A Lively Bit of the Front Part 15

Wandering down a narrow and far from clean street they came face to face with an ancient stone building flung athwart the road. On the side of the archway a notice board announced it to be the old Westgate, through which the armies of Edward III and Henry V marched to embark upon the expedition that ended respectively in the victories of Crecy and Agincourt.

"One can imagine the throng of mailed knights leathern-jerkined archers pouring under the double portcullis," remarked Fortescue.

"Those armies left this place as enemies of France; to-day ours also leave Southampton, but with a different purpose, to rid French soil of the Hun and all his works."

"And it shows," added Malcolm, "in another way how times change.

Unless I'm mistaken, Henry V's army consisted of thirty thousand troops--not a third of the number of men raised in New Zealand alone."

"To carry the comparison still further," continued his companion, "our quota is roughly a fiftieth of the fighting forces of the Empire. For every man who levelled lance or drew bow at Agincourt against the French, one hundred and fifty are to-day fighting side by side with their former enemies. Those chaps--'island carrions, desperate of their bones', as Will Shakespeare aptly puts it--are our ancestors, Malcolm, whether we are New Zealanders, Australians, or Canadians, and although we are up against a big thing I haven't the faintest doubt that blood will tell, as it did in those days.

But, by Jove, it's close on four o'clock. We'll have to get back as sharp as we can, or we may have the Muizenberg business all over again."

That evening the troops re-embarked. By this time the lurking U-boats had been dealt with in a most effective way. Their shattered hulls lay on the bed of the English Channel. The route was now clear, and the transport's voyage was practically devoid of incident.

Without the loss of a single man, thanks to the mysterious yet effective means of protection afforded by the British navy, the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement had completed yet another stage of their Odyssey. At last they were upon the soil of La Belle France, and within sound of the hostile guns.

CHAPTER XV

The Eve of Messines

"Now then, you chaps, if you aren't hungry your pals are. Look slippy and get those rations up. You'll tumble across the wagons at La Tuille Farm."

"Right oh, Sergeant!" responded a youthful corporal. "Come along, chapses! Best foot forward!"

The Sergeant, having seen that a start was about to be made, backed out of the dug-out, dropped the tapestried curtain--it was a ragged and soiled ground-sheet--over the entrance, and disappeared along the narrow trench.

Crowded into the small dug-out were seven New Zealand riflemen.

Three of them are old acquaintances: Carr, Selwyn, and Macready, all looking lean, dirty, and unkempt, while their uniforms were caked in dried mud and frayed with hard usage. The final touches at Staples were a thing of the past. For four long days the men had been in the first-line trenches facing the formidable Messines Ridge.

The dug-out was comparatively dry. For one thing, the weather had been propitious, and the loathsome mud had almost disappeared. The roof was composed of untrimmed tree trunks on which were piled sand-bags sufficiently thick to stop sh.e.l.ls of medium calibre. The walls were likewise timbered, while along three sides ran a narrow shelf on which were bundles of straw to serve as beds. Hanging from nails driven into the rough-and-ready wainscot were the men's haversacks and other equipment, while ranged alongside the door were their rifles. Those were the only objects upon which any great care had been bestowed. In spite of rain, mud, discolouring fumes of sh.e.l.ls, hard usage, and a dozen other difficulties, the rifles were kept well-oiled and in perfect condition.

In the centre of the dug-out stood a cylindrical piece of perforated iron in which a fire was burning dully. The fumes filled the confined s.p.a.ce to such an extent that it was difficult for any of the occupants to distinguish their companions' features, but that was a detail to be endured with equanimity in the trenches. As it was the month of June, and warm, the men were lucky to be able to have a fire, considering the scarcity of fuel and the difficulty of conveying wood and charcoal up to the firing-line.

