A Lively Bit of the Front Part 3

"Hardly!" was the reply. "He shares a two-bunk berth with the Lieutenant. Padre has, or had, the upper bunk, and he tops the scale at sixteen stone. I don't insinuate, mind you, that any of the fellows tampered with the ironwork, but all the same the bunk collapsed, and our Padre subsided heavily upon poor little Nicholson."

"We'll get the company poet to write up a special stanza and recite it at the concert," declared Fortescue. "Sort of object lesson on the way our Padre tackles sin."

The men, remembering that the Lieutenant's initials were S.I.N., laughed uproariously. These impromptu concerts gave them poetic licence to joke at the expense of their officers. The latter, too, were quite used to that sort of thing. In fact they enjoyed it. Even the popular Padre found these entertainments a welcome antidote to the dull business of censoring letters.

The concert--as far as it went--was a huge success. According to _The Deep Sea Roll_, the Thirty-somethingth's magazine, the opening items and the honorary reporter's notes were as follows:--

"A duet by the brothers Mac. I thought they would never finish, due mainly to Macdonald, who had his Scotch blood up and his bagpipes in good wind."

"Sergeant Thomson next stepped into the ring and gave 'Thora' a slap up. It was a pity he lost his teeth, but, thank goodness, he has not lost his voice."

"Tiny Anderson's voice was like his size--tremendous. 'Asleep in the Deep' was his song. I thought he _was_ asleep at one part of it."

There was no lack of enthusiasm on the part of the audience. The men, packed like sardines in a barrel, filled the mess-deck almost to suffocation, their boisterous applause increasing in volume as item succeeded item in quick succession.

"Item seven--Cornet Compet.i.tion," announced Sergeant Fortescue.

"Sisters Howard and O'Dowd have kindly consented to act as judges."

Prolonged sounds of cheering greeted the two Red Cross nurses as they stepped upon the platform with marked timidity. They would perhaps--and did--unhesitatingly and calmly a.s.sist the medical officers in their work of mercy and within range of hostile sh.e.l.ls, but their present task was an ordeal.

Four strapping young fellows, each armed with a highly-polished cornet, appeared and stood facing their critical audience, receiving their caustic comments with a studied indifference.

"Rifleman Gilway."

Rifleman Gilway advanced two paces, lifted the instrument to his lips, and distended his cheeks. Beyond an eerie gurgle ("the last gasp of a dying flounder", according to the above-quoted honorary reporter) not a sound came from the cornet. The audience, rocking with laughter, threw shouts of encouragement and advice to the would-be musician, but all in vain. Rifleman Gilway's eyes were riveted upon the half of a cut, juicy lemon displayed within six inches of his face by a waggish subaltern. The sight of the acid fruit effectually prevented the man getting a single note out of the instrument. He puffed and blew like a grampus, the tears ran down his distended cheeks, and the perspiration oozed from his forehead, till in disgust he retired from the contest.

Cornet No. 2 shared the same fate, after a gallant struggle. By this time the audience was almost silent. The men could laugh no longer.

They were almost on the verge of hysterical tears of excessive merriment.

The third compet.i.tor withdrew without an effort, but the fourth was something of a strategist. He used his music-card as a screen to shut out the sight of the tantalizing lemon. By so doing he had to lean forward slightly. His cheeks were bulging, but again silence--mysterious silence.

Compared with Rifleman Gilway's efforts those Of Corporal Jephson were simply terrific. His whole frame shook under the tremendous force of lung power. The doctor began to s.h.i.+ft uneasily in his chair, antic.i.p.ating a case of apoplexy. Jephson's face gradually changed in colour fro light bronze to a deep purple. Something had to go----

Something did! From the interior of the instrument a wad of paper was ejected with the velocity of a stone from a catapult. In its wake followed, a compact ma.s.s of viscous substance. Both struck the waggish subaltern full in the face, and then the nature of the "main charge" became apparent. It was treacle. A practical joker had primed Jephson's cornet with the sticky stuff, plugging it with a wad. Amidst renewed outbursts of cheering the subaltern retired for repairs and renewals, while the lady judges were fortunately spared the task of bestowing the palm upon the cornet champion of the Thirty-somethingths.

