New Zealand at the Front 1917; Pages 45 to 60

Section 4: New Zealand at the Front 1917; Pages 45 to 60

This plays on the signalling that was done, in training, by the members of the buttes teams on shooting practice days. As a riflemen hit the target a signal was raised to indicate a hit, a miss or the quality of the shot.

YPRES (With Variations)

This plays on the different ways that different nationalities pronounce Ypres (Ieper) (Wipers)

A la Francaise
- When the Boche sent his shells into EEP,
- A timid young French chimney sweep
- Declared, when he woke from his sleep,
- With horror he felt his flesh creep,
- To hear the shells crashing down
- In the heart of the town,
- And the chimneys a-goin' so cheap.
A la Belge
- His wife, with one eye, was a sweeper
- In the famous Cloth Hall of old EEPER,
- And one day as she opened her peeper
- To rouse up her lazy young sleeper,
- She growled like a Turk
- At the thought of her work.
- While the Boches were still shelling EEPER.
A la l'Anglais
- Now this young chimney sweep,
- In the city of EEP,
- And his wife the tired sweeper,
- Who called the place EEPER,
- Though sometimes a little bit snappy,
- Were really contented and happy,
- Till they took to strong drink,
- And the reason, I think,
- Was their hearing two tanked Tommy swipers,
- At the close of the day,
- In an estaminet,
- Making fun of the people of WIPERS!

Y. P. R. S.

LEAVE

I want to stroll down Bond Street
- Lord, what memories it brings!
- I want to see shop windows
- Full of flimsy, useless things,
- Rosy pink and pale blue mysteries
- You know the kind I mean.
- (Are boudoir caps still in fashion ?
- Do they still wear crêpe de Chine ?)
I long for Piccadilly,
- And its crowds of lovely girls,
- With their neat silk-stockinged ankles
- And their captivating curls,
- With their thin, delicious blouses,
- Dreams of silk and filmy net.
- (Are pink nighties now the fashion ?
- Or is it crêpe Georgette ?)
I dearly want to saunter
- Along by Leicester Square,
- And watch with fascination
- The many gay sights there.
- Maybe I'll see these visions
- When next on leave I go,
- And if I do, Old Thing, be sure,
- I'll write and let you know.

C. BAKER.

"WHAT'S this - what's this ! Up-end yourselves, all of you ; you're due for early fatigue in an hour! "

That rotten reveille again: and that clumsy-footed, strident-voiced Sergeant blundering about the tent, pulling off our coverings (and generally a few buttons at the same time). Gott strafe the Sergeant !

A bright thought comes into my anything but bright head : I decide not to get up. Why should I? I'm fearfully sleepy; and anyway ten minutes more blissful minutes would make all the difference. My thought is not original. Many others have decided to do the same thing. The Sergeant ordains otherwise.

"Here-you ! Why aren't you on end ? " he fiercely inquires, and off comes my humble covering again, exposing my scantily draped nether limbs to a cold draught.

" Right-oh, Serg ! " I mutter, as I stumble up blindly and make for a place as far up in the breakfast queue as I can get.

It's stew - for a change. We had stew for a change yesterday morning too, and for countless mornings before that. " Cest la guerre, monsieur" as the French say.

With a gulp and a grimace I finish my breakfast, then scuffle about on my knees arranging my detestable gear in regulation fashion for the daily inspection of quarters. This done, I sink gracefully down for a five-minutes' breather, when " Gear on, and fall in straight away I "

That busybody of a Sergeant simply loves the sound of his own voice.

There's a three-minutes' spell of wildly flourishing arms and equipment, gas-masks, and tin-hats; a flurried line-up and roll-call, and off we march to the corner by the main road where a line of French Army motor-lorries awaits our coming.

We all carry picks and shovels, and make a most impressive clanking as we go. We try to be impressive, anyhow, just to show the Frenchmen we are somebodies. We seemed to succeed, too, for as we reached them a French driver turned to me and remarked, with every expression of awe :

" Jemavisspassgotofish, eh ? " (At least it sounded like that.)

" Certainly, monsieur, tres bon" I replied haughtily, and fell over my beastly pick. Whoever invented picks should have invented them without spikes or handles. However, the Frenchman appeared too awed even to smile, so after a bit I recovered my composure.

