The Kangaroo Marines Part 13

"This is my shot," said Bill, taking hold of his rifle. Slowly he opened the door, then peeped through.

"I see one, boys!"

"Where?" they whispered.

"Behind some bags. Gosh, ain't he ugly. He's got a face like a black puddin', and the eyes of a snake. He ain't a bit of Turkish delight, anyhow, I wouldn't like to lick his old face. Wheesht, boys, he's goin' to shoot."

"At you?"

"No! Some fathead down the line. But I'll get the one-eyed Moslem blighter," muttered Bill, taking careful aim.

"Mind yis don't hit the ould fellow up in the moon," said Paddy just as Bill let go.

"Ye spud-faced Paddy. Ye--ye--ye----" blurted out Bill, throwing down his gun in anger.

"Missed, be Jasus--yis couldn't hit the town of Sydney at a hundred yards. Paddy Doolan's the man for that job." He seized the rifle, but just as he was going to open the little iron door there was a rattle of bullets all over the plate.

"Down, boys, down," he shouted.

"It's a beastly Maxim," said Claud, looking up. And a Maxim it was.

In ten minutes the so-called armoured plate was riddled. This was the experience with nearly all the other plates--one of the many annoying problems of war. However, the new plates were doubled and bolted.

Then they were covered with sandbags and erected so as not to be too obvious on the parapet. This scheme defied the sniper and the Maxim, and, in this way, the Turks' fire was subdued. This was important. In trench warfare the enemy must be terrorised. Not a head must be allowed to bob up, not a rifle and eye seen. Snipers must be hunted to death and given such a hefty and quick dispatch as to intimidate their successors. Water parties and ration parties have to be set on the run; reinforcements spotted and scattered; officers, too, must be kept in their place--below the parapet, if not below the sod. All of this means that the enemy gets demoralised and sickened. And when he has had a month or two of this gentle treatment he is easily dealt with when the time comes for an offensive and bayonet charge.

Of course, the Turks did not let the Australasians have it entirely their own way. When sniping and rifle fire became too dangerous, they resorted to the bomb. The bomb isn't a respectable thing. It sometimes takes your head off, and frequently punctures the system in rather an ugly manner. When a bomb hits, you know it. It is something like a railway engine striking a match-box. These Turkish bomb-throwers had some idea of making a sort of Irish slew out of their opponents' bodies. They bombed _and_ bombed _and_ bombed. Now, this wasn't at all polite, and it was most uncomfortable, especially when sitting down to a stolen Maconochie--an appetising dish. These bombs burst the parapets, ripped up the sandbags, and knocked men's brains into other men's eyes. Most annoying! One morning a bomb just missed Bill's head.

"What the--who the--why the---- These blamed ole Turks think my head's a coconut," said Bill.

"I hope they'll never hit your head," remarked Claud.

"Why?"

"It's too full----"

"Of water," interjected Paddy.

"Yes, there _would_ be a flood," concluded Claud, as he lit his pipe.

Just then an order was sent down to pa.s.s all empty jam tins to the rear.

"Wot's the jam tins for?"

"Fly traps," said Paddy.

"'Spect we'll have to dig the lead out of the dead men's bodies next,"

groused Bill, as he went down the trenches to collect the fly-covered jam tins. These were sent down to the beach in bags, causing many a grouse on the way. Rumour had it that some Jew had made a contract for the empty tins, another yarn was that they were for growing flowers round the General's dug-out. But mysterious and resourceful are the ways of the General Staff! These jam tins were redelivered to The Kangaroo Marines next day in the shape of bombs.

"Well I'm jiggered!" said Bill. "First they puts jam in tins, next they puts bombs in them."

"And then they'll shove you in them," interjected Claud.

"What for?"

"Prime Australian beef, fresh tinned, straight from the Dardanelles.

That would look well on a label."

"Yis couldn't do that with Bill," said Paddy.

"Why?"

"He's a bit high----"

Bang! came a Turkish bomb at that moment, scattering the group into their shelters below the parapets.

"Ye dirty, mouldy-faced sons of dog-eatin', blue-nosed spalpeens--Oi'll bomb yis," roared Paddy, gripping a jam tin and lighting the fuse.

Bang! it went. Bang! Bang! Bang! went more.

"_Some_ jam," said Bill, as he watched through the periscope. And then they heard moaning, shrieks, and shouts of "Allah, Allah."

"More jam," ordered Bill. And more jam they received. It wasn't sweet, and certainly unpalatable. And it didn't stick. Tins labelled "Apricot," "Marmalade," "Black Currant," and "Raspberry," went hurtling through the air, then burst in a very nasty way above the poor old Turks' trenches. This battle of jam bombs made the Turks much more respectful for a time. Indeed, one of the officers, who must have been a sportsman, flung over a note, on which was written:

"DEAR AUSTRALIANS,--We like jam--in fact, we could do with a tin of it, but not that dam--jam--jammy stuff you were putting over last night.--Yours fraternally,

"YUSSEF BEY."

"By Jove! He's a sport--let's chuck him a tin," said Claud. And over it went. The Turks scattered and waited, but there was no explosion.

With a smile the Turkish officer picked up the tin. Unfastening a note tied round it, he read:

"DEAR YUSSEF,--This is the _real_ stuff. By the way, you were at Rugby with me. Shall be sorry to kill you.--Yours, etc.,

"CLAUD DUFAIR."

Plunk! came a stone into the Australian lines; round it was fixed a note:

"DEAR CLAUD,--Many thanks--it was a G.o.d-send. Fancy you being here. I thought you would have been guarding the Marys and Mauds of London from the Zepps. Congrats! Of course, I shall be sorry to kill _you_.--Yours, etc.,

"YUSSEF BEY.

"_P.S._--There will be no firing to-day--go to bed."

And there was no firing. This Turkish officer, like every other Turkish soldier, was a gentleman.

It is remarkable how circ.u.mstances produce the inventor. At h.e.l.l-Fire Post the men found that the ordinary square periscope was almost useless. Every time one went up, bang went a Turk's rifle, and the periscope was blown to smithereens. Indeed, The Kangaroos lost nearly all their periscopes in the first few days. Now this was awkward.