CHAPTER XXIX
The Battle in the Mud
It was as unlike a charge as could possibly be imagined. With riflesat the slope, the New Zealanders sauntered forward towards theirobjective, keeping almost at the heels of the barrage, save here andthere where a "pill-box", presumably deserted, was found to bechock-a-block with Huns. Almost before he was aware of it, Malcolmfound himself confronted by a practically intact concreteblock-house, which was so near the New Zealand outposts that it hadescaped damage during the bombardment. Looming ominously through themisty, drizzling dawn, the pill-box might have accounted for scoresof gallant New Zealanders, for it was crammed with Huns, and wellprovided with machine-guns. Yet not a shot came from that isolatedfortress. Unaware that it was tenanted, a dozen men of C Companystrolled past the grinning loopholes.
"Kamerad! Kamerad!"
The words, just audible above the clamour, caused several Diggers tostop.
"By Jove," exclaimed Fortescue, "the place is full of Boches! Out'em, boys!"
With levelled bayonets Malcolm, Selwyn, and half a dozen riflemenadvanced towards the door in the rear of the pill-box, while M'Turkand M'Kane, each brandishing a bomb, ran close to the wallimmediately by the side of the machine-gun aperture. Here, securefrom bullets from the inside, they had the garrison at their mercyshould the Huns show any signs of treachery.
"Out you come, Fritz!" shouted Fortescue. "We won't hurt you."
Furtively a German poked his steel helmeted head through thedoorway. With arms upheld he stumbled out, terror written on hisface. Behind him, after a brief interval, came another; then more,close at each other's heels, until fifty-three Huns, without firinga shot, were prisoners in the hands of the New Zealanders.
"Who'll take them back?" asked Fortescue.
No one seemed at all anxious for the job. Every man whom theSergeant looked at enquiringly shook his head. With the prospect ofa scrap ahead, none would accept the task of escorting fiftydemoralized Huns.
"Send 'em back on their own, Sergeant," suggested M'Turk. "They'llgo quietly, you bet. We want to get on. Look where our barrage is."
Already the line of bursting shells was a couple of hundred yardsaway. The advancing infantry-men were almost invisible in thedrifting smoke and rain.
"Off you go!" ordered Fortescue, pointing in the direction of theNew Zealand advance posts.
Like a flock of sheep the Huns, with hands still upraised, shuffledon the first of their long trek to captivity--to some delectablespot in England, where, far from the sound of the guns, there isfood in plenty for Hun prisoners of war, German U-boatsnotwithstanding.
At the double the New Zealanders hastened to overtake the rest of CCompany. Away on the left sharp rifle and machine-gun fire,punctuated by the crash of exploding bombs, showed that there wereother block-houses where a strenuous resistance was beingmaintained. Men, too, were already returning wounded, cheerful inspite of pain; others, lying in the mud, would never rise again, formachine-guns were busy beyond the Hannebeke stream.
Ordinarily a quiet, well-conducted brook, the Hannebeke stream hadbeen rudely disturbed by the terrific bombardment of the Britishheavies. Where a shell had fallen in the bed of the stream the lipof the upheaved crater had formed a dam--and there was not one butmany such. Over the low-lying banks the water had flowed, until fornearly a hundred yards in width there was water everywhere, hidingthe tenacious mud, and acting as a camouflage to thousands of deepcraters.
Into the morass the New Zealanders plunged boldly, only to find thatthey were quickly up to their belts in mud and water. When a manstumbled into a shell-hole, he simply disappeared, until, rising tothe surface, he managed to scramble out with the aid of a morefortunate chum. Here and there huge spurts of mud and water leapttowards the rainy sky as German shells burst indiscriminately in theswollen stream; while everywhere the slowly-flowing water wasflecked with little spurts of spray as the machine-gun bulletsricochetted from the surface. When a man was hit when crossing thatforbidding morass it generally meant death to him--death bysuffocation in the pestilent mud of Flanders.
Looking like muddy replicas of Lot's wife, Malcolm and Selwyn atlast emerged from the morass, Fortescue was ahead, Corporal Prestontoo, while M'Turk, with his chum M'Kane hanging on to his back, wasjust extricating himself from a deep crater.
"Thanks!" he exclaimed, as Malcolm gave him a hand. He was toobreathless to say more. Setting his burden down in the shelter of aruined pill-box, M'Turk bound up his chum's wound--a machine-gunbullet through the calf of his right leg.