We were soon all embarked on the lorries. This was a feat not accomplished without a certain amount of acid language from those unfortunates who missed the side seats and had to be content with the floor, for the French lorries have a marvellous lack of springs. One often discovers beautiful coloured designs upon various parts of one's anatomy after a ride.

And now we are off to dig, for a French Army.

We have a French sapper in charge of our party, and he soon gives up trying to make himself understood by means of speech. He merely flaps a pair of despairing hands about and emits little bird-like noises. Poor chap ! I fear he is very discouraged in his attempts to commune with us. Yesterday he came smilingly up to a friend of mine (this was before he'd had much experience of us), and said something quite mildly and affably.

"Wee-wee-wee, m'sieu! " ejaculated my friend promptly. That is the thing we say on most occasions. As a rule, it answers well. But now there seemed to be a hitch somewhere, for, instead of agreeing smilingly and departing, as these good French people generally do, our Frenchman looked highly surprised, and even hurt. He repeated what he had said before, and looked my palpitating chum in the eye-not quite so mildly this time.

Perceiving most astutely that all was not quite well, my friend tried a change of plan.

" Non, m'sieu,"' he said with a most engaging smile, belied a little by his evident nervousness. " Jay non compree! Whereupon our sapper called one of his confreres across, and they held a violent gesticulatory conference, with many pointings all about the country and towards my now thorughly alarmed and perspiring friend.

Presently the two Frenchmen advanced, and, taking the shovel, one of them proceeded to draw strange lines on the ground. My friend thought it was a duelling-ground they were marking out, and was for going off post haste to seek the protection of our Sergeant.

Then I had a brain-wave and restrained him. It was as I suspected.

Our inoffensive sapper was merely trying politely to explain to my thick-headed friend that he was digging his ditch a mere matter of five feet in the wrong direction ! When finally he grasped the situation my friend was profusely apologetic.

Our ditching now swings serenely on, with occasional hasty side-trips to the nearest likely-looking house for coffee or milk, with, all the time, a hunted feeling that the watchful eyes of our seemingly multitudinous overseers are boring into our very backs.

Even when we do reach the house of refreshment our presence therein is prolonged by a still greater language difficulty. Madame cannot speak English : neither can she speak French. What she does speak is called " Flemish". Generally, it seems to be spoken with a hot potato and a couple of pebbles in the mouth, and there appears to be a continual struggle in which the potato and the pebbles and the epiglottis are all concerned. Even some of the Belgians themselves speak of their language with bated breath. To our inexperienced New Zealander, meeting it for the first time, it sounds so like old Fritz's machine-gun that it fairly makes one duck.

At last the welcome relief-party turns up, and we frantically storm the emptied lorries to secure best seats for the return trip to camp. Arrived there . . . " Good Heavens...What's this? " we gasp. Our big marquee, in which we had so nicely arranged our gear before leaving, was now apparently trying to disguise itself as a shell-shocked balloon. It hung limp and decrepit from the ridge-pole. Upon inquiry found that orders had come out that the ground under the tent must be sunned and aired. Oh, yes, it was a sensible order enough; but how we groused when we came to sort out our respective belongings! They had been placed in two long rows, with platoons and sections beautifully assorted and mingled !

After lunch, in the blazing sunshine I found my special chum, and, after a conference and a general clean-up, we went to the Y.M.C.A. hut to read and write. Later, we left for a village near at hand where, at the restaurant, we hoped to be able to get a good meal - steak, roast potatoes, and salad - at a reasonable price.

Rounding the Corner of the first street we came upon the restaurant, and, extending away from the door, a long queue that appeared to be the greater part of an Army Corps. As we got into position in the long column, the restaurant seemed a long way off and very small. It was not yet open for the receipt of custom.

An hour later, somewhat discouraged, but more determined than ever by the passage of time, we were still waiting in the queue, but appreciably nearer our dinner. In short, we were in, the doorway, and could smell the roast potatoes.

It was worth waiting for, that dinner. Madame and her timid handmaiden were quite pleasant and forbearing, as we struggled to make known our wants. And the cost was not such as to make us think anxiously of the approach of next pay-day.

