New
Zealanders were dismissed. "In due course your conduct will be
reported to the proper authorities, and no doubt you will hear
favourably on the matter."




CHAPTER XI

Cornered


"How about that notebook?" enquired Malcolm. The three chums were
lounging in camp-chairs on the upper deck after their strenuous but
interrupted "trick below". In consideration for their voluntary
labours all men who had been in the stokehold were excused drills
and parades for the rest of the day.

"Clean forgot all about it," replied Selwyn. "I left it in the
pocket of my boiler suit. By this time I guess some other fellow is
wearing the overalls. After all, the notebook may find its way to
the rightful owner."

The three sat in silence for some minutes. Fortescue was puffing at
his pipe, deep in thought; Selwyn was idly contemplating the
unbroken expanse of horizon; while Malcolm devoted his attention to
the examination of half a dozen large blisters on his hands.
Already soldiering had hardened his hands considerably, but stoking,
he decided, had proved to be far more strenuous than bayonet
exercise, if an aching back, stiff muscles, and galls as big as
half-crowns were any criterion.

Thus engaged, the chums hardly noticed the appearance of a
corporal's guard--an N.C.O. and two privates with side-arms.
Consequently they were surprised when the Corporal halted his men
and asked abruptly:

"Are you Diggers the chaps what were doing stoking just now in No. 2
stokehold? You are? Well, you're bloomin' well under arrest."

"Under arrest--what for?" demanded Fortescue. For a moment he
suspected a practical joke, but the fact that the men wore side-arms
knocked that idea on the head.

"Dunno," replied the man shortly. "Fall in!"

Along the crowded troop deck the prisoners and their escort made
their way, their presence occasioning little interest on the part of
the spectators. Defaulters were common objects amongst the different
Colonial troops who comprised the _Pomfret Castle's_ passengers.

Outside the large cabin known as the orderly-room were a dozen
Australians, also under guard. Presently their numbers were
augmented by five more. Every man of the coaling squad in No. 2
stokehold had been arrested.

"What's this rotten farce all about?" demanded Kennedy, appealing to
the New Zealanders.

Malcolm shook his head. His own impression was that it had something
to do with the discovery of the explosive in the bunker.

"Silence!" ordered a sergeant-major, who was now in charge of the
batch of prisoners.

The door was thrown open, and the Anzacs with their escort paced
into the orderly-room. At one end was a green-baize-covered table,
at which were seated four "Tommy" officers--a major, two captains,
and a lieutenant of a British line regiment. In front of them were
sheets of foolscap, a book on military law, and a small object
wrapped in brown paper.

"You men," began the Major without any preliminaries, "volunteered
for work in No. 2 stoke-hold. Twenty all told, I see. Were there any
other men of the party, or do you comprise the whole squad? Very
well, then. Now I mean to find out who is the owner of this article.
It was found in one of the boiler suits supplied to the squad; it
was not there when the suits were issued, consequently the article
in question must belong to one of you men. The owner of this will
step forward two paces."

The Major, unwrapping the paper coverings, held up for inspection
the notebook that Selwyn had picked up in his bunker.

"Is this your property?" demanded the Major as Selwyn stepped
forward.

"No, sir."

"Then why the deuce----" exclaimed the officer, raising his voice.
"Here, remove the other prisoners."

For twenty minutes the ejected men cooled their heels in the
alley-way until again summoned to the orderly room.

"You are released from arrest," declared the Major curtly; then, as
an afterthought, he added: "It would be advisable that you maintain
discretion over the matter."

"What happened, old man?" enquired Fortescue, as the three New
Zealanders gained a secluded part of the mess deck.

"The pocket-book contained a secret code," explained Selwyn. "It has
been partly deciphered, and is proved to be a means of communication
between someone on board the ship and the U-boats. I explained how I
found it, and offered to produce you chaps as witnesses, but the
Major was awfully decent about it. He means to find the owner, and
if necessary is going to interrogate every man who went into that
stokehold. Hallo, they've rounded up our immediate predecessors
already."

As he spoke twenty Afrikanders, headed by the gigantic Jan van
Eindhovengen, marched along the mess deck under escort.

"By Golly!" exclaimed Fortescue. "That's the man!"

"Who--the boxer?" enquired Selwyn.

"No, the last but one. Our pal in the Muizenberg train."

"So it is," agreed Malcolm. "Don't let him twig us."

The Diggers waited until the batch of suspects vanished.

"Ought we to report what we know concerning that chap?" asked
Malcolm.

"And possibly get choked off if we do," objected Fortescue. "Let's
wait and see what happens. If the fellow is bowled out, there's no
need for us to butt in. He'll face a firing-party without our
assistance. Taken for granted that he is a spy, what was his object
in bamboozling us?"

"Give it up," replied Selwyn. "Getting three men to miss their
proper transport wouldn't affect the progress of the war
sufficiently to warrant his action."

"We told him a lot--more than we ought to have done," remarked
Malcolm. "Of course we didn't know."

"And then I suppose," added Fortescue, "he thought we might report
the matter, and so he switched us off on a branch line, so to speak.
We'll let it go at that, but it wouldn't be a bad move to wait
outside the orderly-room after those fellows have gone in and play
the eavesdropper. If our Muizenberg pal is marched off under escort,
then we needn't trouble further in the matter. If he gets off, then
we'll tackle him and ask him for an explanation."

Acting upon this suggestion, the three chums made their way along
the alley-way until they came to the orderly-room door. The
Afrikanders were already within. Outside stood a "Tommy" sergeant as
part of the escort.

"Want to go through the hoop again, you chaps?" enquired the N.C.O.,
with a grin.

"Not much--only curious," replied Fortescue, who had met the
non-com. before on several occasions. "We'll _impshie_--hook it, you
know--when they clear the court."

Listening, the three chums could hear the stern tones of the Major
and the bass voice of the interpreter, for several of the South
Africans spoke nothing but Taal--a dialect comprised largely of
Dutch, with a sprinkling of Zulu and Kaffir words.

"That's our man," whispered Malcolm.

"The blighter's yapping in Dutch," announced Fortescue, "and he can
speak English perfectly. Hallo!"

A torrent of words, plainly indicating indignant denials, wafted
through the closed door. Several of the Afrikanders were speaking at
once. A revolver-shot rang out, a sharp exclamation of pain, and
then a tremendous scuffling.

"Come on, boys!" ordered the Sergeant, addressing the men of the
escort waiting without.

The door was thrown open. The Tommies rushed in, while at their
heels came Fortescue, Selwyn, and Carr. Their resolution to remain
passive and unseen witnesses had vanished into thin air.

Within all was confusion. The Major lay with his head and shoulders
resting upon the table. Two of the other officers were endeavouring
to stanch the blood that flowed from his forehead. In one corner of
the room a crowd of Afrikanders swayed in a compact mass, as if
eager to wreak their vengeance on someone, while held like a rat in
the jaws of a terrier was the man from Muizenberg, his captor being
Jan van Eindhovengen.

"Give him to us, Jan!" shouted a dozen angry voices. "We know what
to do with the rogue."

With difficulty the furious Afrikanders were calmed. The spy, his
features pale with terror, was removed under a strong guard, while
the wounded officer was carried to the sick quarters.

It was not until the afternoon that Oom Jan told Fortescue of what
had occurred. Already strange rumours of varying degrees of accuracy
had floated round the ship, but it was unanimously agreed that van
Eindhovengen was the hero of the hour.

The spy had contrived to join the draft at Cape Town under the name
of Pieter Waas. The real Pieter Waas happened to be a stranger to
the rest of the Afrikanders, and, induced to desert by spy, had
considerately transferred his name to his doubtful benefactor.

At the court of enquiry the pseudo Waas denied all knowledge of the
pocket-book, although van Eindhovengen had seen the man with it in
his possession without knowing its sinister import. It was not until
it was explained to the Afrikanders that the ownerless book was a
means by which they might be sent to the bottom of the sea by a
hostile submarine that Oom Jan "rounded" on the spy. At first the
fellow strenuously contradicted van Eindhovengen's accusation, but
the big Afrikander would not be gainsaid. Suddenly the suspect
whipped out a small automatic pistol. Whether it was with the
intention of taking his own life or that of his accuser he himself
only knew.

Like a flash van Eindhovengen's hand shot out. His powerful fingers
gripped the spy's wrist as in a vice. As the pistol dropped from the
fellow's limp hand the weapon went off, a bullet grazing the head of
the president of the court of enquiry, and rendering him insensible.

"And now," concluded Oom Jan, "the spy is under lock and key. He is
a slim _smous_ = rascal (Cape Dutch), but, Allemachte, it is all
over with him. Presently, after he has set foot on dry land, a dozen
bullets will bid him _Hambla gachle_. It is a too fitting end to a
spy."

"But he hasn't been tried and sentenced yet," remarked Fortescue.

The Afrikander's face fell.

"Surely he is guilty," he said. "Why then waste time over him?"