"Now you stop there till I come back," he admonished the "buckshied"M'Kane, "unless the bearers pick you up. Just the silly thing youwould do, to try and crawl through that muck. S'long. See youpresently."
He overtook Malcolm, swinging along with prodigious strides despitethe tenacious slime. "There are the swine who knocked my pal over,"he shouted, pointing to an insignificant heap of stones about eightyyards to his right front.
"There's a blessed tic-tac in there. I'll blow 'em to blazes."
The fragments of concrete marked the former position of a pill-boxwhich had been built over a deep dug-out. The German machine-gunnershad lain low when the first wave of New Zealanders had sweptoverhead; then, hauling up their deadly weapon, they had trained iton the khaki lads still struggling through the Hannebeke stream.
Grasping a bomb, M'Turk edged cautiously towards the flank of themachine-gun emplacement; but before he had gone ten yards he stoppedand stood upright with his left hand raised to the rim of hisshrapnel-helmet. For quite five seconds he remained thus, then hisknees gave way under him, slowly and reluctantly, it seemed, he fellin a huddled heap face downwards in the mud.
"M'Turk's down, by Heaven!" ejaculated Malcolm.
He threw himself on his hands and knees and crawled towards theluckless bomber, Selwyn following. With an effort they dragged theman on his back. He was beyond mortal aid. A rifle bullet had struckhim fairly on the left temple, causing instantaneous death.
Slinging his rifle, Malcolm possessed himself of three of M'Turk'sbombs. He would attempt to carry out the task the bomber had essayedwhen a chance bullet struck him down: to wipe out the viper's nestand to silence the deadly machine-gun that was loosing a fresh boltof ammunition upon the floundering men making their way across theswollen stream.
He advanced rapidly. Time was the first consideration, cautionsecond. Every instant instant meant death to his comrades in themud.
Suddenly one of the machine-gunners caught sight of the approachingdanger. With a yell he sprang to his feet and raised his hands. Themachine-gun began to spit fire once more, and that decided it. TheHun who offered to surrender was a negligible quantity.
With splendid precision the Mills's bomb flew straight at the groupof grey-coated men. One missile was enough. Malcolm turned anddoubled after his comrades, and, again under shelter of theslowly-creeping barrage, was once more in comparative safety.
On and on pressed the now-exultant Diggers, until the steady advancewas checked. Somewhere through the mist and smoke came a hail ofmachine-gun bullets. Men were dropping right and left.
"Take cover!" shouted an officer.
It was easier said than done. The muddy ground afforded littleshelter, while the shell-craters were filled with water. The barragehad passed on and was "squatting" at about two hundred yardsdistance.
The obstacle was then revealed. Away to the left front of C Companywas a concrete redoubt built around a heap of rubbish that markedthe site of Van Meulen Farm. Bravely a number of New Zealandersrushed forward with bomb and bayonet, only to drop in the mud underthe hellish machine-gun fire.
How fared the rest of the advance the men on this particular sectorknew not. They were most unpleasantly aware that a formidablebarrier lay athwart their course, and that it must be rushed beforethe troops could storm the heights. Not only was Van Meulen Redoubtstrongly constructed and well armed; it was stubbornly held by someof the pick of the German army--men resolved to fight
to the lastcartridge rather than surrender.
"Why don't they send along the Tanks?" asked little Henderson, as hethrust a fresh charge into his magazine.
"Never mind about the Tanks, sonny," replied Sergeant Fortescue."We've got to do our own dirty work."
For nearly twenty minutes the men maintained a hot fire,concentrating their aim upon the narrow apertures through which themachine-guns were delivering their death-dealing bullets. It was athankless task. A machine-gun would be silenced for a few secondsand then resume its fire; for each weapon, in addition to theprotection afforded by the massive concrete walls, was equipped witha steel shield through which a narrow sighting-aperture afforded theonly vulnerable spot.
At last one of the battalions forming the reserve stormers came up,eager for the fray. If courage and sheer weight of numbers could winthe day Van Meulen Farm was doomed.
"Come on, boys!" shouted a young officer. "I'll lead you. Rout thebeggars out of it."
With a cheer the men leapt from their scanty cover. Bombers, Lewisgunners, and riflemen surged forward, heedless of the gaps in theirranks. The intervening ground was all but covered when the gallantyoung officer fell. His death, far from disheartening the men, addedfuel to their burning ardour.