Outside we saw a very little Belgian looking at a very large watch, and this reminded us that we had to be back in camp at nine o'clock for roll call. According to the Belgian's watch we were already late, so we started off at a run. This undue haste largely destroyed the comfortable effect of our dinner. When we got back we found no sign of the parade. The camp was almost deserted. It was the Belgian's watch ! It was at least an hour fast !

Then to bed-made by the simple process of throwing an overcoat on top of an oil-sheet spread on the ground.

Soon we were in the land of dreams. An excitable sergeant was brandishing a shiny shovel of enormous size, complaining that we were late on parade, and ordering us to get his steak and potatoes cooked at once, on pain of fourteen days F.P. Mixed up in these proceedings was a little Belgian struggling to get a watch as big as a clock into his waistcoat pocket. The watch was ticking as
loudly and as rapidly as a Maxim gun. There was a queue of very hungry men that seemed to reach as
far as the Rhine, and at the end of it Madame with the timid little demoiselle clutching at her skirts.

But soon all these people faded out of the picture. The rest was the sound and refreshing sleep that comes at the end of a Digger's Day in Belgium.

L. D. G.

The Officer is saying "Do you think you are a bally furniture express company? What about this ammunition?"

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

LONGFELLOW.

T0 the strains of music from the band, the clatter of hammers, and the singing of men, we began to shift camp as darkness approached. Tents, packs, equipment were loaded on the wagons. The camp was cleaned up. Then, with Mother Earth for our couch, and the sky for counterpane, we slept. At midnight the rain came -heavier and still heavier. The whole aspect of the camp changed. Stillness gave place to much talk, and some profanity. Forms were flitting about in the darkness, looking for shelter.

We breakfasted in the darkness and the rain. Then came the order " Fall in! " At 2 a.m. we swung out on the inarch that was to take us to our new home. From village to town, from farmhouse to shop, we went - singing ! On we trekked, one hour marching between an avenue of tall trees, the next past fields of ripened corn. One wondered why the nations in such a beautiful world should fight. Thus from place to place we trekked -birds singing, church bells ringing, peasants - mostly old men and women and children - wending their ways to Mass. The sun came out, and all the world was bright and joyous. At the end of another day we were in billets. A wash, a meal, and then sleep again -the sleep that only those who have toiled in the fresh air can sleep.

Then off again in the morning sunlight, through the smiling French landscape. Our band plays, the men whistle or sing in chorus. The villagers come to their doors and windows to see us pass, and there is much "Bon jour, madame!" as well as greeting for monsieur, and many a smile for mademoiselle. The cheery children follow at the Column's side.

And so to our new home. It will not be our home for long. The soldier of to-day stays not long in one place.

He is in and out of the line-here today, gone to-morrow. Grumble! Of course we did ; but, taking it all in all, we were cheery and happy. The soldier can never forget that he has come to this land for a purpose - to win the war. And so the cares of the day fold their tents like the Arabs, and as silently steal away.

Later will come the thunder of the guns, the dull explosions of bombs, the cackle of the machine-guns; and perhaps death, or wound, or sickness. And, at intervals, through it all, like sparkling glimpses of sunshine on running stream, thoughts of the dear Home-Land in far-away New Zealand. You, too, in the Land of the Long White Cloud, will have a thought for us, hoping to see us back some day. But many of us will have folded our tents for the Last Trek.

THE ONLOOKER.

THE GREATER MARSEILLAISE

WHERE is the Allies' war-song, the song the soldiers sing,

That wakes the plains of Picardy or makes the pavé ring ?

No echo crossed the Channel, and so I took the chance

To seek the greater Marseillaise along the fronts of France.

The lilting footlight ballad with aggressive jingo name,

Relics on pretty bunting and a gilt proscenium frame;

But never tinsel sentiment, by gallery upcaught,

Revealed the deeper feeling of the Briton's guarded thought.

I landed on the very quays where, first to Tommies' tread,

The Tipperary chorus shook the red roofs overhead,

But now I sought no butterfly ephemeral refrain,

But something metaphoric of triumphant battle plane.

