A Lively Bit of the Front Part 2

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 d.i.c.k 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 rec.u.mbent 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 pa.s.ses out of this story, but we shall hear of him again.

Malcolm and d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 cla.s.sical 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 pa.s.senger 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 role. 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 sc.r.a.pping?"