"It is the Englishman's proud boast that every prisoner shall be
given a fair trial," explained Fortescue. "It will be general court
martial, no doubt. Thank goodness we New Zealanders are not mixed up
in the business. By the by, Malcolm, have you any idea when we
arrive at Plymouth? It seems to me that we've been dodging across
the Atlantic half a dozen times."

"This is the twenty-eighth day of the voyage," observed Malcolm. "I
heard that when the _Pomfret Castle_ was on the ordinary mail
service she did the trip in fourteen as regular as clockwork."

"There's one thing, the boys will be snugly in camp by this time and
waiting for us," added Selwyn. "We've missed the rotten 'shaking
down' process. I wonder what sort of a show Codford is like?"

"You'll find out in due course," replied Fortescue grimly. "I've had
some; enough of Salisbury Plain for me, thank you."

"We're not there yet," Malcolm reminded him.

Fortescue looked fixedly at the expanse of sea over which the
twilight was spreading. Already the grey outline of the convoying
cruiser was blending into invisibility against the gathering mantle
of night.

"'That's so," he agreed solemnly.




CHAPTER XII

Running the Gauntlet


"Land in sight!"

The welcome announcement resulted in a rush on deck on the part of
the motley throng of Anzacs, South Africans, English troops, and
Maoris. Some men eager for a glimpse of the country of their birth,
which they had not seen for many a long-drawn month of campaigning
in the inhospitable waste of Mesopotamia; others for the first sight
of the Mother Country; others out of mere curiosity; while the
Maoris peered through the dim light to feast upon the prospects of
speedily setting foot on dry land.

It was not much to look at, judged from a strictly optical point of
view. Merely a slender lighthouse, rearing itself itself out of the
sea, while miles beyond it, and just visible against the pale rosy
tints of dawn, was a line of dark-grey cliffs, backed by higher
ground that was totally destitute of trees.

The _Pomfret Castle_ and the rest of the convoy had slowed down in
the vicinity of the Wolf Rock Lighthouse. The attendant cruiser was
circling round at top speed, as if to shepherd her flock before
entrusting them to the care of another. Against the line of cliffs
could be discerned a haze of smoke, Out of which appeared a number
of indistinct dots that quickly resolved themselves into a flotilla
of destroyers.

In double-column line ahead the greyhounds of the sea tore to meet
the approaching troopships, then, at a signal from the senior
officer, the destroyers "broke line", tearing hither and thither
seemingly without order or reason--zigzagging, pirouetting, and
crossing each others' bows as if participating in an intricate
maritime dance.

"Putting the wind up any blessed U-boat that might be wanting to
butt in," exclaimed Kennedy. "Hallo! There's our cruiser off. She's
done with us."

The transports dipped ensigns; the cruiser returned the compliment
in a similar manner as she swung round and retraced her course. Her
mission accomplished, she set off on particular service to escort
another convoy from somewhere to somewhere else, while the
destroyers closed round the _Pomfret Castle_ and her consorts as if
to welcome them into port.

For the most part the men ignored the call to breakfast. They had a
different feast on hand--to feast their eyes upon the varying
outlines of the rugged Cornish coast; for as the distance decreased
the monotonous aspect gave place to one of intense interest.

"There's Rame Head," exclaimed a delighted Tommy. "Many a time I've
stood on top of it. I was born an' bred at Cawsand," he added,
gratuitously. "Just round the corner you'll see Plymouth."

"I've seen it three times before," remarked another--the inevitable
grouser of the company; "and, every time it's been raining cats and
dogs. Proper wet 'ole, I calls it."

"Let it, and a jolly good job too," rejoined the first speaker.
"After Mesopotamia you won't hear men grumbling about rain--not
'arf. It can rain every day in the year, an' good luck to it."

"Just you wait till you gets ter France," chipped in another. "Up to
yer neck in mud an' slush. You'll jolly soon wish yourself grilling
again."

"You've turned your back on Mesopotamia, boys," exclaimed the
licensed jester of the company. "Now you've the Mess-up-at-homia,
an' so make the best of it. Blimy, wot's this comin'; a bloomin'
Zeppelin!"

"Where?" exclaimed a dozen voices.

Following the direction of the speaker's outstretched hand Malcolm
had his first view of an airship. It was not a large craft as
airships go. Underneath its silver-grey envelope hung a small car
like the fuselage of an aeroplane. As it approached, the whirring
circle of a single, two-bladed propeller could be discerned. It was
a "Blimp", or dirigible observation balloon.

The airship was flying rapidly "down wind" at an altitude of about
two hundred feet. As it passed almost overhead the fuselage appeared
to scrape the _Pomfret Castle's_ main truck by inches. Presently the
Blimp swung round and faced the wind, keeping on a course slightly
diverging from that of the convoy. Plugging away dead in the eye of
the wind its progress was not more than twenty miles an hour "over
the ground", which in reality was a portion of the English Channel.

Suddenly the _Pomfret Castle_ starboarded helm and broke out of
line. The alteration of course had the effect of causing the huge
vessel to list outwards. As she did so a long trail of foam almost
parallel to the starboard side of the ship shot ahead until it was
lost to sight in the distance.

For some moments not a single man moved. Attention had been shifted
from the Blimp to the milk-white track in the water--the wake of the
torpedo.

Only by prompt use of her helm had the _Pomfret Castle_ escaped
destruction. Even in home waters she had to run the gauntlet,
despite the encircling line of destroyers.

With the utmost audacity a U-boat had lain submerged across the
track of the convoy, trusting to be able to launch her bolt and
disappear before even the swift destroyers could take her bearings,
and close upon the spot where the tips of her periscopes had
appeared when the torpedo had been discharged.

She had seen the escorting vessels and had taken the risk, but she
had reckoned without the far-seeing eyes of the Blimp.

Already the airship had spotted a dark elongated shape beneath the
waves. Invisible when viewed at a narrow angle to the surface, the
submarine stood out clearly against the grey waste of waters when
seen from above.

Something, glittering in the dull light, shot from beneath the
fuselage of the alert Blimp. With a mighty splash the missile struck
the surface of the sea and disappeared.

For five long-drawn seconds nothing appeared to happen. Unseen by
the watchers on the troop-ship, a deadly aerial torpedo was worming
its way through the water until it reached a depth of sixty feet.

Before the spray cast up by the impact of the missile had subsided,
another and far greater column of water leapt a hundred feet or more
into the air. A cloud of smoke hid the Blimp from view, while, out
of the breaking spout of upheaved water, appeared a solid, dark-grey
substance--the after part of a U-boat!

For a brief instant the wreckage was revealed to view. Even the
horizontal and vertical rudders and the twin propellers were
visible. Then, as if reluctant to sink into obscurity, the strafed
U-boat disappeared from mortal ken for all time.

No need for the destroyers to tear at full speed across the
ever-widening circle of oil; no need for explosive grapnels to trail
over the downward path of the vertically-descending pirate craft.
The diabolical _Spurlos versenkt_ policy had recoiled with a
vengeance upon yet another of the Kaiser's _Unterseebooten_.

A hoarse roar of cheering broke from the throats of the men.
Tommies, Anzacs, South Africans, and Maoris vied with each other as
to who could produce the greatest and most prolonged volume Of
sound. Other vessels of the convoy took up the hearty "Hip, hip,
hurrah!" until the watchers on the distant Cornish cliffs must have
heard the strenuous demonstrations of exultation.

Meanwhile the destroyers, their crews grimly silent, merely "carried
on". The men whose lives they were guarding might well let
themselves go, but these units of the great silent navy meant
business. Time for shouting when the German navy ceased to exist as
a fighting force--and "The Day" was yet to come.

The Blimp, also scorning to display any indications of its
triumphant success, turned and flew serenely over the convoy,
outwardly indifferent to the work of destruction it had
accomplished. Not until the last of the convoy passed the western
end of the breakwater, and gained the security of Plymouth Sound,
did the modern counterpart of the

  "Little cherub that sits up aloft,
  To keep guard o'er the life of poor Jack"

relinquish its task. Then, amid a farewell outburst of cheering, the
Blimp flew eastwards, to disappear from view behind the lofty
Staddon Heights.




CHAPTER XIII

News of Peter


Malcolm's first impressions on landing in Old England were far from
agreeable. A drizzling rain was falling. It was yet early, and
beyond a few dock hands Millbay Pier was deserted. No crowds of
enthusiastic spectators waited to welcome the men who had made a
perilous voyage of thousands of miles to take part in the fight for
freedom. In almost complete silence the securing-ropes were made
fast and the gangways run out by apathetic workmen, while with the
utmost dispatch the disembarkation of men and stores began.

Wearing grey Balaclava helmets instead of their smart uniform hats,
and without their accoutrements, the three New Zealanders found
themselves drawn up in the rear of their Australian comrades.

"Who are these men?" enquired an embarkation Officer of the Anzac
major who accompanied him.

"Three New Zealanders who missed their transport at Cape Town, sir,"
replied the latter.

"What regiment?"

The Australian turned to Fortescue and repeated the question.

The embarkation officer consulted a document.