I turned into the rest camps, where the poor pianos tink

I tried the dim estaminets, where glass and bottle clink ;

I hailed the farmhouse billets with platoons in barns of straw,

Yet not a rafter rallied to my rousing song of war.

I marched with troops relieving, and I passed by troops relieved,

And in the silent watches naught but barren goal achieved

So, on a summer morning, in a contemplative mood,

I stretched beside a parapet that skirted Plugstreet Wood.

And here above the sandbags, where the grass already sprang,

I heard a happy melody that louder, louder rang;

And where the wild flower ventured, beneath the wounded trees,

A droning dream accompaniment came wafted down the breeze.

Within the sight of trenches by strafing foe still manned,

Upon the ragged borders of Death's sterile No Man's Land,

The skylark's anthem, "Love is Life," led up the heavenly way,

To motive of the humming bees, " To labour is to pray."

All warring sounds were silenced to the harmony sublime

That set the soul a-throbbing to the Universe in time

One need not be a poet if he would his ear attune

To the glory song of Nature round the battlefields of June.

Then manuscript the music of the singing bees and birds,

Translate their living language into metre rhymed with words,

Of love and Service, Beauty, Faith in God's eternal ways,

And voice the super-song of Peace-the Greater Marseillaise.

H. S. B. RIBBANDS.

DEPARTED

He's gone. No weeping mourners marked his going

Gone! while I am left to carry-on.

Not a stone or stick is raised for him,

Real good pal, most staunch and true of cobbers

Dear old cobber, ever lucky Jim.

What ! You shudder ? Do I speak so strangely ?

Call I " lucky " one who's surely dead ?

Why ! My cobber ain't a buried hero-

He has gone-just back to old NZ

HERBERT W. AUBURN.

THE SOLDIER'S EVENING OFF

FRITZ has been paying us too much attention lately-high explosive and gas shells. In consequence, we have had very little sleep. We feel tired and weary, sometimes a little homesick. We wish the war would end. But to-morrow the relief is due, and already we are beginning to feel more cheerful. . . .

The relief has arrived, and now we are in rest billets. The remainder of the day is spent in shaving, washing, bathing, and polishing boots and buttons. We feel a little more like human beings, and more fit to meet the mademoiselles who live in the ruined village to which we have come.

Then tea, and after that a visit to the Divisional Theatre. The man who invented the War Theatre deserves a decoration. It is such a strenuous war that relaxation of body and mind are required at frequent intervals if we are to keep going at all.

There is a long queue waiting at the ticket-box. The price of admission is half a franc -fourpence. A shell has been through the roof of the building, and its windows are all broken and boarded LIP. Outside it is daylight, for the performance begins at the unfashionable hour of 5.30 p.m.

As the orchestra - a very good one-bursts into a stirring march the feet of many soldiers keep time. After that we are all laughing at the pictures, most of which are comic. Charlie Chaplin has come to the war-though he has not yet got as far as the trenches.

A stranger looking into the hall would never think -that all these laughing men had, only the day before, been having a very trying time in the trenches. But such is the soldier's life. Whether he is fighting or enjoying himself, he enters into it with zest. The orchestra plays all the time.

After a brief interval singing is heard, and the curtain rises on a typical New Zealand scene, painted and arranged by our own soldiers. Three old Maoris are grouped around a log fire - somewhere in Taranaki. The snow-capped volcano rises in the distance, and at its base the clustering huts of the old-time Maori Pah. Our thoughts fly back to our own land, and the loved ones still there. The words and the music are appropriate to the opening scene.

The New Zealand Pierrots are all talented soldiers, even to the funny man who makes the rafters ring, and the young woman who is so daintily dressed, dances so gracefully, and is a driver in the Artillery !

In spite of many encores the turns pass all too quickly, and we are all sorry when "God Save the King" is played with the whole audience standing to attention.

As we file out our thoughts are in far-away New Zealand. Thoughts of the trenches, of the gas, and the bursting shells, the bombs and the machine-guns, have been banished for the time being. We are even ready for the fatigues and drill, and the hard training that we have to do while out "on rest."

We have had an evening off.

CLEM.

New Zealand at the Front: 1917. Part of the Digger History Group.