The Kangaroo Marines Part 12

On reaching the end they pulled their rifles down and crept back to where they had started from. Again they marched along, showing their bayonets, as before. The old Turks simply saw this constant stream of bayonets. They concluded that the Australians were ma.s.sing for the attack. The Turks lined their trenches and opened up another furious fusillade, supported by machine-guns and shrapnel. Thousands of rounds were expended before they realised that they had been fooled once more.

There was a lull next day, so Bill and his friends shaved off their whiskers and had a bath in a cupful of water. Claud cleaned his eyegla.s.s, and Paddy went in search of a gla.s.s of rum from some of the sailors. Sandy, then on light duty, opened up a business as a curio agent. He swapped Turkish rifles, bullet clips, and other things for pieces of bread, a tin of jam, a tasty Maconochie, and some tea. This was a G.o.dsend to his famished pals in the trenches. Bill also wrote a letter home to Mrs. McGinnes, his old Sydney landlady and financier:

"DEAR OLD SPORT,--Hope's your well. I'm well, but the Turks ain't well. Reckon we've killed millions of 'em. Ain't got the V.C. yet.

There's a shipload comin' next week for The Kangaroo Boys. You can 'ave mine for a brooch. Likin' the life fine here--except the bullets.

They generally kills a feller wot ain't careful. There ain't no undertakers out here. When we wants a new kit we generally borrows the clothes an' boots of a dead feller. We live in little 'oles jist like rabbits, an' the old Turks keep throwin' nasty things called bombs.

They ain't nice--one blew a feller's head off last night. Pore chap, an' he had such a nice pair of trousers--I've got 'em on now. The snipers are nasty fellers, 'demned annoyin',' as my ole friend Claud says. One keeps. .h.i.ttin' my loop-'ole, but I'm going to 'ave the dirty ole rascal's blood to-night. Now, ta ta, old girl. Love to the children.--Your ole friend,

"BILL BUSTER.

"_P.S._--Lend me a quid. What a thirst I've got. We can generally buy rum from the sailors. Make it two quid an' I'll send you a lot of kurios.

"_P.P.S._--I needs tobacco--couple of pounds 'll do. An' throw in some cigarettes. Wot a life!

"_P.P.P.S._--x x x x x x x x. These are for you--don't tell yer hubby.

Bye-bye."

That night Claud spotted Bill crawling out of the trenches.

"Where are you going, you silly a.s.s?"

"Who's silly?" said Bill, looking back at his friend in the trench.

Ping! went a bullet from the sniper. It went right through his trousers, but missed his leg.

"It's that feller I'm after."

Before Claud could detain him he disappeared. Dropping on to his knees, he crawled for some distance, then lay flat.

Ping went the sniper's bullet again. He saw the flash. This incidentally revealed the position of the Turk. Fixing his bayonet, Bill made a wide detour, At last he arrived in rear of his object.

Ping! went the rifle again. So intent was the sniper on his job that he did not hear the crawling man behind. Like a snake, Bill wriggled along. He finished up ten yards behind his man. This sniper had killed and wounded thirty men in two days. He did not deserve a quick dispatch, and Bill had no intention of giving him that. With a bound, he jumped on him, and pinned him right through the shoulders with his bayonet.

"Allah! Allah!" shrieked the man, in the most dreadful pain.

"Old Allah ain't no good to you now. Get up!" And he was lifted up with the bayonet.

When he rose from the ground Bill found he had a green bush tied all round him. His face and hands were afterwards found to be painted green. All this the Turks had acquired from their German masters.

"Now, old c.o.c.k, run!" said Bill, pushing the man in front.

Screaming with pain the sniper was pushed at the double right up to the Australian trench.

"What's all that row there?" roared the Colonel.

"Jest been catchin' a sniper, Colonel," answered Bill, throwing his man off the bayonet into the trench. He dropped dead at the Colonel's feet.