During the day Fritz had been actively engaged in "watering" the line with high-explosive sh.e.l.ls. Not only did the advance and support trenches get it hot, but for miles behind the lines hostile sh.e.l.ls were dropping promiscuously, on the chance of blowing up one or more of the numerous dumps and otherwise hampering the supply columns. But as night fell the "strafe" became desultory, and under cover of darkness the fatigue and foraging parties were able to set to work with a reasonable chance of getting through without being "done in".

"Come along, boys," exclaimed the young corporal--Billy Preston from Timaru--a veteran of Egypt and Gallipoli notwithstanding the fact that he was within a month of his twenty-first birthday. "The sooner we get the job done the better."

The men were dog-tired. A couple of hostile raids had kept them on the qui vive the previous night, while throughout the day they had had but few opportunities for sleep. And now, just as they were preparing to s.n.a.t.c.h a few hours' rest, they had been told off to bring up the rations.

"We've got to a.s.semble at two, haven't we?" enquired Rifleman Joliffe--commonly known as Grouser Joliffe. "They say our chaps are to attempt to take Messines Ridge. Attempt, I say, mind you, and our guns haven't hardly touched the job. There's uncut wire, you can see that for Yourselves, and machine-guns every yard of the way.

'Struth! I'm for swinging the lead. You don't catch me hurrying when the whistle goes."

His remarks fell on unheeding ears. The men were used to Grouser Joliffe's complaints by this time, They knew that when the critical moment arrived Joliffe would be amongst the first to mount the fire-step and clamber over the parapet. Yet there were grounds for belief in what the rifleman had said. The formidable ridge was to be attempted. The British knew it; the Huns knew it. With its labyrinths of wire and nests of skilfully-hidden machine-guns Messines Ridge was far more difficult to a.s.sault than in the earlier stages of the war, when French won and lost the important position.

Meanwhile Malcolm had rolled out of his narrow uncomfortable perch and was stretching his cramped limbs. Selwyn was fumbling with his puttees.

"Hang it," he exclaimed. "A rat has been gnawing at them. Anyone got a piece of string?"

The deficiency remedied, and the scanty toilet operations performed (the inhabitants of the dug-out had turned in "all standing", even to their boots), the men put on their shrapnel helmets, seized their rifles, and sallied forth into the night.

For some moments Malcolm could see nothing. The transition from the smoky, ill-lighted dug-out to the darkness of the open air confused his sight. All he could do was to keep in touch with the man preceding him until he grew accustomed to the change of venue.

Fresh air--is there such a thing anywhere within miles of No Man's Land? Malcolm doubted it. The atmosphere reeked of numerous and distinct odours. Traces of poison gas lurked in the traverses, pungent fumes from bursting sh.e.l.ls wafted over parapet and parados, while the report, pa.s.sed on from various successive occupants of this section of the line, that a dozen dead Huns had been buried under the floor of the support trench--the old first-line trench of a Prussian regiment--seemed to find definite confirmation.

A low whine and a terrific _wump_ as a high-explosive sh.e.l.l arrived and burst fifty yards in the rear of the trench showed that Fritz was still strafing. A fortnight previously Malcolm's heart would have been in his boots. Now he scarcely heeded the messenger of death and destruction, although showers of dust and calcined wood flew over the parados amongst the ration party. Familiarity with missiles of that description had quickly bred contempt.

At frequent intervals lurid star-sh.e.l.ls lit up the sky. The Huns were getting decidedly jumpy of late. Expecting a strong attack, yet not knowing the actual time, they were ma.s.sing their men on the ridge under the protection of their artillery. Away to the left machine-guns were delivering a _staccato obbligato_.

"Our heavies are quiet to-night," remarked Selwyn, who was trudging along the duck-boards literally on Malcolm's heels. "Why to blazes don't they give Fritz half a dozen for every one he throws over?

Hanged if I can make things out."

Malcolm pulled tip suddenly, to avoid charging into the back of the man immediately preceding him. Those behind bunched up and halted, while from the front of the single file came a very strong exclamation of pain and anger.