"Thirty-somethingth reinforcements, eh? Dash it all, you men! You've
arrived before they have. I don't know what to do with them, Major."

He spoke wearily. Dealing with absentees and men who had "got
adrift" had occupied a good part of his time during the last two
years. It was getting decidedly monotonous.

"Let them entrain with our boys, sir," suggested the kindly Anzac
major. "I'll be responsible for them as far as Salisbury. They're
for Codford, I suppose?"

"Very well," acceded the embarkation officer, glad to find an easy
solution to the difficulty. "You are the senior non-com., I
suppose," he asked, addressing Fortescue. "Here, take this, and when
you arrive in camp report yourselves."

He handed Fortescue a yellow paper, and hurried off to find shelter
from the downpour. The entrainment was a slow process. The men were
hungry. They wished in vain for the breakfast that the majority had
forgone when the _Pomfret Castle_ sighted land. There were rumours
that tea and coffee were to be served out at a way-side station, but
promises, Fortescue observed, do not fill an empty stomach.

In vain Malcolm looked for Te Paheka. Already the Maori contingent
had been spirited away--to what immediate destination he knew not.

Handcuffed and under a strong escort, the spy arrested under the
name of Pieter Waas was hurried along the slippery quay--the bent,
dejected figure of a man who, although uncondemned, knows that his
life is forfeit. Who and what he was yet remained to be proved,
unless, like many a nameless spy, he went to his death preferring
that the mystery that surrounded his life should accompany him to
the Great Beyond.

Packed like sardines in a tin, the Anzacs filled the long train to
overflowing. Again under cover, their mercurial spirits rose, and
when at length the rain ceased, and the train rumbled betwixt the
red-earthed, verdant coombes of Devon, bathed in brilliant sunshine,
the Anzacs unanimously voted that there were worse places on earth
than the Old Country.

It was late in the afternoon when Malcolm and his two chums alighted
at Codford station, and, making their way by a roundabout route
along the main street of the village, where old-time cottages and
hideous wooden shanties stood cheek by jowl, arrived at the vast
array of tin huts that comprised the camp.

Things turned out better than either of the three chums had
expected. They were reprimanded, but for the time being they were
not deprived of their stripes. Until the arrival of the
Thirty-somethingth reinforcements they were given light duties and a
generous amount of leisure time.

"Malcolm Carr, by all that's blue and pink!"

This was the greeting hurled at Malcolm a few hours after his
arrival in camp. At that time there were comparatively few troops at
Codford. Heavy drafts had just been sent to Sling Camp, preparatory
to proceeding to France, while the expected reinforcements had not
yet put in an appearance. Yet one of the first men young Carr met
that evening was a Christchurch acquaintance who lived but a few
doors away from Malcolm's parents.

"By Jove, this is great, Tommy!" exclaimed Malcolm. "Never thought
I'd run against you here. You know Selwyn, of course? This is
Fortescue, one of the boys--and one of the best. An old Christchurch
chum, Tommy Travers."

"When did you blow in?" enquired Travers, as the four made their way
along a narrow plank gangway between the lines of huts--the only
means of preventing men sinking above their ankles in mud.

"Arrived at Plymouth this morning," replied Malcolm. "And you? Been
across yet?"

Travers touched his coat-sleeve, on which was a faded gold stripe.

"Yes," he answered; "five months of it. I got this buckshie in that
scrap in Delville Wood, when our brigade captured Flers. Shrap," he
added laconically. "It was hell let loose, and our boys copped it.
Six weeks in hospital, and then I came here. Managed to get dropped
when the last draft went to Sling, so I suppose I'll be off with the
next crush. Any news Christchurch way?"

"Did you hear that my brother Peter is wounded and missing?" asked
Malcolm, after a flow of conversation on strictly personal subjects.

"Yes," replied Travers. "He was sergeant of my platoon. I think I
was one of the last of our chaps to see him. It was like this: our
battalion cleared the southern portion of Delville Wood in grand
style. We fairly put the wind up Fritz. Bombs and bayonets all the
time. We had a lot of casualties, though. When we rushed our
objective your brother Peter was senior non-com. There were two
subalterns left, but they weren't fit for much. Both hit, but too
plucky to chuck their hands in. Well, we began digging ourselves in
on the edge of the wood when the Boches started to pump in
high-explosive, shrap, and gas shells. There was precious little
left of the wood. Not a leaf to be seen, and at most a crowd of
charred tree-trunks, many of 'em still blazing."

"Why Fritz treated us to an extra special dose goodness only knows.
The battalion lying on our right barely copped it at all, and the
Tommy regiment on our left came off lightly until the Huns had
finished with us. We had little or no cover. The ground was
chock-full of big roots, and we hadn't time to remove them. The
trees were flying in big and little chunks all over the show, and
all the cover we could get were a few shell-holes."

"Although it was night, the place was lit up as brightly as
anything; a continuous slap-up of bursting shells and streams of
liquid fire. I heard afterwards that our battalion was given orders
to fall back and adjust the line, but certain it was that we never
had any commands to retire."

"Then I got it properly. Shrap in the left arm and both legs. Went
down like a felled ox, and lay there until my puttees--which I
started to unroll but didn't finish--began smouldering. Things were
looking and feeling bit warmer than usual when your brother nipped
up. Remember, none of the boys were firing. There was nothing to let
rip at. The Boche guns simply let us have it, and their
counter-attack hadn't developed. If they were about to
counter-attack we couldn't see them. The smoke was too thick for
that, although, as I said before, we could see everything within
twenty yards or so. Our only indication of the Huns trying to rush
us was when their guns lifted and put up a barrage behind us.".

"Peter never said a word. For one thing, there was such a terrific
din going on that you'd have had to shout close to a fellow's ear to
make him understand; for another, your brother had got it in the
jaw. Nothing much, I should say, as buckshies go nowadays, but still
it was enough to look unpleasant."

"He finished unwinding my puttees and threw them away. I can smell
them now, smouldering under my nose. Then he began hauling me
towards a shell-hole, when down he went, all of a heap, shot through
the ankle."

"After a bit he raised himself and pointed towards the crater we
were making for, and we both started to crawl for it. By Jingo,
didn't that journey give me gee-up while it lasted! Then, just as we
were close to the shell-hole, a 'crump' burst somewhere close, and I
remembered nothing more until I found myself in the advance
dressing-station. Two men of C Company, Pat O'Connor and Sandy
Anderson--both from Taranaki--brought me in, I was told afterwards,
and I met them while I was in hospital at Brockenhurst. They were
certain they never saw Sergeant Peter Carr."

"The Germans drove us in with their counter-attack, didn't they?"
asked Fortescue.

"Aye, but we ousted them next morning," replied Travers, "and out of
Flers as well. That's when Pat O'Connor copped it; but he swears
that none of our fellows were left alive during the retirement in
the woods."

"Then you think that Peter was killed?" asked Malcolm.

Travers squared his shoulders.

"Speaking as man to man," he replied, "I don't think there can be
the faintest doubt about it. And Peter Carr was a downright good
sort. . . . How about it, you fellows? Good for a game of a 'hundred
up'?"




CHAPTER XIV

The Anzacs' Hoax


For the next few weeks events moved rapidly. With the belated
arrival of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement, Malcolm Carr and
Dick Selwyn found themselves reverted to the ranks. Fortescue, by
virtue of having seen active service, still retained his stripes.
Rumours of something great in the nature of a stunt about to take
place gained credence from the fact that the men were put through
their final training as quickly as possible. The "Diggers" accepted
the "speeding up" with alacrity. They realized that the sooner they
completed their arduous "field exercises" the sooner they would
attain their ambition to "put it across Fritz".

The spring gave place to early summer, a spell of beautifully fine
weather, so much so that the mud of Salisbury Plain vanished, and
the green grass of the rolling downs turned russet for lack of rain.
Yet, in spite of the heat, bayonet practice, bombing instruction,
and long route marches kept the men lean, active, and in the very
pink of condition.

"_Ehoa!_ It's Sling."

The announcement ran like wildfire along the line of huts. It meant
that the transfer of the brigade to Sling Camp was another milestone
in the long trek to the Front.

It is futile to attempt to find Sling on the pre-war maps of
Salisbury Plain. A large town of mushroom growth, it had been one of
the places inseparably associated with New Zealand's part in the
Great War. To the man who had yet to undergo his baptism of fire,
Sling meant proficiency for the firing-line. To the wounded New
Zealander recovering from wounds, being ordered to Sling meant that
he was considered fit to "I get one back on Fritz". In brief, Sling
Camp was a piece of New Zealand soil planted in England, where the
pick of the manhood of the Southern Dominion forgathered for the
final polishing touches of the noble profession of arms.

Before June was far advanced word went round that the brigade was to
cross the Channel and go into camp at "Etaps"--as Étaples is almost
uniformly designated by the khaki lads. Again rumour spoke
truthfully, for at four o'clock the next afternoon the "Diggers"
were ordered to entrain for Southampton.

