A Lively Bit of the Front Part 16

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 sc.r.a.p 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 sh.e.l.l.

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

"No d.i.n.k.u.m 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 f.l.a.n.g.ed 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.l 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 f.l.a.n.g.ed 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 ma.s.s, 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 sh.e.l.l, 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 gla.s.s 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 sh.e.l.l 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."