Into the machine-gun slits bombs were tossed in dozens, until theconfined space within the redoubt was filled with noxious smoke fromthe loud-sounding missiles of destruction. Still the Huns held out.When one machine-gun was disabled another was brought up; but bythis time the deadly weapon had lost much of the sting.
The entrance to the blockhouse was forbidding enough. A flight ofnarrow and steep stone steps gave access to a low doorway. On themetal-cased woodwork the Diggers rained blows with the butt-ends oftheir rifles; others, placing the muzzles of the weapons close tothe stout fastenings, strove to blow them away. It was not until adozen men, bearing a massive beam, appeared upon the scene that thedifficulty was overcome. The battering-ram simply pulverized thealready-weakening barrier. With a cheer, and preceded by a showerof grenades, the riflemen poured in to complete the work with coldsteel.
Within was a terrible scene. In hot blood civilized men went back toprimeval instincts and fought like wild beasts, clawing, tearing andgouging when it was too close work for the bayonet. The smoke-ladenair was rent with shouts, oaths, shrieks, and groans, punctuated bythe clash of steel and the whip-like cracks of automatic pistols.Like rats in a trap the Huns fought and died, while the survivors ofthe storming-party staggered out of the shambles and threwthemselves on the ground in sheer bodily exhaustion.
Rifleman Carr had come off lightly. One of the first to force hisway through the shattered entrance, he presented a sorry appearance.His right sleeve was torn away at the elbow, the left was rippedalmost to ribbons. His Webb equipment was twisted and cut; he wasplastered in mud and filth from head to foot, while his steel helmetbore the splayed marks of the impact of two pistol-bullets fired atclose range. Nevertheless, with the exception of a slight cut acrossthe cheek, and the mark of a Hun's teeth showing angrily above hisleft wrist, he was uninjured.
A burning thirst gripped his throat. He felt for his water-bottle.It was no longer there. Unconcernedly he reached out his hand andsecured one belonging to a dead comrade. The bottle was full. Theliquid put new life into him.
"Hallo, Henderson!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the man, who wasvainly struggling to unfix the remains of his bayonet. "SeenSelwyn?"
"Half a tick ago," was the reply. "He's all right. Seen anything ofStewart?"
"Chuck it!" ejaculated Sergeant Fortescue. "What's the use ofworrying about your pals when the job's not finished? Come along; ifyou can't run, walk; if you can't walk, crawl. We can't have CCompany out of the last lap."
He spoke imperiously--savagely. A greater contrast to themild-spoken, 'Varsity-educated greenhorn, who, a few yearspreviously, was down on his luck in New Zealand, could hardly beimagined. A great responsibility had been thrown upon his shoulders.With the lust of battle gripping him, he found himself a leader ofmen.
C Company was widely scattered. Many had fallen; others had goneforward with other companies; platoons and units were mingledindiscriminately. After the fall of Van Meulen Farm RedoubtFortescue discovered that he was senior non-com. of the remnants ofC Company, while not a single commissioned officer was leftstanding.
The men resumed their advance. Scores of prisoners, making their wayin the opposite direction, were visible and comforting signs thatthe day was still going well; while wounded New Zealanders,painfully making for the dressing-stations, were able to augment thenews by the announcement that the Diggers were up and over theAbraham Heights. Beyond that there were no indications of how thebattle fared--whether the Tommies on the left or the "Aussies" onthe right were maintaining equal progress. Mist and smoke and thedeafening clamour of thousands of guns limited both range of visionand hearing.
The ground was better going now. On the slope, the mud, though stillankle-deep, was a hardly-noticeable impediment. Stolidly the handfulof men comprising the remains of C Company held onwards, eager torenew a closer acquaintance with Fritz.
"Cheer-o, Malcolm!" exclaimed a voice. "Didn't recognize you."
Rifleman Carr glance indifferently over his shoulder. Dick Selwyn,his jaw enveloped in a bandage, had just overtaken him.
"Buckshie?" enquired Malcolm laconically.
"Nothing--just a mere scratch," was the reply. "I thought you weredone in back there. In fact, I was looking for what was left ofyou."
"I might have been," rejoined Malcolm. He found himself wondering athis apathy in the matter. In the heat of combat the grim figure ofDeath stalking up and down amid his comrades hardly concerned him.The horror of it all would be apparent after the battle--if he livedto see it.