"Wonder if there's any chance of looking round Southampton?" asked
Selwyn. "I've a second cousin there."

Fortescue smiled grimly.

"No, you don't, my dinky lad," he replied. "After Muizenberg we
steer clear of your relations. As a matter of fact, they'll push us
straight on board a transport, and she'll sail as soon as it gets
dark."

The train, upon arrival at the place of embarkation, ran straight
into the docks, and brought up close to one of the many transports
that were berthed there with banked fires ready to sail at any hour
of the day or night.

In full marching order the men trooped up the gangways, divested
themselves of their packs, and made themselves as comfortable as
possible for their twelve or fourteen hours' voyage. Within the
space of two hours twelve hundred troops, both Australians and New
Zealanders, were embarked.

"Good-bye, Blighty!" shouted an Anzac. "Shan't see you again for
many a long day."

"Stow your jaw and get your life-belt," ordered a non-com. "You'll
be in the soup if the platoon commander finds you without it."

The wire hawsers were cast off. A couple of tugs began straining at
their huge charge, and slowly the transport drew away from the side
of the dock. Then, gathering speed, she slipped down the land-locked
expanse of Southampton Water, through the fort-guarded Spithead, and
gained the English Channel.

"We'll be airing our French by this time tomorrow," declared
Malcolm.

"For the preservation of the Entente we would be wise to keep our
mouths shut," said Selwyn. "From what I remember, Malcolm, you were
last but one in French at the Coll."

"And you?"

"Absolutely the last," admitted Selwyn.

"Talking of French," began Fortescue, "reminds me of something that
happened to me at Plug Street. Hallo, what's the move now?"

Fortescue's narrative, or rather attempted narrative, of what
occurred at Plug Street was somewhat remarkable. On three previous
occasions Malcolm and Selwyn had heard him commencing the tale, and
each time something had occurred to "switch him off."

It was no ordinary interruption on this occasion. The transport had
altered helm and was turning to starboard, with her bows pointing
towards the Foreland end of The Wight. Still porting helm, she swung
round until she reversed her former direction, then, standing on her
course, began to make for Spithead once more.

"What's up now?" was the enquiry on the lips of hundreds of men.

"One of the brass hats' has dropped his toothbrush overboard and
we're going back to look for it," declared a South Australian.
"Corker, my boy, you were too sharp on your bead when you chortled,
'Good-bye, Blighty!'"

Presently it transpired that the transport had received a wireless
message ordering her to return to Southampton, as four German
submarines had been reported lying in wait at a distance of ten
Miles south of the Nab Lightship. Since the night was pitch dark,
the escorting ships could not carry out their protective duties with
the same degree of efficiency as usual. In the circumstances
prudence directed the temporary abandonment of the cross-channel
voyage.

It was one o'clock in the morning when the transport berthed in the
Empress Dock. Orders were given for the troops to disembark and
proceed to the large rest camp on the outskirts of Southampton.
Disappointed though they were, the men maintained their
cheerfulness, and before the long column was clear of the dock gates
they were cheering, laughing, and shouting frantically, despite all
attempts on the part of their officers to enforce silence.

Up the long High Street the khaki-clad troops marched boisterously.
The inhabitants, roused from their sleep by the unusual clamour,
flocked to the windows. Many a time had they seen troops fully
equipped proceeding _towards_ the docks; never since the outbreak of
hostilities had they seen soldiers in heavy marching order tramping
in column of fours away from the place of embarkation.

"What's up?" was the oft-repeated enquiry from the invisible heights
of many a darkened window in the High Street.

"Haven't you heard?" shouted a bull-voiced Anzac. "Peace is
declared, and we're the first troops home from the Front."

At the prospect of a gigantic hoax others took up the mendacious
parable, and long before the men reached their destination for the
night the startling news had spread far and wide. It was not until
the arrival of the morning papers that the good folk of Southampton
realized that they had been "properly had".

The enforced detention at Southampton, was, however, not without
certain compensations. The men were allowed out of camp during the
following afternoon, a boon they thoroughly appreciated.

Selwyn had seized upon the opportunity to visit his relations, but
when fie again invited Malcolm and Fortescue to accompany him they
begged to be excused, and wandered round the town instead.

Old Southampton was both a surprise and a revelation to Malcolm
Carr. Coming from a country where a fifty-year-old building is
considered to be old, the sight of the fourteenth-century walls and
fortified gates filled him with enthusiasm, while Fortescue was able
to explain the nature of the various architectural features.

Wandering down a narrow and far from clean street they came face to
face with an ancient stone building flung athwart the road. On the
side of the archway a notice board announced it to be the old
Westgate, through which the armies of Edward III and Henry V marched
to embark upon the expedition that ended respectively in the
victories of Crécy and Agincourt.

"One can imagine the throng of mailed knights leathern-jerkined
archers pouring under the double portcullis," remarked Fortescue.
"Those armies left this place as enemies of France; to-day ours also
leave Southampton, but with a different purpose, to rid French soil
of the Hun and all his works."

"And it shows," added Malcolm, "in another way how times change.
Unless I'm mistaken, Henry V's army consisted of thirty thousand
troops--not a third of the number of men raised in New Zealand
alone."

"To carry the comparison still further," continued his companion,
"our quota is roughly a fiftieth of the fighting forces of the
Empire. For every man who levelled lance or drew bow at Agincourt
against the French, one hundred and fifty are to-day fighting side
by side with their former enemies. Those chaps--'island carrions,
desperate of their bones', as Will Shakespeare aptly puts it--are
our ancestors, Malcolm, whether we are New Zealanders, Australians,
or Canadians, and although we are up against a big thing I haven't
the faintest doubt that blood will tell, as it did in those days.
But, by Jove, it's close on four o'clock. We'll have to get back as
sharp as we can, or we may have the Muizenberg business all over
again."

That evening the troops re-embarked. By this time the lurking
U-boats had been dealt with in a most effective way. Their shattered
hulls lay on the bed of the English Channel. The route was now
clear, and the transport's voyage was practically devoid of
incident.

Without the loss of a single man, thanks to the mysterious yet
effective means of protection afforded by the British navy, the
Thirty-somethingth reinforcement had completed yet another stage of
their Odyssey. At last they were upon the soil of La Belle France,
and within sound of the hostile guns.




CHAPTER XV

The Eve of Messines


"Now then, you chaps, if you aren't hungry your pals are. Look
slippy and get those rations up. You'll tumble across the wagons at
La Tuille Farm."

"Right oh, Sergeant!" responded a youthful corporal. "Come along,
chapses! Best foot forward!"

The Sergeant, having seen that a start was about to be made, backed
out of the dug-out, dropped the tapestried curtain--it was a ragged
and soiled ground-sheet--over the entrance, and disappeared along the
narrow trench.

Crowded into the small dug-out were seven New Zealand riflemen.
Three of them are old acquaintances: Carr, Selwyn, and Macready, all
looking lean, dirty, and unkempt, while their uniforms were caked in
dried mud and frayed with hard usage. The final touches at Staples
were a thing of the past. For four long days the men had been in the
first-line trenches facing the formidable Messines Ridge.

The dug-out was comparatively dry. For one thing, the weather had
been propitious, and the loathsome mud had almost disappeared. The
roof was composed of untrimmed tree trunks on which were piled
sand-bags sufficiently thick to stop shells of medium calibre. The
walls were likewise timbered, while along three sides ran a narrow
shelf on which were bundles of straw to serve as beds. Hanging from
nails driven into the rough-and-ready wainscot were the men's
haversacks and other equipment, while ranged alongside the door were
their rifles. Those were the only objects upon which any great care
had been bestowed. In spite of rain, mud, discolouring fumes of
shells, hard usage, and a dozen other difficulties, the rifles were
kept well-oiled and in perfect condition.

In the centre of the dug-out stood a cylindrical piece of perforated
iron in which a fire was burning dully. The fumes filled the
confined space to such an extent that it was difficult for any of
the occupants to distinguish their companions' features, but that
was a detail to be endured with equanimity in the trenches. As it
was the month of June, and warm, the men were lucky to be able to
have a fire, considering the scarcity of fuel and the difficulty of
conveying wood and charcoal up to the firing-line.

During the day Fritz had been actively engaged in "watering" the
line with high-explosive shells. Not only did the advance and
support trenches get it hot, but for miles behind the lines hostile
shells were dropping promiscuously, on the chance of blowing up one
or more of the numerous dumps and otherwise hampering the supply
columns. But as night fell the "strafe" became desultory, and under
cover of darkness the fatigue and foraging parties were able to set
to work with a reasonable chance of getting through without being
"done in".

"Come along, boys," exclaimed the young corporal--Billy Preston from
Timaru--a veteran of Egypt and Gallipoli notwithstanding the fact
that he was within a month of his twenty-first birthday. "The sooner
we get the job done the better."

The men were dog-tired. A couple of hostile raids had kept them on
the qui vive the previous night, while throughout the day they had
had but few opportunities for sleep. And now, just as they were
preparing to snatch a few hours' rest, they had been told off to
bring up the rations.

