The Kangaroo Marines Part 15

"What's up, boss?" said a smiling dusky gent in khaki, with a New Zealand badge on his shoulder.

"Who the deuce are you?"

"Maoris, boss, Maoris."

"Hang it all, I thought you were Turks. Good night."

"Good night, boss," shouted the laughing Maoris--the finest dark-skinned gentlemen in the world.

CHAPTER IX

A BRAVE NEW ZEALANDER

There's a difference between the New Zealander and Australian, and the difference is this: when an Australian says "Home," he means Australia; when a New Zealander says "Home," he means the Old Country. The sense of nationality is deep in the Australian's soul; the sense of dependence and kinship is wrapped round the New Zealander's heart.

Australia is the older Dominion, and the Australian, like the Canadian, is keen on running his own affairs. New Zealand is younger; many of its first settlers are still alive, so their eyes and their children's eyes are always turned to the land called "Home."

Fifty years hence the New Zealander will be like the Australian--a keen exponent of nationhood and all that that means. But, understand, when I speak of nationhood as applied to the Australian and New Zealander, I mean pride of race, pride of dominion, pride of achievement, and the ability to be a partner in the great Empire that is ours. Our forefathers resented this att.i.tude of our colonial cousins. For that reason we lost the American colonies. That lesson was good. We now realise that it is good business to let such as the Australian and New Zealander manage their own affairs. It saves us worry, it saves expense, it breeds a distinct type--a type conscious of their ability, but aware of the need of co-operation and co-ordination in Imperial defence and Imperial trade. Wise men ask no more.

Now in affairs of war there is also a difference between the New Zealander and Australian. The Australian resembles the Irishman--daring, desperate, and frequently reckless; the New Zealander resembles the Scot--equally daring, equally determined, but more canny and cautious. In brief, the New Zealander is more ready to weigh the issues and count the cost. Both types are necessary in war; both are extremely useful. Now I have reached my tale.

The General Staff had heard that the Turks were concentrating men and munitions for a great attack. Information was scarce; information was imperative, for on information the modern general depends. And this information had to come from the very centre of the Turkish defence.

It was the hour for a man, and that man had to be found. That was the problem which faced the Chief of Staff. He knew that almost every officer would volunteer. He thought of many Australians; but no, their reckless bravery might wreck his schemes. And then he pictured in his eye the New Zealanders he knew. One by one they pa.s.sed in review. At last he recalled "Tony," a young subaltern from Hawkes Bay. He was a graduate of an Auckland school--a strong, well-built, swarthy youth, with that coolness, daring, and ac.u.men necessary for the job. "Yes, he'll do," muttered the Chief as he rang up the New Zealand Dragoons.

"Send Lieutenant Tony Brown to headquarters at once."

"Very good, sir," answered an orderly. In two hours Tony entered the dug-out and saluted.

"I've a job for you, Mr. Brown. It might mean your death; it might mean the D.S.O. Are you on?"

"I'm on, sir; but please explain."

"Get one of the Navy boats. Go up the coast for two miles. Land and get across into the Turkish camp. Find out the strength of these reinforcements, the guns, the ammunition, food and water supplies, and, more important, the probable date, if not the hour, of this big attack.

I'll give you two days to do it. If you're not back on the third day I'll count you as dead. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, my lad. Here's an order to the commander of the torpedo boat at the beach. Make your own arrangements. Good luck to you,"

concluded the Chief, shaking him by the hand. And out went Tony on his job. It was a tough proposition for a youngster to tackle, yet he deemed it an honour. And there was no time for delay. He secured the services of two Maoris because of their strength and swarthy complexion. Turkish uniforms would make them "Turks," if need be.

The commander of the destroyer gave him a boat. This was loaded up with water, biscuits, some Turkish uniforms, and rifles, with other necessaries for the job. At night they pulled out. It was quite dark, so all was favourable at the outset. For hours the Maoris seemed to row, their only guide being the stars and dark coast-line. And then came the first peep of dawn.

"Come on, you fellows; get into these things," said the subaltern, pointing to the Turkish clothes. He did likewise. The disguise was perfect. They looked thoroughly respectable members of the Sultan's community.

"Ease in now, boys," ordered Tony as the light grew better. Gently they pulled to the sh.o.r.e.

"That place will do," muttered the observant sub, looking towards a shingly sort of beach beneath some cliffs. The boat grated on the pebbles. They had arrived on their daring mission.

"Now, look here, you boys; you've got to loaf round here for two days.

Hide the boat and get into a dug-out. Keep a look-out for me. If I don't come back at the end of the second day, go back and tell them I've gone to Kingdom Come. Understand?"