"Young Stewart's gone," continued Selwyn. "A shell copped him.Corporal Preston, too, and goodness only knows who else. They'veplayed the very deuce with the boys."
"It'll be worse before it's finished," added Malcolm. "But Iwouldn't miss it for anything."
Over the already-won ground, pitted with shell-holes and thicklystrewn with khaki and field-grey forms, the men of C Companycontinued their advance, until they fell in with a swarm of Diggerspreparing to rush another formidable obstacle to the achievement ofthe objective.
CHAPTER XXX
The Last Stand
"Who says we won't be in Berlin before Christmas?" shouted a manstaggering past under the weight of a Stokes's gun, his burdenincreased by reason of the quagmire. "Not 'arf, you Diggers!"
The riflemen within hearing expressed their approval of the idea,for the obstacle that was holding up a section of the advance was arow of concrete pill-boxes surrounding the entrance to a deep andextensive cave--a formidable stronghold known as "Berlin". Beyondwas a large wood, which, when carried, would be the final objectivefor the day's operations.
The New Zealanders settled Berlin redoubt most effectively, and infar less time than had been taken in reducing Van Meulen, Otto, andother concreted strongholds. Thirty rounds from the Stokes's mortarsin the short space of two minutes played havoc with the garrisons.Then, with loud yells of triumph, the stormers rushed the positionon three sides simultaneously, bombarded the pill-boxes with grenadeand smoke-bombs, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the scantyremnant of a once numerous garrison come forth in fear and terror,accepting their conquerors' assurances that their lives would bespared.
"See that the job's done properly, Sergeant," ordered a major ofanother company, addressing Fortescue, who was assembling thehandful of his platoon.
Fortescue saluted, and, calling Malcolm and another man to follow,made his way into the redoubt. The three did not tarry long. It wasa veritable slaughter-house. The floor was literally paved withhideously-mutilated bodies of Germans who had fallen victims to thedeadly Stokes's bombs. No need to investigate lest a living Fritzwas lying doggo with the dead. The survivors had only been too eagerto seize the chance of leaving the place alive.
The
operations at Berlin Farm had delayed a section of the line.Before the men could be sent forward a pioneer battalion, composedmostly of Maoris, whose skill at rapid digging-in had won theadmiration of the High Command, came surging up to assist in theconsolidation of the captured position. That, again, was adistinctly satisfactory sign. New Zealand meant to hold what she hadgained.
As C Company, or rather what was left of it, were re-forming,Malcolm encountered Grouser Joliffe. The man, ragged andbattle-worn, was grousing no longer. A supremely-satisfied smileoverspread his face.
"Boys," he whispered, "I've been in luck. Copped a dozen of thedirty 'Uns back there, and not one of them had the courage to put upa fight--an' me single-handed. I sent 'em back, and then had a lookround their dug-out. It was some show--not 'arf. Cigars, fags, anddrinks no end. Some of the boys strolled in and helped me refresh;but I haven't forgot my pals. Thought I'd tumble across some of 'emstill left. Here, take this."
He handed Malcolm a bottle of soda-water, and bestowed a similargift upon Selwyn and Sergeant Fortescue, for two canvas bags, meantto carry a stock of bombs, were crammed with filled bottles ofmineral water from the captured dug-out.
"Joliffe, you are a proper white man!" declared Fortescue, deftlyknocking off the head of the bottle and draining the contents at agulp. "But what have you been up to?"
"Mud-larkin', Sergeant," replied the man, with a solemn wink. Hetouched the tip of his bayonet. "Like spearing eels in the Waikato,it was."
The men went forward once more. Ahead, dimmed by the rain anddrifting smoke, could be discerned the rearmost edge of Berlin Wood.It was quite unlike anything of the nature of a wood for the shellshad searched it so thoroughly that hardly a tree-trunk stood morethan ten feet in height, while every vestige of leaves and brancheshad vanished. The blackened and badly-scored trunks looked more likethe columns of a long-buried temple than trees, while in many placesthe charred wood was smouldering, despite the water-logged conditionof the ground.
Notwithstanding the terrific pounding of the British heavies, thewood was still strongly held by the enemy. Fallen tree-trunks layathwart pill-boxes that were still intact, shell craters affordedshelter for dozens of deadly machine-guns. Trip wires and otherfiendish contrivances abounded, while in several places _fougasses_had been constructed, powerful enough to blow a whole platoon in theair.