"We've got to assemble at two, haven't we?" enquired Rifleman
Joliffe--commonly known as Grouser Joliffe. "They say our chaps are
to attempt to take Messines Ridge. Attempt, I say, mind you, and our
guns haven't hardly touched the job. There's uncut wire, you can see
that for Yourselves, and machine-guns every yard of the way.
'Struth! I'm for swinging the lead. You don't catch me hurrying when
the whistle goes."

His remarks fell on unheeding ears. The men were used to Grouser
Joliffe's complaints by this time, They knew that when the critical
moment arrived Joliffe would be amongst the first to mount the
fire-step and clamber over the parapet. Yet there were grounds for
belief in what the rifleman had said. The formidable ridge was to be
attempted. The British knew it; the Huns knew it. With its
labyrinths of wire and nests of skilfully-hidden machine-guns
Messines Ridge was far more difficult to assault than in the earlier
stages of the war, when French won and lost the important position.

Meanwhile Malcolm had rolled out of his narrow uncomfortable perch
and was stretching his cramped limbs. Selwyn was fumbling with his
puttees.

"Hang it," he exclaimed. "A rat has been gnawing at them. Anyone got
a piece of string?"

The deficiency remedied, and the scanty toilet operations performed
(the inhabitants of the dug-out had turned in "all standing", even
to their boots), the men put on their shrapnel helmets, seized their
rifles, and sallied forth into the night.

For some moments Malcolm could see nothing. The transition from the
smoky, ill-lighted dug-out to the darkness of the open air confused
his sight. All he could do was to keep in touch with the man
preceding him until he grew accustomed to the change of venue.

Fresh air--is there such a thing anywhere within miles of No Man's
Land? Malcolm doubted it. The atmosphere reeked of numerous and
distinct odours. Traces of poison gas lurked in the traverses,
pungent fumes from bursting shells wafted over parapet and parados,
while the report, passed on from various successive occupants of
this section of the line, that a dozen dead Huns had been buried
under the floor of the support trench--the old first-line trench of
a Prussian regiment--seemed to find definite confirmation.

A low whine and a terrific _wump_ as a high-explosive shell arrived
and burst fifty yards in the rear of the trench showed that Fritz
was still strafing. A fortnight previously Malcolm's heart would
have been in his boots. Now he scarcely heeded the messenger of
death and destruction, although showers of dust and calcined wood
flew over the parados amongst the ration party. Familiarity with
missiles of that description had quickly bred contempt.

At frequent intervals lurid star-shells lit up the sky. The Huns
were getting decidedly jumpy of late. Expecting a strong attack, yet
not knowing the actual time, they were massing their men on the
ridge under the protection of their artillery. Away to the left
machine-guns were delivering a _staccato obbligato_.

"Our heavies are quiet to-night," remarked Selwyn, who was trudging
along the duck-boards literally on Malcolm's heels. "Why to blazes
don't they give Fritz half a dozen for every one he throws over?
Hanged if I can make things out."

Malcolm pulled tip suddenly, to avoid charging into the back of the
man immediately preceding him. Those behind bunched up and halted,
while from the front of the single file came a very strong
exclamation of pain and anger.

"What's wrong?" enquired the Corporal "Someone buckshied?"

"Yes," replied the voice of Grouser Joliffe. "Copped it in my
blessed arm."

"Then foot it to the dressing-station," ordered Corporal Preston.

"Me?" enquired the rifleman. "Me? Not much. Wait till we've brought
in the grub, and then--you don't catch me going over the top
tonight."

For another hundred and fifty yards the party proceeded before the
men turned into the zigzag communication-trench. This ran backwards
for nearly a mile. In places it was eight feet deep, with sand-bags
on either side in addition, In others, in marshy spots, where the
high-explosive shells had spitefully disturbed the tranquillity of
meandering streams and carried the sluggish water to overflow and
swamp the surrounding ground, the "trench" was above normal
ground-level, with a lofty and broad wall of sand-bags to right and
left. Here and there the trench was roofed in, where, from
experience, men had learnt it was unhealthy owing to being exposed
to machine-gun fire. The Huns had got to know the weak spots. Aerial
observation during daylight had enabled them to train machine-guns
upon certain points of the communication-trenches. The lethal
weapons would be ominously silent until after dark; then, on the
off-chance of receiving a good bag, they would let loose a hail of
bullets.

The men hastened across the more-exposed sections generally on their
hands and knees. Even the bravest heaved a sigh of relief when the
danger-spot was safely crossed. Going over the top they would
unhesitatingly rush a machine-gun emplacement, but crawling away
from the enemy, never knowing when a hail of bullets would sweep the
ground, was enough to try the nerves of the case-hardened
campaigner.

Presently the communication-trench ended, and the ration-party
stumbled across a double line of narrow-gauge rails, part of the
intricate system behind the lines. The track ran diagonally to the
direction of the trench. To the left it led to and beyond the Army
Service Corps dump at La Tuille. In the opposite direction it
disappeared in the bowels of the earth, while a network of branch
lines complicated the system. All through the hours of darkness, for
several months past, heavily-laden trucks carefully covered with
camouflaged canvas rumbled away from the lines to return empty ere
dawn. Latterly the reverse conditions prevailed. Full trucks, each
propelled singly by manual labour and with long intervals between
the vehicles, proceeded towards the trenches but never reached them.

Subterranean works of an extensive nature were on the point of being
completed. Every load of excavation was carefully taken miles to the
rear in the dead of night, in order to baffle the enemy's aerial
observers. So well guarded were these operations that even the men
in the trenches were unaware of their nature, although many shrewd
conjectures were not far out.

"Hallo, chums!" called out one of the ration-party as a truck hauled
by three sappers rattled along. "How's your Channel Tunnel scheme
getting along?"

"Fine!" was the reply. "Are you taking up any shares in the concern?
There'll be a sharp rise very shortly, you know."

Another fifty yards and a word of command from Corporal Preston
brought the squad to a halt. Out of the darkness came the sound of a
hundred marching feet; then, almost invisible in their khaki
uniform, a battalion of Australian infantry passed. It was
significant that the men were in light marching order.

"By Gum! There's something up," whispered Selwyn. "Crowds of bombers
and a whole crush of Lewis guns. Hallo! Here's more of them."

The progress of the ration-party was slow. A constant stream of
infantry, swarms of transport of all conditions, clearly denoted
that operations of more than minor importance were impending.

"There's enough to swamp our trenches," declared Malcolm. "Where on
earth are they going to assemble?"

"That Sapper fellow evidently knew something when he talked about a
sharp rise," said Selwyn. "And look! Tanks--crowds of them!"

Ambling along by the side of the tramway came a long line of
armoured mastodons. The ground shook under the relentless pressure
of the tractor bands, the air reeked with petrol fumes. Viewed in
broad daylight the Tanks looked formidable enough; in the darkness,
their weird outlines distorted by the misty atmosphere, they
appeared like huge, grotesque monsters from another world.

"If I were Fritz I'd think twice before standing up to one of those
brutes," soliloquized Malcolm. "Twenty-two of them. This will be a
big stunt, and no mistake."

At length, after many delays, the ration-party arrived at the
farm--or, rather, the pile of rubble that was known as La Tuille
Farm before a nest of German machine-guns had attracted the notice
of an observant battery-commander. That was three months ago.
Already nettles and briers were covering the blackened debris, as if
Nature were doing her best to disguise the destructive handiwork of
Man.

At the rear of the mound was the A.S.C. advanced depot. Piles of
bully-beef tins, tiers of barrels and cases, small mountains of
loaves covered with tarpaulins, were diminishing rapidly under the
heavy calls made upon them by deputations from the men in the
trenches. Although within range of hostile guns, the "dump" had so
far escaped serious damage, To bring the supplies nearer the lines
by mechanical transfer would be to court disaster, so every ounce of
food had to be carried by squads detailed for that purpose. Every
scrap of provisions the men in the trenches received had to be
brought at the risk of life and limb. The task was a hazardous one,
but there was never any lack of men willing and eager to run the
risk of being strafed for the sake of feeding their comrades in the
firing-line.

Corporal Preston went off to find the non-com. who had to issue the
rations to his section, leaving his men to stand easy until he
returned.

Someone touched Malcolm on the shoulder.

"Bear a hand, chum, and help me turn off the tap," said a husky
voice.

Malcolm turned, and found that the speaker was Grouser Joliffe.

"Turn off what tap?" he asked.

"S--sh! Not so loud!" continued the rifleman. "It's my arm, I mean.
Bleeding like anything. Help me off with my coat and clap a
first-aid dressing on it, and I'll be all right. No dressing-station
for me, I'll miss this stunt. Think we'll be back in time?" he added
anxiously. "Corporal's a long time about it."

The two men withdrew a few paces, and Carr helped Joliffe to remove
his coat. Already the sleeve was moist and clammy. On the left arm,
just below the shoulder, was a nasty gash, caused by a fragment of a
shell.

"It's good enough for Blighty, old lad!" exclaimed Malcolm.