"All right, boss," said the elder of the Maoris, a full corporal. And off went Tony. He climbed up the cliffs and found himself on a scrubby sort of soil dotted here and there with stunted trees. Away to his right he could just discern the Turkish defences, while immediately in front lay some scattered redoubts of the flanking outposts of the enemy. In the distance was a high, gra.s.sy knoll--a perfect place for observing things. He made for it, avoiding contact with some straggling Turkish soldiers on the way. By the way, it is really remarkable how one can walk through an enemy's lines when dressed in their uniform; but it takes a stout heart to do it.

Tony reached the foot of the knoll and commenced to ascend. Just as he reached the top he was startled by a Turk who cried out a greeting. He mumbled something in a boorish style and dropped down in a friendly way beside his man. Before the old Turk realised what was happening he lay dead with a revolver bullet in his brains.

"Phew! What a noise!" muttered Tony as he looked at his victim and then all round the hill to see if the noise had alarmed the land. Luck favoured him. A random shot is nothing in war. Finding a hole near by, he dumped the body in, then covered it over with gra.s.s. This done, he whipped out his gla.s.ses and commenced to study things. Away in front he could see the convoys slowly moving past. There were guns, ammunition wagons, water-carts, ration wagons, and streams of men.

This was not the usual reliefs and supplies. There was something doing. The troops were new, their equipment was good, their bearing fresh and alert. All this was very interesting; but Tony was not near enough to get what he wanted. He decided to walk right through the lines. Leaving his rifle and placing his revolver and gla.s.ses in the Turkish haversack, he set off. He was soon one of the many straggling Turkish troops on various errands. They hailed him in their oriental way, but Tony simply grunted in reply.

That is a way of the East, so all went well. At last the daring officer was close behind the Turkish lines. He stumbled on the batteries well placed and well hid. Stacks of sh.e.l.ls lay to hand in preparation for their attack. In another part he located a searchlight, and down in a little gully he found a forward base for gun and rifle ammunition. This was a sound discovery. He memorised the spot and tried to locate it on the map. Pa.s.sing on, he came to a field hospital. This was being cleared, for wagons were taking the wounded men away to the ships which lay in the offing. When a hospital is being cleared, look out for a fight. A soldier understands what it means.

Tony finally arrived in a sort of rest camp. It was alive with men--fresh ones from Constantinople. There were plenty of German officers, too, also some sailors with _Goeben_ and _Breslau_ on their caps. He wondered what the sailors were there for. They seemed to be camped round an artillery park. He solved it; they were serving the guns. Down the lines he stumbled, grunting like an old horse, and, occasionally, sitting down to view the scene. They had plenty of biscuits, and even such luxuries as coffee, bread, and water melons.

No signs of starvation or lack of supplies. That was an important point. Tony was doing well. His scheme was succeeding beyond his dreams. Indeed, he was beginning to feel quite c.o.c.ky, till, on looking round, he found a swarthy little fellow behind him. He was being followed. Something gripped his heart. He had shot his bolt. Still he did not lose his head. This little man must be led on a little farther. Tony retraced his steps. The man followed him. He sat down; the Turk also sat down. This was unnerving, and the young sub. almost shouted in anger and agony. Rising again, he went on, striking into the open and less populated part. And, all the while, the officer wondered how he was going to deal with his sleuth-hound. He could not shoot him there.

At last his eye caught sight of the little knoll where his dead Turk lay buried. Good! He would lead him up there. He plodded on, and, behind him, stalked the patient-looking Turk. Oh! the agony of those moments. It was like a knife sinking by degrees into the human heart.

It was the hour for nerve, coolness and caution. Tony reached the top of the hill. With a sigh he sat down, pulled out his pipe and commenced to smoke. The Turk also sat down, but at the foot of the hill. He too started to smoke. His face had the sense of ease, his eyes a humorous gleam. He, apparently, was in no hurry. What the devil did he mean? Tony wondered, and wondered. This torture was insufferable; so insufferable that the subaltern waved his arm, signalling the Turk to come up beside him. He obeyed. As he reached the top he took off his cap and said, "Good days, Mr. Ingleesman."

"Who's English?" said Tony, smiling at his own audacity and apparent admission.

"You very Inglees--you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes Inglees."

"But what are you following me for?"

"Well--monees--backsheesh. Me poor man."

"How did you spot me?"

"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an ident.i.ty disc out of his pocket. This was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown, New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this d.a.m.ning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets in the camp below.

He inwardly cursed his stupidity.

"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found friend.

"Oh, wery nice--wery Inglees _too_," said the Syrian, looking at the inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in Stamboul--eh?"

"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.

Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.

"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way.

The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily answered, "Well----"

"Me poor man--me tell you things. How much?"