CHAPTER III
The First Trek
"Cheer-oh, Malcolm!"
Carr gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment; then, recoveringhimself, grasped Dick Selwyn's outstretched hand.
"Bless my soul, Dick, what brings you here?"
"Same job as yours," replied Selwyn. "Do you think I am going to letyou have _all_ the fun? You _impshied_ without even asking me tochip in. Enough to make a fellow cut up rough with his joining chum.So I rode down, and now I'm up."
"And Hughes?"
"He's great--absolutely! Never even murmured when he had two fellowschucking their hands in on the same day. Told me he could get alongvery well without us. I doubt it though. Smithers is an ass with thetheodolite, and Hedger's 'trig' is rotten. By the by, on my way downlast night I passed Te Paheka."
"Going strong?"
"Very," replied Selwyn, grinning. "He was sitting on a pine-trunkhalf-way up the Horseshoe. There were a few disintegrated remains ofJuggernaut on the track, the bulk of the wreckage was down thevalley."
Early in the afternoon a batch of recruits, amongst them Malcolm andDick, left Christchurch for Port Lyttelton to embark for Wellington,and thence to Featherston Camp.
With a very few exceptions the men, although still in civilianclothes, bore themselves erect, and marched in a way that would haveevoked praise from an English drill sergeant. The exceptions werethose men who for some reason had not undergone military trainingwhile at school. Now they had cause to regret the omission. Theywere mere beginners at the great game of war, while others, youngerin years, were already their seniors in the profession of arms.
At Featherston Malcolm worked harder than ever he did before, but itwas interesting work. Drills and parades, from early morn till latein the afternoon, soon brought the detachment up to a statebordering upon perfection, and the word went round that theThirty-somethingth reinforcements would be sent to France some weeksearlier than the usual time, thanks to the efficiency of all ranks.
There was one man, however, who proved a sort ofstumbling-block--Rifleman Dowit. It was soon a standing joke thatDowit never could "do it" properly, except to grouse. Yet he wasjustified in his boast that he had put the Brigade Staff toignominious flight.
It was on the bombing-instruction ground. The preliminary coursewith dummy bombs had been completed, and now came the exciting partof this particular branch of training--hurling live Mills' bombs.
A squad, including Carr and Selwyn, had been marched down to thebombing-trench, where each man had to throw three bombs over theparapet at a target twenty yards away. It was a bright moonlitnight, which perhaps accounted for the good attendance on the partof the Brigade Staff to witness the operations.
"I wonder how Dowit will manage," remarked Dick to his chum. "Theman can't throw straight, or anything like it. He'll be hitting thetop of the parapet, and letting the bombs tumble back into thetrench. I vote we _impshie_ round a traverse when he starts."
"It wouldn't be a bad move to warn the sergeant," rejoined Malcolm.
The order to commence was given. Most of the men acquittedthemselves well, including Carr and Selwyn. Then came RiflemanDowit's turn.
"Here you are, Dowit," said the sergeant, handing him the threedangerous missiles. "Do you want me to say it _all_ over again?'Hold the bomb firmly in the right hand, at the same time grippingthe lever. Withdraw the safety-pin, and----' Here, you idiot, what_are_ you doing?"
Rifleman Dowit had removed the safety-pin, and was whirling themissile round and round at arm's length. At every complete circlethe head of the bomb missed the edge of the parapet by ahair-breadth. If the wielder had omitted to grip the lever, then infour seconds----!
Already, in anticipation of the rifleman's awkwardness, the rest ofthe squad were either flat on their faces or else disappearing roundthe traverse into the adjoining bays. The sergeant alone stood hisground.
Describing a magnificent parabola, the released bomb hurtled throughthe air; but instead of towards the target it was whizzing in theopposite direction--straight for the group of officers standing adozen yards from the rear of the trench. They promptly andprecipitately scattered, some taking to their heels, others throwingthemselves flat upon their faces in momentary expectation of aterrific explosion. A subaltern, however, did his best to avert thethreatened catastrophe. Picking up a conveniently-placed sandbag, hehurled it at the now motionless bomb, missed it, but caught therecumbent form of a portly major squarely between the shoulders.
Pluckily the subaltern did the next best thing. At imminent dangerhe placed his foot upon the latent missile of destruction andwaited.
"It's all right, sir," exclaimed the sergeant, who had clamberedover the parados and run to the extended group of officers. "It'sonly a dummy. I had my doubts about Rifleman Dowit, and a thunderinggood job I did," he added grimly.
"Bring the man here," ordered the major breathlessly, for the blowfrom the sandbag had shaken him considerably.
Thereupon Rifleman Dowit was given a good dressing down and promptlytransferred to the bearer section. For the time being he passes outof this story, but we shall hear of him again.
Malcolm and Dick found bayonet exercise exciting work--thrusting atsuspended sacks stuffed with straw called for strength and strenuousactivity--while at the ranges both lads gained a high percentage ofbulls, and in a very short while the "crossed rifles ", denotingmarksmanship, ornamented the sleeves of their uniforms.