"No dinkum Blighty for me!" expostulated Joliffe vehemently. "Never
had a chance to fire a round yet--nor to use my blinkin' bay'net.
But I mean to," he added. "If the boys go over the top without me
there'll be trouble!" Malcolm bound up the wound, adjusting the
bandages tightly. Although the dressing operation was a painful one,
Grouser Joliffe never uttered a sound, although Malcolm could see
beads of perspiration glistening on the rifleman's wrinkled
forehead.

"How's that?" he asked.

Joliffe lifted his left arm with an effort.

"Feels a bit stiff," he admitted. "Maybe you've tied those bandages
a bit too tight. Still, 'tisn't your fault. When we get back I'll
have a few swings with my rifle and bay'net; then if the dressing
wants altering you'll bear a hand?"

"Certainly!" said Malcolm, as he helped the man on with his coat.

"You'll be lucky if you don't fall out before we get back," he
soliloquized.

Having drawn the stores, the ration-party set out on the return
journey. Until they reached the commencement of the
communication-trench they were able to make use of a couple of empty
trucks which were lying on a siding close to the dump.

The vehicles each had four flanged wheels. The bodies were made of
wood, originally painted grey, but little of the paint was left.
Caked mud still stuck to the bottom of the trucks, but men in the
firing-line cannot be fastidious. Loaves, bags of sugar, tea, and
tins of bully beef were thrown in indiscriminately. The
water-carriers lifted their heavy burdens--every drop of water had
to be taken into the trenches, for, although there are springs and
water-holes in abundance close to the firing-line, the risk of
contamination had to be carefully guarded against--and the
"homeward" trek began.

Beyond a few desultory shells the British artillery was practically
inactive. Fritz had already been used to a furious bombardment as a
preliminary of a "big stunt". For change, he was not being warned in
this fashion, and, consequently, although expecting an attack within
the next few days, the absence of a downright strafe put him off his
guard. Nevertheless, the German guns on the spur of Messines Ridge,
and miles beyond the heights, were persistently "watering" the
ground behind the British lines.

Stumbling over the sleepers, the ration-party kept their groaning
vehicles rumbling along the hastily-laid track. Grouser Joliffe was
silent now, but Malcolm noticed that, although he used only one hand
to help propel the truck, he was not lacking in energy.

"He won't last out at that rate," thought the lad; but when he
offered to take the place of the wounded man, Joliffe turned upon
him almost savagely.

"I'm all right," he persisted. "You keep your mouth shut and let me
alone, or the other fellows will tumble to it. I was a blamed fool
to holler when I copped it!"

A shrieking, tearing sound had the effect of making every man throw
himself upon the ground. With a terrific crash an 8-inch shell
exploded within fifty yards of the track, sending showers of dirt
over the trucks and upon the prostrate party.

"All right there?" enquired the Corporal, as the men regained their
feet. "Good! Carry on."

A short distance farther on the party came to an abrupt halt. The
rails had vanished. Across the track was a crater twenty feet in
diameter, from which acrid fumes were still slowly emanating from
the pulverized earth. Already a fatigue-party was at work diverting
the lines round the edge of the yawning pit. At all costs
communication must be maintained, in order to leave no hitch in the
arrangements for the morning's attack.

"You'll have to unload, mate," said the sergeant in charge of the
Engineers. "Thank your lucky stars you weren't here twenty minutes
ago. The Jocks copped it. They've carted fifteen of 'em off. There's
been two of 'em already to-night, so look out for a third for luck."

The Diggers set to work to negotiate the obstacle. The idea of
unloading did not appeal to them in the slightest. Leaving a man in
charge of one truck--experience had taught them the necessity for
that, where unguarded stores are anyone's property--all hands lifted
the second vehicle clear of the rails.

The flanged wheels sank deeply into the soft ground, but by sheer
hard work the truck was propelled round the crater to the spot where
the lines resumed their-sphere of usefulness.

On the way back to the other track Malcolm glanced at the luminous
face of his wristlet watch. It was nearly midnight.

Suddenly a blinding flash appeared to leap from the g round at the
lad's feet. With a tremendous roar ringing in his ears, Malcolm
found himself being hurtled through the air, and amidst a shower of
debris he fell, a limp mass, into the smoking crater.




CHAPTER XVI

Konrad von Feldoffer


Slowly Malcolm raised himself into a sitting position. Breathless
from the violent shock, blinded by the shower of dust, deafened by
the terrific concussion, and with his sense of smell deadened to
everything but the acrid fumes of the burst shell, he was at a loss
to know what had happened.

"Am I still No. 99,109, Rifleman Carr, or have I gone west?" he
asked himself aloud. Beyond a faint hollow rumble, he failed to
detect the sound of his own voice. Almost afraid to make the
experiment, he flexed his limbs. Nothing much wrong there, anyway.

He was beginning to see, despite the darkness and the nauseating,
pungent fumes. He looked at his watch. The glass had vanished. The
hands told him that it was three minutes past twelve. Unless the
watch had stopped, only five or six minutes had elapsed since the
catastrophe took place. He held the timepiece close to his ear, but
could hear nothing. Anxiously he watched the big hand, until after a
seemingly interminable interval he had conclusive evidence that the
watch was still going.

Satisfied on that point, Malcolm took stock of his surroundings. The
outlook was limited to the sloping walls of the crater and the vault
of black night overhead. Except for a direct hit, he was in a place
of comparative safety. Enough for to-night; he would stay where he
was until dawn, and then----

"I'm all right," he thought, "but what of my chums?"

Filled with new-born resolution, Malcolm regained his feet and
commenced to climb the steep, yielding side of the shell crater. At
the third step the soft soil gave way, and he fell on his face. As
he did so he heard a loud popping sound, as if his ear-drums were
bursting, and the next instant he could hear the distant rumble of
the guns and the voices of men in his proximity.

"I'm from Timaru, but I'm not timorous," shouted a voice. "Buck up,
lads!"

"That's the Corporal," decided Malcolm. "At all events we haven't
all been done in."

"Hallo there!" exclaimed Corporal Preston, as Malcolm gained the lip
of the crater. "Who are you?"

"Carr."

"Shouldn't have recognized you," continued the non-com., for Malcolm
was hatless, his coat was partly torn away, while his face was black
with grime. "Got a buckshie? No--good!"

"Cheer-o, Malcolm!"

This from Selwyn, who was engaged in binding a first-aid dressing
round the ribs of the prophetic sergeant of engineers. Four other
men lay on the ground, killed outright. Two of them belonged to the
ration-party, and the others were Tommies who had been engaged in
relaying the uptorn line.

"No use waiting here," declared Preston. "Bring that other truck
along."

The first truck lay on its side, the woodwork shattered, and the
rations scattered in all directions. The two men on the side nearest
the exploding shell had been instantly killed, but the others,
sheltered to a certain extent by the vehicle, had got off at the
expense of a severe shaking. Nevertheless, all available hands set
to work to retrieve the rations, and to set the second truck upon
the uninterrupted stretch of rails.

High-explosives were still bursting at varying distances as the
ration-party continued their perilous way across the open. It was
with feelings of relief that Malcolm heard the Corporal give the
word to unload once more. The men had reached the beginning of the
communication-trench.

From this point progress was slow. The ramification of trenches was
chock-a-block with troops under arms--Australians and New
Zealanders, making ready for the task of going over the top.

"You've been a precious long time about it," was the Sergeant's
ungracious comment when the ration-party found their own section of
trench. "Set to, lads; here's your grub."

Eagerly the men of the platoon threw themselves upon the
dearly-bought food. So hungry were they that they made no complaint
about the gritty state of the loaves. Perhaps it was as well that
they asked no questions. After all, they were able to feed, and in a
short space of time pannikins of tea were boiling over the
biscuit-tin stoves in the dug-out.

Having fed, Malcolm turned in on his straw bed. He was not sleepy,
only stiff, and since it wanted less than an hour to the time fixed
for the New Zealanders to turn out under arms, he employed the
interval in writing. The other occupants of the dug-out were
similarly engaged, knowing that, confronted by the problem of an
impending battle, there was a possibility that this might be their
last opportunity to communicate with their relatives and friends.

"This is the rottenest part of the whole business," remarked Selwyn.
"It gives a fellow time to think about going over, and the prospect
isn't a cheerful one."

"You're right," assented a Digger who had taken part in four big
engagements. "I quite understand; but mark my words, you'll forget
you ever had cold feet the moment the whistle goes."

"It's that plaguey uncut wire and those machineguns I don't like,"
grumbled Joliffe. "What the brass-hats are thinking about to send
the boys against that lot beats me. Why, back in Delville Wood----"

"Rifleman Carr here?" enquired a voice.

The ground-sheet hanging over the entrance to the dug-out was thrust
aside, and Sergeant Fortescue, his head partly hidden in his steel
helmet, appeared in view.

"Thought I'd drop in for a little chin-wagging," continued
Fortescue. "I've some news that might interest you--and Selwyn too."

