A Lively Bit of the Front Part 34

"So you saw a bit of Blighty, then?" remarked Malcolm.

"Yes, rather!" was the reply; "and now I'm going to see a bit of France, or is it Belgium this time?"

"Ask me another," replied Sergeant Fortescue. "All I know is that the division moves up to the front on the 3rd of next month, so it looks as if we're going to shake Fritz by the scruff of his neck."

"Hallo, there's Mike Dowit!" exclaimed Malcolm, as the stretcher-bearer pa.s.sed by. "How goes it, chum?"

Stretcher-bearer Dowit stopped, crossed the road, and grasped the rifleman's hand. Being a man of very few words, he excelled himself by saying nothing.

"Ask him," prompted Fortescue, "when he's going to have another bath at the Estaminet Moulin Gris."

The stretcher-bearer flushed and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"Mike's as shy as a _wahine_," continued the Sergeant. "I'll tell you the yarn. We were billeted at an estaminet that had copped it pretty thick. Roof practically off, and the outbuildings nothing but a pile of bricks; you know the sort of thing. Well, Mike discovered a tub full of water, as he thought, and early one morning he slipped out to have a bath. He had only just started his ablutions when Madame's face appeared at the only window left in the inn.

'Arretez!' she shouted; 'arretez! You no use soap. Soap na poo. You spoil ze beer--compree?'"

"I've only got her word that it was beer," declared Dowit stolidly.

"It's a great joke with the boys," continued Fortescue, after the stretcher-bearer had gone. "They chip him frightfully about it; ask if that's why he's got the D.C. M. I suppose you didn't know that it was awarded him, for gallantry at Messines--rescuing wounded under heavy fire? My word! Mike was hot stuff that day. It was a thundering good job when he slung that dud bomb at Featherstone Camp, or I mightn't be here now."

In the dead of night of the 3rd of October the New Zealand Division, in heavy marching order, silently relieved a Tommy division on the Flanders Front.

"Where are we, Sergeant?" enquired Rifleman M'Kane. "This spot doesn't seem familiar."

"It will be before morning," replied Fortescue grimly. "We're opposite Gravenstafel, and those are the Heights of Abraham. If we are not firmly planted upon them by to-morrow afternoon I'm a Dutchman."

The new position was certainly a novel one as far as Malcolm was concerned. The seemingly endless lines of zigzag trenches were no longer in evidence. Shelter was provided by the simple expedient of linking up suitable sh.e.l.l-craters, with which the soft ground was liberally besprinkled.

Hardly were the New Zealanders settled when the Huns began a furious bombardment. It was not a spasmodic burst of sh.e.l.l-fire, but a concentrated and deliberate fire upon the series of field-works fronting the village of Gravenstafel. Every man knew what it meant; the Germans were about to attack in force, while a similar operation was impending on the part of the British. The question was, which side would get away quickest? Would the serried wave of infantry meet in the open?

Gamely the New Zealanders endured their gruelling; until the guns lifted and put up a barrage behind them.

Sheltering in a dug-out were Sergeant Fortescue, Corporal Billy Preston, Riflemen Carr, d.i.c.k Selwyn, M'Kane, M'Turk, and two others--youngsters for the first time under sh.e.l.l-fire, who were the objects of undisguised solicitude on the part of the non-coms. Up to the present their attention was thrown away; neither Henderson nor Stewart showed the faintest indication of "jumpiness".

The dug-out trembled under the terrific impact of sh.e.l.ls bursting within an unpleasant distance. Even the more seasoned men were inwardly perturbed. Save for a few disjointed sentences--conversation was far from being a success--the occupants of the shelter remained silent.

"They're lifting, thank goodness!" exclaimed Fortescue. "Wonder if Fritz will attempt a raid on a big scale? If so, he'll have the shock of his life."

"What time do we a.s.semble, Sergeant?" asked Henderson, who was hesitating over the opening sentences of a letter he was about to commence. "At five, my festive," replied Fortescue. "It will----"

The sound of heavy footsteps descending the steps leading to the dug-out interrupted his words. Then a voice enquired: "All right, down there?"

"All seats taken; house full," replied M'Turk. "Sorry; but try your luck somewhere else."