"What's wrong?" enquired the Corporal "Someone bucks.h.i.+ed?"

"Yes," replied the voice of Grouser Joliffe. "Copped it in my blessed arm."

"Then foot it to the dressing-station," ordered Corporal Preston.

"Me?" enquired the rifleman. "Me? Not much. Wait till we've brought in the grub, and then--you don't catch me going over the top tonight."

For another hundred and fifty yards the party proceeded before the men turned into the zigzag communication-trench. This ran backwards for nearly a mile. In places it was eight feet deep, with sand-bags on either side in addition, In others, in marshy spots, where the high-explosive sh.e.l.ls had spitefully disturbed the tranquillity of meandering streams and carried the sluggish water to overflow and swamp the surrounding ground, the "trench" was above normal ground-level, with a lofty and broad wall of sand-bags to right and left. Here and there the trench was roofed in, where, from experience, men had learnt it was unhealthy owing to being exposed to machine-gun fire. The Huns had got to know the weak spots. Aerial observation during daylight had enabled them to train machine-guns upon certain points of the communication-trenches. The lethal weapons would be ominously silent until after dark; then, on the off-chance of receiving a good bag, they would let loose a hail of bullets.

The men hastened across the more-exposed sections generally on their hands and knees. Even the bravest heaved a sigh of relief when the danger-spot was safely crossed. Going over the top they would unhesitatingly rush a machine-gun emplacement, but crawling away from the enemy, never knowing when a hail of bullets would sweep the ground, was enough to try the nerves of the case-hardened campaigner.

Presently the communication-trench ended, and the ration-party stumbled across a double line of narrow-gauge rails, part of the intricate system behind the lines. The track ran diagonally to the direction of the trench. To the left it led to and beyond the Army Service Corps dump at La Tuille. In the opposite direction it disappeared in the bowels of the earth, while a network of branch lines complicated the system. All through the hours of darkness, for several months past, heavily-laden trucks carefully covered with camouflaged canvas rumbled away from the lines to return empty ere dawn. Latterly the reverse conditions prevailed. Full trucks, each propelled singly by manual labour and with long intervals between the vehicles, proceeded towards the trenches but never reached them.

Subterranean works of an extensive nature were on the point of being completed. Every load of excavation was carefully taken miles to the rear in the dead of night, in order to baffle the enemy's aerial observers. So well guarded were these operations that even the men in the trenches were unaware of their nature, although many shrewd conjectures were not far out.

"Hallo, chums!" called out one of the ration-party as a truck hauled by three sappers rattled along. "How's your Channel Tunnel scheme getting along?"

"Fine!" was the reply. "Are you taking up any shares in the concern?

There'll be a sharp rise very shortly, you know."

Another fifty yards and a word of command from Corporal Preston brought the squad to a halt. Out of the darkness came the sound of a hundred marching feet; then, almost invisible in their khaki uniform, a battalion of Australian infantry pa.s.sed. It was significant that the men were in light marching order.

"By Gum! There's something up," whispered Selwyn. "Crowds of bombers and a whole crush of Lewis guns. Hallo! Here's more of them."

The progress of the ration-party was slow. A constant stream of infantry, swarms of transport of all conditions, clearly denoted that operations of more than minor importance were impending.

"There's enough to swamp our trenches," declared Malcolm. "Where on earth are they going to a.s.semble?"

"That Sapper fellow evidently knew something when he talked about a sharp rise," said Selwyn. "And look! Tanks--crowds of them!"

Ambling along by the side of the tramway came a long line of armoured mastodons. The ground shook under the relentless pressure of the tractor bands, the air reeked with petrol fumes. Viewed in broad daylight the Tanks looked formidable enough; in the darkness, their weird outlines distorted by the misty atmosphere, they appeared like huge, grotesque monsters from another world.

"If I were Fritz I'd think twice before standing up to one of those brutes," soliloquized Malcolm. "Twenty-two of them. This will be a big stunt, and no mistake."