He pulled a creased and folded newspaper from his pocket, and,
holding it up to the guttering light, pointed a shapely yet begrimed
forefinger at a certain paragraph.

"Our Muizenberg pal has dodged the firing-party," continued
Fortescue. "The blighter is a bit of a wily fox, and judging by his
history he's badly wanted."

The paragraph was to the effect that Konrad von Feldoffer, a German
convicted of espionage by a general court martial, had made a daring
and successful attempt to escape. How, the report did not say, but
the fact remained that a dangerous spy was still at large. It went
on to say that Konrad von Feldoffer was known to be a German naval
officer. Upon the outbreak of hostilities he was in Canada. After
various attempts, successful and otherwise, to cripple the internal
communications of the Dominion, he fled across the border to the
United States. Too late he was traced to Australia, where he
enlisted in a Victoria regiment, deserting when the Anzacs were
under fire in Gallipoli. Shortly afterwards he turned up in India,
joined a volunteer regiment under orders for Mesopotamia, and
mysteriously vanished during the retreat from Ctesiphon. Proceeding
to England, and posing as a mercantile marine officer, forged
documents and an engaging manner procured him an introduction to
Whitehall, with the result that he was given a commission in the
Royal Naval Reserve and appointed to an armed merchant cruiser. One
of his first exploits in that capacity was to board a supposed
Norwegian tramp, whose decks were piled high with timber. The vessel
was allowed to proceed--a wolf in sheep's clothing, as a dozen or
more Allied ships learned to their cost. Three weeks after
commissioning, the merchant-cruiser was torpedoed and sunk in broad
daylight by a U-boat. While the crew were taking to the boats, the
submarine appeared on the surface. To the surprise of the British
officer and crew, the hitherto unsuspected spy swam across to the
hostile craft. Having picked him up, the U-boat submerged and
disappeared from the scene. Too late it was discovered that the
renegade was one and the same with the now notorious Konrad von
Feldoffer. For several months nothing was heard of the spy's
activities. As a matter of fact, the cosmopolitan rogue was
particularly busy in South Africa, drifting thence into German
South-West Africa, where he played a conspicuous part in a daring
gun-running expedition under the nose of a British cruiser.

On the principle that it is advisable to desert a sinking ship in
time, von Feldoffer drifted via Johannesburg to Cape Town, where his
efforts to get into communication with German mine-layers operating
off the Cape met with slight success. He was now anxious to return
to the Fatherland. Accordingly he joined an Afrikander regiment of
heavy artillery under the name of Pieter Waas, only to be
apprehended on board the transport at Selwyn's instigation.

From the date of the paper--it was ten days old already--Malcolm
gathered that the spy had been at liberty for nearly a month. Unless
he were already recaptured it was pretty certain to conclude that
von Feldoffer was clear of the British Isles. Would his experiences
and narrow escape deter him from further enterprises or merely whet
his appetite for other surprising adventures?

"One thing is pretty clear," declared Fortescue; "he won't risk
showing up with the New Zealand boys. But, by Jove, it's close on
two o'clock. Our fellows have to assemble at that hour. S'long,
chums; I'll look out for you when we fall in. We may as well keep
together in this stunt."

Fortescue was barely gone when the Platoon Sergeant entered the
dug-out.

"Turn out, boys," he ordered. "Don't forget your gas-masks. Fritz
will be letting loose a few gallons of stink, I reckon."

"What time do we go over, Sergeant?" enquired one of the riflemen.

"When the whistles go, sonny," replied the non-com., with a
prodigious wink, "and not before."

"Can we go over after?" persisted the questioner.

The Sergeant eyed the man with mock severity.

"Take my tip and hop it sharp," he replied darkly. "The men who
remain in the trenches fifteen seconds after the order to advance
will be sorry for themselves. If there are any slight casualties,
Corporal," he added, addressing Billy Preston, "turn 'em out. It
won't be healthy for them to stop in the dug-out."

"Wonder why?" asked several of the men after the Sergeant had
departed to give similar instructions to the occupants of the
adjoining "desirable villas".

The question remained unanswered. In silence Malcolm and his
comrades took their rifles and filed out into the already-crowded
communication-trench.

"Let's find Fortescue," said Malcolm, addressing Selwyn in a low
voice that hardly sounded like his own. "He'll be in the next bay or
the one beyond."

"Lead on, then," prompted his chum.

Slinging their rifles, the twain made their way along the narrow,
winding trench, stumbling over the recumbent forms of resting men
and squeezing past the fully-accoutred troops packed into the narrow
place.

"He was here a minute ago," declared one, after several fruitless
enquiries had been made of the denizens of the two adjoining
sectors. "Guess he's in the firing-trench. They're fixing the
storming-ladders."

The firing-trench was comparatively clear. A dozen men were sitting
on the fire-step, listlessly fumbling with their equipment in a vain
effort to kill time before the supreme moment arrived to go out into
the open. Others were placing in Position the rough wooden ladders
by which the stormers would be able to scale the breast-high
parapet, each ladder being carefully tested lest an insecure
structure should impede the operation of going over the top. A few
non-coms., detailed to lay off the distance-tapes, were comparing
notes as coolly as if they were arranging for the regimental sports.

"Dashed if I can see him," whispered Malcolm. Although there was no
need for speaking in an undertone, the scene of preparation
instinctively Compelled him to lower his voice. "Seen anything of
Sergeant Fortescue?" enquired Selwyn, addressing a rifleman who had
just completed the fixing of one ladder and was thoroughly surveying
his work.

The man turned sharply, gave a grunt of Surprise, and before the lad
could realize what had happened, he swarmed up the ladder, paused
irresolutely for a brief instant on the sandbagged parapet, and
leapt into the darkness of No Man's Land. It was the spy, von
Feldoffer.




CHAPTER XVII

Over the Top


"Wing him!" exclaimed Malcolm, unslinging his rifle, opening the
cut-off, and springing upon the fire-step. Selwyn followed his
example, and with levelled rifles the two chums awaited the first
sound that might betray the progress of the spy.

"What are you fellows up to?" enquired a sergeant. "Don't you know
the order? No individual firing until further orders."

"A man has just leapt over the parapet. He's a spy," said Malcolm.

"In a N.Z. rifleman's uniform," added Selwyn.

The Sergeant snorted incredulously.

"You've been seeing things," he remarked, but to satisfy his
curiosity he raised his head above the parapet and peered into the
gloom just then a star-shell burst overhead, its glare throwing
every object on the immediate front into strong relief. The
crater-pitted No Man's Land showed no sign If any movement. A score
or more silent forms in field-grey uniform lay upon the ground--they
had been there for the last three days. Not a trace Of a man in
khaki was to be discovered.

"Come out of it, you chaps," continued the Sergeant. "You've made a
mistake. Hop it!"

Malcolm and Selwyn obeyed promptly, and alighting upon the floor of
the trench the latter cannoned into a passing soldier.

"Here, what the deuce do you think you're doing?" asked a well-known
voice, despite its tone of plaintive asperity.

"By gum, Fortescue," ejaculated Selwyn, "this is lucky! We've been
looking for you."

"And so your search is rewarded," rejoined Fortescue. "What's the
idea?"

"We thought we'd hang together when the stunt comes off," explained
Malcolm. "But there's another thing. Our Muizenburg pal was here a
few minutes ago."

"What?" exclaimed Fortescue incredulously.

"Fact!" confirmed his informant. "We asked if you were anywhere
about, and the fellow we addressed happened to be Konrad von
What's-his-name. He recognized us, for he _impshied_ like a wild
colt. I was----"

"Sergeant Fortescue here?"

"Yes, sir," replied Fortescue, standing to attention and saluting as
he recognized Captain Nicholson the S.I.N. of the old _Awarua_ days
and his lieutenancy a thing of the past.

"You've warned the men to nip over smartly?" asked the Captain.

"Yes, sir, I've seen to that. There is another matter on which I
should like to speak."

Briefly Fortescue related the incident of the spy's flight as told
him by his two comrades. Captain Nicholson's face lengthened.

"By Jove, this is a serious matter! What was the fellow doing?"

"Assisting in fixing ladders, sir."

"Then pass the word for the sergeant in charge of his party."

The non-com. was soon on the spot. He was the sergeant who had
doubted the veracity of Malcolm's statement, and still had the same
opinion on the matter as before.

But when the roll-call was taken one of the men was
missing--Rifleman Scrooch.

"Know anything about him, Sergeant?" enquired Captain Nicholson.

"Not much, sir," was the reply, "except that he came in with the
last draft from Etaps."

Captain Nicholson consulted his watch.

"He won't get far," he remarked grimly. "In another fifteen
minutes----"

"Let's get back," suggested Fortescue as his officer disappeared.
"The bombers will be falling in here in half a tick. We're in the
first supports. Fritz is pretty sleepy to-night; I wonder if he
knows what's in store for him."