More songs followed, then a series of recitations bearing upon incidents and characters on board Transport No. 99. Many of the references were pointedly personal; the victims enjoyed them as much as anyone, for it is difficult to raise a New Zealander's "dander"

by means of a practical joke. And when the reciter commenced a string of verses portraying the catastrophe in the cabin shared by Lieutenant Nicholson and the Padre, the former's "Hear, hear!" and the latter's deep ba.s.s laugh were heard above the roars of hilarity.

The composer of the verses had turned the accident into a work of intent on the Padre's part, representing the latter combating the evil influence of sin. The reciter began with slight hesitation; then, finding that he was receiving unstinted approval, he warmed up to his task.

"Sin turned in, and soon was heard the music of his snore, And then the Padre set to work as none had worked before.

He got a large belaying-pin, he got the vessel's lead, And everything that weighed at all he piled upon the bed.

He took the screws out, one by one, that held the fixing frail, Till all that stood 'twixt him and Sin was but a single nail.

Then with a fierce look in his eye, as one who thirsts for blood, He hurled his weight upon the bunk--there came a sickening thud----"

Cras.h.!.+

The old _Awarua_ shook under the terrific impact of an unseen force, listed to starboard, and then slowly recovered, to heel to port.

Simultaneously every electric light on the s.h.i.+p was extinguished, while above the noise of escaping steam arose the babel of hundreds of voices as the swarm of humanity slithered in a struggling ma.s.s along the sloping floor of the mess deck.

"Torpedoed, by Jupiter!" shouted a voice. The ominous words were taken up by others, and in the darkness an ugly rush was made for the upper deck.

CHAPTER V

Broken down in Mid-ocean

"It's all right, boys!" came a deep voice. "It's only the Padre fallen out of his bunk again."

The men recognized the voice.

"Good old Padre!" they shouted, and then silence fell upon the crowd. Someone struck a match, and held it so that the feeble glimmer shone upon his face. It was the C.O.

"File out in an orderly manner, lads," he ordered. "Fall in on the upper deck. I'll _follow_ you out. We are not going over the top this time; when we do I'll take good care to _lead_ you."

On the upper deck a bugle rang out shrilly. The seamen, a.s.sisted by some troops, who, detailed for duty, had not attended the sing-song, were "standing by" ready to lower away the boats.

Rapidly yet without confusion the mess deck was cleared. The first signs of panic nipped in the bud, the men were now as cool as cuc.u.mbers.

"How far is it to the nearest land?" enquired one as he ascended the ladder.

"Less'n half a mile underneath your feet," was the grim answer.

True to his word, the Colonel was the last to leave the mess deck.

As he emerged into the open air he remarked to the Chaplain: "My word, Padre, heaven forgive you for that lie, but you saved the situation."

Like most of his comrades, Malcolm Carr was under the impression that he would soon have to swim for it, unless he was one of the lucky ones to get told off to the boats. If anyone had suggested that he was afraid, he would have stoutly repudiated the statement; but he was conscious of a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. To a man not a sailor by profession the knowledge that only a comparatively thin steel plate, and fractured at that, is between him and death by drowning is apt to be decidedly disconcerting. He had voluntarily contracted to risk his life by fighting the Boche, but to be "downed" without the chance of seeing a shot fired in earnest was hardly playing the game.

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

Carr turned his head and peered into the face of his right-hand man.

It was d.i.c.k Selwyn.

"Hallo, d.i.c.k! I didn't recognize your voice. How goes it?"

"So, so!" replied d.i.c.k. "Look here, I vote we stick together. Why aren't they lowering the boats? They don't seem in any sort of a hurry."

"Perhaps it is as well. You know----"

Again a bugle rang out. The ranks stiffened.

"Boys!" exclaimed the Colonel; "the Captain has just sent word that there is no immediate danger. There has been a slight explosion in a bunker. One compartment--the for'ard stokehold--is flooded. For the present the men will remain on deck. The cooks will issue a hot ration. Stand at ease!"

Out came pipes and cigarettes. The men began chatting and yarning, discussing the possibilities and chances of the catastrophe. The explosion had been an internal one, sufficient to cripple the vessel's engines. The question naturally arose as to whether it was the work of a Hun agent.