In cold blood even the bravest man would hesitate before enteringthe forbidding wood of death; but the New Zealanders never faltered.Into the gloomy sulphurous maze they plunged, with yells and shoutsof encouragement.
So intricate was the going that, although several bodies of troopshad passed well ahead, there were pill-boxes and other fortifiedposts left undetected in their rear. Fritz, lying _perdu_, while thecrowd of Anzacs poured onward, would resurrect his tic-tocs anddirect a withering machine-gun fire into the backs of the lucklessmen.
"Look out! On your left!" shouted Fortescue, whose ready eye haddetected a sinister movement behind a prostrate tree-trunk.
Half a dozen men of C Company dashed towards the spot with levelledbayonets. For some reason not a bomb was hurled, nor was a shotfired either by the Diggers or the Huns.
In a skilfully-concealed emplacement were two machine-guns, with acrew consisting of an officer and twelve stalwart Prussians.
"Hands up!" roared Fortescue.
The German officer set the example, his men quickly imitating him,as with arms upraised he awaited the approach of the New Zealanders.He was a tall, bald-headed man with a prominent double-chin. Hisbeady eyes were furtively taking stock of the scanty number whoopposed him.
"Fritz looks greasy," mentally commented Malcolm, as he fingered thetrigger of his rifle.
The German officer rapped out an order. Hands were dropped andrifles seized.
"Do 'em in!" shouted Fortescue. "The treacherous swine."
Although outnumbered, the Diggers did the work Diggers smartly andeffectually. As the Prussian officer raised his revolver to firepoint-blank at Sergeant Fortescue, Malcolm plunged his bayonet intothe Hun's side, while Fortescue reciprocated the service by shootinga German who was about to deal Rifleman Carr a smashing blow withthe butt of his rifle before the latter could disengage his blade.
"Now what's to be done, Sergeant?" enquired Joliffe, as he surveyedthe scene of the struggle. Of the seven New Zealanders who hadrushed the position only four were left standing--Fortescue,Malcolm, Joliffe, and Henderson. Dick Selwyn was lying with his backpropped against a tree-trunk and a gunshot wound in his left arm.The bullet, fired at close range, had been almost as destructive asa dum-dum. The other man was dead.
"Got it this time, Malcolm!" murmured Dick faintly, as his chumknelt beside him, and with a queer smile on his face Selwyn passedinto unconsciousness.
While Rifleman Carr was busy with first-aid dressings, SergeantFortescue was pondering over the situation. He had lost touch withthe advance. It was a vain sacrifice to attempt to push on with amere handful of men. He decided to sit tight and await developments.Reserves would be speedily coming up; of that he felt certain.
"Can we get him out of this, Fortescue?" enquired Malcolm,indicating his unconscious chum. Fortescue shook his head.
"No," he replied. "'Gainst orders. Sorry!"
It cost the man an effort to refuse, but the sense of discipline hadthe upper hand. He, too, knew that once a wounded man was left inthe depths of the battle-swept wood there was little chance of hisbeing removed before it was too late. Yet if the rule were broken,and every unwounded man took upon himself to succour his disabledchum, the advance would be jeopardized.
Out of the smoke stumbled a wounded man, hesitatingly, as if notcertain of his bearings. His shrapnel-helmet had fallen off,revealing an unbandaged bullet wound extending over both eyebrows.From his waist downwards he was literally caked with plastic mud.
"This way, chum!" shouted Fortescue, seeing that the man was partlyblinded by the flow of blood, and as likely as not dazed by thenature of his wound.
"Look out!" exclaimed the wounded Digger, as Joliffe and Hendersonassisted him into the emplacement. "We've copped it properly upthere. The boys floundered into a bog, and were shot down likerabbits. And the Boches are counter-attacking. They'll be along herein half a shake."
It was bad news. The main attack had inclined away to the right,while the thinly-held line between the New Zealand division and theEnglish regiments on the left had been stopped, not by the Huns, butby the impossible condition of the marshy ground. Into the gap astrong body of German troops, who, having previously held the wood,knew how to avoid the treacherous swamp, came hurriedly, with theintention of driving a wedge between the assaulting troops. It wasone of those minor operations which, if successful, might turn thefortunes of the day.
"By gum!" ejaculated Fortescue. "We're up against something. Any ofyou fellows know how to handle these?"
He indicated the two captured machine-guns, in one of which a freshbelt of ammunition had just been placed when the Diggers upsetFritz's preparations.