The bomb-throwers, heavily laden with canvas bags filled with their
death-dealing missiles, filed into the front trench, together with
their supporting riflemen. A sharp, decisive order was passed from
one officer to another, and the sinister clicking sound of bayonets
being fixed to rifles rippled along the line of trenches as the very
pick of New Zealand's manhood prepared for the coming ordeal.

Every man of the brigade knew what was to be expected of him.
Messines Ridge was to be carried at the point of the bayonet, and
the knowledge that the hostile wire was practically uncut and that
the heights bristled with machine-guns was common property.
Stupendous though the task was, not a man flinched, although several
groused at the lack of consideration on the part of the Staff to
send them against a prepared position in a practically-unbroken
state; which showed that the troops were generally ignorant of the
measures taken to safeguard them.

"Five minutes more!"

The officers bunched together to compare watches. They had done so a
dozen times that evening, but perhaps it was excusable. Everything
depended upon the operations being carried out with the precision of
reliable clockwork. A second or two out either way would mean
throwing away scores, perhaps hundreds, of valuable lives, for
Fritz, although fairly quiet, was on the alert.

The British artillery was now almost silent. In previous stunts the
position to be attacked was subjected to hours of terrific
bombardment, but now hardly a shell fell upon the Hun defences. As
for the protecting "barrage", the waiting troops looked for it in
vain.

"Keep together!" whispered Malcolm tersely, as he nervously felt the
tip of his quivering bayonet.

"Right, old man!" replied Selwyn in a low-pitched, unnatural voice.

It was useless to disguise the fact. Both had "the wind up" very
badly. Malcolm could hear his heart thumping violently under his
tunic; he was fully conscious of an empty, nauseating sensation in
the pit of his stomach. He doubted whether he could stir up courage
at the critical moment to leap over the parapet into the impending
tornado of machine-gun bullets and pulverizing, bursting shells.

[Illustration: "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM]

Others had done the same. Why not he? Vainly he tried to argue with
himself that he was differently constituted from other men. He was
too young to die. He had not drunk deeply of the joys of manhood.
Why had he been such a fool as to underrate his age when he joined
up? If----

The shrill blast of a whistle pierced the strained silence. With a
loud yell the men leapt upon the scaling-ladders. His fears thrown
to the wind, and the exhilarating sensation of unfettered action
surging through his veins, Malcolm found himself scrambling over
sand-bags and leaping into the pitted No Man's Land.

Even as he took the leap a seven-fold lurid flash burst from the
dominating ridge of Messines. The ground trembled and swayed beneath
his feet. Sand-bags and tons of earth subsided into the trenches so
recently vacated by the troops, while a deafening, dumbfounding roar
beat upon the lad's ears.

Almost mechanically Malcolm broke into a run. In front and on either
side other men were surging onwards, their bayonet-tips describing
erratic curves as they lurched over the still-trembling ground.
Showers of dust beat upon their faces. Farther ahead masses of solid
rock and earth were falling with a succession of thuds, while, where
Messines Ridge had been, was a riven mound of disintegrated Soil,
over which a dense cloud of black smoke rolled sullenly in the
sultry night air.

One of the greatest engineering feats of the Great War--in fact, the
greatest mining operation in the history of the world's battles--had
been successfully carried out, a task compared with which the great
mine of Beaumont Hamel paled into insignificance. With a
concentrated roar, the concussion of which was distinctly felt over
the greater part of south-eastern England, the explosive contents of
a series of mine-chambers were fired simultaneously.

In the fraction of a second the whole of Messines Ridge underwent a
startling change. German dug-outs, trenches, machine-gun
emplacements, and an unknown but vast number of troops went up in
the terrific blast.

Months of diligent and stupendous labour had not been spent in vain.
At one stroke the culminating moment had done more than hours of
intensive bombardment. With little risk the British troops were able
to sweep the position that for two years had defied their efforts.

Yet the New Zealanders were not to have a "walk over". From the
heavy guns, well behind the pulverized ridge, shells were bursting
in front and behind the trenches. Hostile machine-guns that had
almost inexplicably escaped the general carnage were spitting
venomously, while in the front German trenches, which were on
comparatively level ground to the east of the Messines Ridge, a hot
but erratic rifle-fire was directed upon the khaki-clad stormers.

On and on Malcolm ran, his face turned towards the two lines of
sand-bags beyond which the Huns were still putting up a fight.
Whether Fortescue and Selwyn were with him he knew not. The
resolution he had made to keep with his chums was gone. His sole
desire was to reach the hostile trenches and battle with the
field-grey enemy.

Men were running in front of him. Swift of foot though he was, there
were others who surpassed in the maddening rush. More than once he
had to leap over the writhing bodies of gallant Anzacs who had gone
down in the charge. He was dimly conscious of khaki-clad forms
crashing heavily to the ground on either side, of a whizz of flying
metal that sent his steel helmet spinning, of a sharp, burning pain
in his left wrist, and of a dozen other mental and physical
sensations.

In the midst of a regular mob of panting, yelling, and shouting men,
and preceded by a terrific fusillade of Mills's bombs, Malcolm found
himself struggling through masses of partly-severed barbed wire and
up on the hostile parapet.

The ruddy glare from the exploding missiles revealed a line of
cowed, terrified men, some with "pill-box" caps, others with the
typical "Dolly Varden" steel helmets. With uplifted hands and
tremulous cries of "Kamerad!" they bowed to the inevitable, and
almost contemptuously were sent through the crowd of New Zealanders
to the British lines.

Other Huns were made of sterner stuff, and offered a stubborn
resistance. With rifle-shots, bayonets, clubbed weapons, and bombs
they contested their ground. Machine-gunners used their deadly
weapons with desperate energy, until they were stretched out by the
sides of their now silent charges. The air was heavy with
suffocating smoke; fragments of shell were flying with complete
impartiality; shouts, oaths, and curses punctuated the crash of
steel and the rattle of musketry, as men in their blind ferocity
clutched at each other's throats and rolled in mortal combat upon
the ground.

Presently Rifleman Malcolm Carr found himself confronted by a tall,
bearded Prussian, whose head-dress consisted of a steel helmet, with
a visor completely covering the upper part of his face as far as his
mouth. Even in the heat of combat Malcolm could not help noticing
the incongruity of the bristling whiskers flowing beyond the
fellow's face-armour. It was one of those transitory yet
indelibly-stamped impressions that are frequently formed in times of
imminent danger.

The Prussian lunged with his bayonet. Malcolm promptly turned it
aside and countered. His bayonet, darting above the other's belated
guard, caught the Hun fairly in the lower part of his chest.

With a disconcerting jar that wellnigh dislocated his wrist, and
sent a numbing pain through his right arm, the lad realized that he
was up against great odds. The Prussian was wearing a steel
breastplate underneath his tunic. Malcolm could imagine the grin of
supercilious triumph under the Hun's mask. He shortened his grasp
and thrust again, this time at the Fritz's shoulder. The man,
despite the handicap of wearing heavy steel plates, ducked agilely,
and, reversing his rifle, prodded the New Zealander with the butt of
his weapon. Stepping backwards to avoid the blow, Malcolm tripped
over some obstacle and fell heavily into a still-intact emplacement.

For some seconds he lay still. A few inches above his head came the
deafening tick-tock of a German machine-gun. He had fallen in front
of the weapon, and was pressed down by a heavy weight that still had
the power of movement.

Groping, his fingers came in contact with human hair--the beard of
his antagonist. The Prussian was lying face downwards upon the New
Zealander's body.

"My festive," mentally ejaculated Rifleman Carr, "you didn't play
the game with your body-armour; I'll do the reprisal dodge."

Fiercely he tugged at the Prussian's beard. With a yell of pain the
fellow bent his knees and reared his body, only to fall inertly upon
the half-suffocated Digger. In rising he had intercepted a dozen or
more bullets from the machine-gun. So close was the muzzle, that his
clothes smouldered in the blast of the weapon. Not that it mattered
very much to him, for he was stone dead.

With a frantic effort Malcolm rolled himself clear of the body of
his late foe; then, resisting the temptation to regain his feet, he
crouched in a corner of the emplacement and took stock of his
immediate front.

He could easily have touched the cooling-jacket of the weapon as the
machine-gun continued its death-dealing work. He could discern the
sullen, determined features of the two men who alone remained of the
machine-gun's crew.

Vainly Malcolm groped for his rifle. The violent impact had sent the
weapon yards away. Nor could he find the rifle of his late
adversary. The man had been a bomber; perhaps some of his stock of
hand-propelled missiles yet remained?

Very cautiously the New Zealander felt for the canvas pockets
suspended from the Hun's neck. Every one was empty.

"Rough luck!" he soliloquized. "Don't know so much about it, though;
if he had had any left when we scrapped he might have chucked one at
my head."

The machine-gun ceased firing. For a moment Malcolm was seized with
the haunting fear that the gunners had spotted him. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw that they were fitting another belt of
ammunition.

Presently Rifleman Carr's hand came in contact with a hard substance
protruding from the Prussian's pocket. By the feel of it he was
assured that he had found a revolver. Stealthily he withdrew the
weapon and examined it. The pistol was ev

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/40073