Before the training course at Featherston was completed, Malcolm wonhis sergeant's stripes, while Dick was made full corporal. Both thelads knew that it was but a temporary step, all non-coms. revertingto riflemen on arrival in England, before proceeding across toFrance. Nevertheless the rank conferred certain privileges upon theholders, besides giving them valuable experience in the duties ofnon-commissioned officers.
During their leisure hours there was plenty to amuse the men incamp. A battalion picture-theatre, billiard rooms, voluntaryswimming parades, boxing, and a variety of other indoor and outdoorgames contributed to the men's enjoyment; and, although disciplinewas well enforced, there was a total absence of irritating pettyrestrictions that form a constant source of annoyance to the men ofthe New Armies of the Motherland.
At last came the welcome news of a parade at midnight in fullmarching order. Every man of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcementsknew what that meant: a move to Trentham--the final camp beforeembarkation. It was a point of honour that no man should fall outduring the arduous fourteen-hours' march over The Summit. Malcolmwould never forget that midnight trek. It was a perfectly stillevening. The Southern Cross was blazing in the sky. The air was warmbut bracing.
Out of the lines of tin huts the two thousand five hundred mencomprising the draft poured forth like bees. They made plenty ofnoise, "barracking" each other like boys out of school. The utmostenthusiasm prevailed, yet despite the turmoil the sense ofdiscipline made itself felt.
In full marching order the men set out briskly to the strains of theband that was to play them for the first few miles of the route.Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, crowds of civilian friendsof the departing troops accompanied them--in motor-cars, horsedvehicles, mounted, and on foot. New Zealand knew how to bid her sonsa fitting farewell.
Once clear of the camp (the band having carried out its part of thebusiness) the men burst into song. It was an unwritten law that eachdraft should attempt to sing all the way to The Summit, and theThirty-somethingth was not going to be outdone.
Mile after mile of the steep ascent the men toiled gamely. Backsbegan to ache under the drag of the packs; entrenching tools beganto make their presence aggressively known as they chafed the men'slegs; rifles were being constantly shifted from shoulder to shoulderor carried at the trail, as the weapons seemingly increased inweight at each step. Yet not a man fell out, nor did the singingcease until the order was given to halt at The Summit.
"A smart bit of work. The boys are in fine fettle," remarkedPlatoon-sergeant Fortescue to Malcolm.
"I had my doubts about TosherPhillips. He is the weak link in the chain, so to speak."
"As a matter of fact," rejoined Malcolm, "the man has galls on hisheels to the size of half-crowns, and one boot is almost full ofblood. He wouldn't take advantage of a lift in one of thewagons--said he'd rather stick it."
"By Jove!" ejaculated Fortescue. "Is that so? Then I think I mustcall back all I said concerning Tosher. All the same, I'll speak tothe Company Officer and get him to order the man to fall out. Theboy's shown his grit; that's the main thing."
Sergeant Fortescue was a man of about thirty years of age, and aseasoned veteran. English born and bred, he had gained a degree atCambridge, and, failing to turn it to any good account, had beensent to New Zealand by his disappointed father.
In the Dominion he found that he was "up against something" in whichan ornate classical education did not count. Down on his luck, hetried for a clerical post in a Wellington lawyer's office.
"Any qualifications?" enquired the lawyer.
"Er--well, I'm considered good at Greek Iambics and Latin Prose,don't you know."
"'Fraid you've come to the wrong shop," rejoined the man of lawbluntly. "This is a live country, not a dead one. Good morning!"
So Fortescue drifted up-country and found employment on a farm. Itwas hard work. The polished 'Varsity man, who hardly knew how to usea saw or to drive a nail in straight, found it particularly so. Hehad grit. He got on well with his fellow farm hands, who promptlydubbed him "Fortyscrews", a name that was eventually cut down to"Screws". He accepted the nickname cheerfully, stuck to his job, andin five years saved enough to start sheep-farming on his ownaccount.
Then came the war. Fortescue promptly "sold out" and enlisted. AtGallipoli he acquitted himself manfully, was mentioned for gallantryin an affair at Quinn's Post, and was brought back to Alexandria ina hospital ship, with a wound sufficiently dangerous to smash many aman up completely.
Given the chance of being sent either to England or to New Zealand,he chose the latter alternative. In six months he was himself again.Re-enlisting, he was offered a staff job at Featherston, butdeclined it, preferring to see more fun at the Front. For the secondtime Trevor Fortescue had marched over The Summit on the long trailthat ended within sight and sound of hostile guns.
Dusty, tired, footsore, but in high spirits, the Thirty-somethingthmarched into camp at Trentham. Their stay was but a short one, forthree days later the reinforcement embarked at Wellington onTransport 99 for England--and France.
A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front Page 3