The ground-sheet hung up over the entrance was pulled aside, and the voice continued:

"That's all right, boys; hope you'll have a full house after the stunt."

The men sprang to their feet and stood at attention. It was well that the roof of the dug-out was a fairly lofty one. Sergeant Fortescue saluted.

"Beg pardon, sir!" he exclaimed, for standing in the doorway, cloaked and wearing his shrapnel-helmet, was the Brigadier.

"Glad to see you so chirpy, boys," remarked the Brigadier. "Good night, and good luck!"

The next instant he was gone, to continue his flying visits to the men. It had been an anxious time, especially to the commanding officers, and, in order to satisfy themselves that the boys were still in a position to carry out the attack, the brigadiers made personal tours along the firing-line.

"He's some sport," declared Selwyn. "What's it like outside, I wonder? I'll go and have a look round."

Malcolm accompanied his chum. In the open air the cold, contrasted with the warmth of the dug-out, was intense. The wind blew chilly upon their faces. Overhead the sky was darkened with drifting clouds, between the rifts of which the light of the full moon shone upon the ghostly expanse of sh.e.l.l-craters.

The German guns were still firing hotly, directing their missiles a good four hundred yards behind the New Zealand lines. The British artillery was replying, but lacking the intensity of the enemy's fire.

"Hanged if I'd like to be with the ration-parties to-night,"

remarked Selwyn. "There'll be a few of the boys knocked out behind our lines, I fancy."

"Let's get back out of it," suggested Malcolm. "It's too jolly cold to stand here. What's the time?"

He consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch.

"By gum--a quarter to five!" he exclaimed. "The boys will start a.s.sembling in another fifteen minutes."

"What's it doing?" enquired Fortescue when the chums returned to the dug-out.

"Fine so far, but threatening," replied Selwyn. "It'll be our usual luck--raining in torrents, I'm afraid."

"Anyone know our objectives?" enquired M'Kane as he slowly adjusted the straps of two empty canvas bags that later on were to be crammed full with Mills's bombs.

"Eighteen hundred yards on a two-thousand-yards front, and not an inch beyond," replied Fortescue. "That'll bring us on to the hill, which is what we want. Dry ground during the winter, you know."

At last Fortescue gave the word. The men, grasping their rifles, filed out, to find the fortified craters filling up with silent khaki-clad Diggers.

"Keep together," whispered Malcolm to Selwyn.

"Rather!" replied his chum. "Dash it all, I wish we were off. I always loathe this hanging-about business."

Just then the German barrage redoubled in violence. As it did so the long-threatening rain began to fall--a cold drizzle.

The New Zealanders could not understand why the Huns were putting up such a persistent barrage. They could only put it down to the fact that Fritz had a good inkling of the impending stunt and was getting "jumpy". As a matter of fact, it was owing to another reason.

For an hour a handful of New Zealanders clung to the crater defences in the front line. These men had orders not to go forward in the advance, the attacking infantry being in the second and third line of trenches. Quite under the impression that the nearmost German pill-boxes were lightly held, the New Zealanders in the advance posts were afterwards surprised to learn that they had been within a few yards of hundreds of picked German troops. The Huns intended attacking at about the same time as the New Zealanders, and the hitherto deserted block-houses had been reoccupied during the night by swarms of German infantry.

At six o'clock the British guns opened a barrage, compared with which the German fire paled into insignificance. Eighteen-pounders and 4.5-inch howitzers, supported by the giant 12- and 14-inch long-range guns farther back, threw tons of metal upon the enemy lines, the heavier projectiles hurtling overhead with a roar like that of an express train. The earth trembled, and the sky was lurid with the flashes of bursting sh.e.l.ls, as rapidly the strongly constructed pill-boxes were beaten into fragments of riven concrete.

So intense was the fire that the German artillery now replied but feebly and inaccurately, while, a sure sign that Fritz was "done"

red and green rockets sent their distress signals from the enemy position for aid that was not forthcoming.

"Fix bayonets!"

The order pa.s.sed along the line. So deafening was the roar of the guns that the click of the bayonets as they were fixed was inaudible. Here and there men gave a final adjustment to their steel helmets or fumbled with their equipment, but for the most part the New Zealanders stood motionless, with firm, set faces, awaiting the command to unleash.