"Guess I'll have a cut at it," remarked Malcolm. Joliffe alsosignified his belief that he would be able to "work the gadget".
"All right, then," continued Fortescue. "Henderson, you and I willdo a bit of bombing. How about you, chum? Can you bear a hand?" Thewounded man who had brought the news of impending danger seized acouple of discarded rifles.
"I'm good for a few rounds rapid," he replied, as he examined themagazines of the weapons. "If I do a few of 'em in I don't mindovermuch. One of my mates told me he saw them shooting every woundedman of our crush they came across, so it's stick it to the last."
There was one alternative: to abandon the position. It meant leavingDick Selwyn to the mercies of the Huns, for retirement through themud would be impossible if hampered by a wounded man. Fortescuepromptly dismissed the thought.
"Yes," he exclaimed, "we'll stick it out to the last! If I go under,Rifleman Carr takes command, then Joliffe. Now, stand by! Here theycome!"
The foremost
of the advancing Germans appeared in sight at adistance of about eighty yards from the devoted NewZealanders--bombers and riflemen in a compact mass--the advanceguard of the formidable counter-attack.
They approached cautiously, almost furtively. Although assured bytheir officers that this part of the wood was not held, theyappeared to have their doubts as to the success of their desperatemeasure.
Both machine-guns got off the mark almost at the same time. At thatshort range it was impossible to miss. Where men had been standing asecond or so before was a struggling heap of writhing figures,while, to add to the slaughter, several of the bombs carried by theenemy exploded in their midst with devastating effect.
Back pressed the survivors, the wounded crawling slowly to theshelter of the fallen trees. Grouser Joliffe cheered. So far theDiggers had scored heavily.
Bullets whistling past their ears told them the unpleasant news thatthe Huns were developing an encircling movement. While the main bodykept well back, skilled riflemen, taking advantage of abundantcover, were converging upon the little band of New Zealanders.Bombs, too, were hurled, but the distance was too great. They felland exploded harmlessly.
Except for the moral effect, the machine-guns were now of littleuse. Better work could be performed by individual shooting, but thediverging fire from five rifles was a feeble reply to the convergingvolleys from ten times that number, while the emplacement,constructed to meet an attack from the westward, was ill-designed toward off an assault from the opposite quarter.
For full five minutes the defenders lay low, replying cautiously tothe hostile fire, yet conserving their energies for the time whenthe Huns would attempt to rush the scantily-held post.
Then came a catastrophe. A bullet, passing through an aperture inthe concrete, struck Fortescue in the chest. Almost at the same timethe already wounded Digger who had brought the news received asecond wound in the right shoulder.
Malcolm Carr was now in charge of a garrison of four effectives alltold.
With a weird attempt at cheering a number of Boches, mostly bombers,emerged from behind the tree-trunks and rushed towards the defences.Both guns quickly stopped the rush, but not before three men wereastride the concrete wall.
Hardly realizing what he was about, Malcolm abandoned themachine-gun, seized a rifle, and dropped the foremost Hun. Thesecond promptly lunged with his bayonet, and, although Malcolmparried, the blade transfixed his left arm just above the elbow. Thenext instant Henderson dropped the fellow with a bullet at closequarters, while Joliffe accounted for the third.
The three New Zealanders quickly slipped behind cover, just in timeto escape a hail of bullets from the Huns, who had witnessed theircomrades' deaths. Deftly Joliffe tied a strip of linen tightly aboveMalcolm's wound, for there was no time to lose. Although unable touse a rifle, Malcolm could still work the machine-gun, in spite ofthe throbbing and burning pain that shot through his left arm anddown his side.
"We've settled a good many of the swine," exclaimed Joliffe. "Whenthe boys come up they'll see we've died game."
Beyond a few desultory shots the attack had quieted down. It wasominous. The Huns, unable to rush the position, were bringing up atrench-mortar.
Suddenly the lull in this part of the wood (elsewhere the noise ofcombat was still intense) was broken by the rattle of rapidindependent rifle-firing and the well-known battle-cry of the NewZealand boys. Bombs, too, were crashing in all directions, whileLewis guns added to the din.
Then, as swarms of khaki-clad figures dashed from between theshattered tree-trunks, Malcolm realized that aid was forthcoming inthe very nick of time. His work accomplished, he dropped inertly tothe ground between the bodies of his greatest chums, and everythingbecame a blank.