"A good death for him, too," said Sam, thinking of the fine fellows this man had killed and wounded. A sniper, let it be known, does not play the clean game of war, and any punishment is justifiable.

Bill had given him his deserts.

CHAPTER VIII

"h.e.l.l-FIRE POST"

"_Bullets here, bullets there, Bullets, bullets everywhere._"

Such is trench life. Death at every corner, death at every moment of the day. Bullets plunk against the parapet with a monotonous regularity; others crack in the air like a whip, while some whiz past the ear like a great queen bee. At odd intervals a dose of shrapnel heightens the nerves, and now and again a high-explosive comes down with a shuddering boom!

A trench isn't the place for a lady, it isn't the place for a mild-mannered curate. It's the place for blunt, hard and active men.

In fact, the nearer man is to the brute creation the better he is at this game. The highly strung, carefully fed, hot-house plant, such as a mamma's darling, hasn't a look in. He finds it a beastly bore, and longs for the drawing-room cushions and afternoon tea. Trench life reveals the best and shows the worst. A man's nature stands out like a statue. For trench life a man needs the stomach of a horse, the strength of a lion, and the nerves of a navvy. Any man can do a bayonet charge; any man can shoot down the charging host; but it takes a braver man to live in a trench month after month. His nostrils are filled with the stench of the fallen, for his parapet is frequently built up with the dead. His tea is made with water polluted with germs, the bully beef stew is generally soaked in dust and sand.

And the flies! They're worse than all, the pestilential breed! Flies kill more men than bullets. Flies were surely invented by some ancient Hun.

Trench life in France is a picnic compared with the Dardanelles. In France, one _can_ get soft bread, fresh coffee and yesterday's _Times_.

But, in the Dardanelles it is biscuits and bully, bully and biscuits--without the news of Pollokshields and Mayfair. Yet, despite the severity of things, the Australasians were ever serene. To them it was a sporting game. They had been used to boiling their own billy cans; used to looking for firewood; used to making a shanty wherein to lay their heads. Where the c.o.c.kney might die from heat and thirst, the Australasian can thrive like a Zulu or aborigine. City bred troops demand an organisation of things; Australasian troops organise things for themselves. And where our friends of The Kangaroo Marines were certainly demanded all their cunning and courage. It was called "h.e.l.l-Fire Post." This was on the left of the Australian line, within thirty yards of the Turks. The post had developed from a thin line of holes into a strong redoubt. Many had died, more had been wounded in defending this place, but it was worth it. This was the key of the whole line. That was why The Kangaroo Marines were there. When they took it over, they found the parapets thin and bullets coming in all round.

"Hot shop, by Jove!" said Claud, adjusting his monocle to look through an aperture.

Crack! came a bullet, just missing his head.

"Better take that window out of yer face," said Bill.

"Why?"

"Them ole snipers thinks yer a general."

"My dear fellow, you're a positive bore--now, lend me a hand." And Claud, despite the whizzing bullets, filled more sandbags and shoved them up with a shovel. Bill helped him to make a V-shaped aperture.

This work was continued all along the line. But all the sandbags and crack shots could not keep the rifle fire down. To move a hand or head above the level of the ground meant a wound.

"This won't do," said the Colonel, as he made his morning visit on his hands and knees.

"It's like a penny shooting show, Colonel," said Bill.

"Why?"

"Me an' the boys are doin' running man for them fellers over there.

They chip bits on yer head, an' bits on yer chest. It ain't comfortable. It ain't war."

"It's sudden daith," chipped in Sandy Brown.

"All right, boys, I'll send up something to-day. Cheer up, you'll soon be at Manly amongst the girls," and off went Killem on his rounds.

That afternoon a dozen big iron plates came up. These were square with a hole in the centre. This hole was covered by a little iron door, which could be lifted at will. Bill and his pals seized one and commenced to fix it in position. Under a hail of lead they worked sweating, grousing and cursing all the time. At last it was fixed and ready for business.