* * * * *
Up the hill leading to No. 1 General Hospital, Brockenhurst--anestablishment known as Tin Town--two men in "hospital blues" wereslowly making their way. Both were wearing new, stiff-brimmed NewZealand hats, adorned with scarlet puggarees. The "blues" might beill-fitting and sloppy, but it was a point of honour amongst the"boys" that their head-gear should be smart.
One of the men had his left arm in a sling, the empty sleeve beingpinned to his coat; the other, in addition to wearing a bandageround his forehead, walked with a pronounced limp and leant heavilyupon a rubber-shod walking-stick.
"Think you'll manage it, Malcolm?" enquired the man with thecrippled arm. "It's a stiffish pull."
"I guess I'll do it, Dick," replied Rifleman Carr. "We've tackledsome job for our first walk beyond the grounds; but Fortescue willbe disappointed if we don't fetch there. How much farther is it?"
"Foot a bit stiff?" enquired Selwyn as his companion paused andrested one hand on Dick's shoulder.
"It gives me gip at times; suppose I'm a bit out of training, too,"replied Malcolm. "What puzzles me is how did I get that buckshie?"
"What puzzles me," rejoined Dick, "is how any of us came out of italive. There's Fortescue, with a hole drilled completely through hischest, alive and kicking. You came off lightly, my boy; but whenthey carted me into the operating-room I thought it was good-bye tomy arm."
At length the chums reached the portals of Tin Town. Following anasphalted path between well-kept lawns they arrived at thecorrugated-iron building in which Sergeant Fortescue was to befound. Being a fine afternoon, and most of the cases convalescent,the ward was almost deserted. The object of their search was soondiscovered.
"Glad to see you," exclaimed Fortescue when the preliminarygreetings had been exchanged. "I hear you're boarded for NewZealand, Selwyn?"
"Yes, I'm off to Torquay on Thursday," replied Selwyn. "Supposeit'll be six weeks more before I get a boat, and then cheer-o forChristchurch."
"Lucky dog!" commented Fortescue. "By the way, Malcolm, I've newsfor you. That boxing Maori pal of yours, Te Paheka's his name, Ifancy, is in the next ward. Do you know, he carried you right backto the advance dressing-station, and that you were both bowled overby a shell just the other side of Hannebeke stream? That's how yougot it in the foot, and Te Paheka had a chunk taken off hisshoulder. Yet he stuck to you and carried you in before hecollapsed."
"That's news," declared Malcolm. "How is he? I'll look him up whenwe leave you. And now I'll tell you some news. I've been recommendedfor a commission, and am to have a staff job in Blighty until I'mfit to go out again."
"_Kia ora_, laddie," said Fortescue heartily. "C Company, or what'sleft of the boys, seem to be dropping in for plums. They've evengiven me the D.C.M. Goodness only knows what for," he addedmodestly. "They say it was for holding a captured post. But whatelse were we to do? It was a case of sticking it or going under. Myword, our fellows paid the price; but they are great."
"We had a lady visitor this afternoon," remarked Selwyn after moreblunt congratulations had been tendered and received. "She startedby remarking how magnificent it was of the boys to come all the wayfrom New Zealand to help smash Big and Little Willie; how loyal tothe Mother-land, and all that sort of talk. We managed to enlightenher some; told her that we preferred to fight in Europe than to sitstill and run the risk of meeting Fritz down under--for that's whatit would be if Germany did get the upper hand. So we chuck in ourlittle lot to help others, and at the same time to help ourselves.Well, so long, Fortescue, we'll look you up again to-morrow."
Te Paheka's olivine features were wreathed in smiles when Malcolmentered his ward. The Maori's fighting days were over. Never againwould he use either bayonet or boxing-gloves, for his right arm wastotally incapacitated. He, too, was "boarded" for Aotea Roa[1]--theLand of the Southern Cross.
"I am lucky, Malcolm," he said after Rifleman Carr had thanked himfor his act of devotion. "Lucky to be able to bring you in. Golly, Ican still drive a motor-car. When you come home, Malcolm, I'll bewaiting for you at Lyttelton with the most top-hole car going. Andyou'll be there all right, with honours and distinctions. _Kiaora_."
"Thanks, Te Paheka!" replied Malcolm. "I'll do my level best tocarry on,
for the honour of New Zealand and the Anzac Brigade."
[1] Aotea Roa--"the white cloud"--is the Maori name for New Zealand.
A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front Page 29
