New Zealand at the Front 1917; Pages 113 to 134

The din had gradually died down, and only occasionally was the now strange silence broken by the staccato stuttering of machine-guns tocking out in the dusky stillness as if playfully signalling to each other.

The little garrison of one officer and nine " other ranks " shook themselves out of their cramped, recumbent positions which it had been necessary for them to assume during the day to escape observation from aeroplanes and silently - stood-to peering out over the parapet into the increasing darkness.

Phitt! A sniper's bullet hit the parapet. A loud curse, that was half a complaint, came from one of the men near the officer.

" Cut out that noise ! Haven't I told you about a dozen times to shut up ? " half whispered the irate officer. Well, 'e nearly got me". "Shut up!"

Phitt! The officer ducked. "Nearly got you, sir, didn't 'e ? Titters from some of the men.

"For God's sake shut up; you're like a blithering kid ! I want absolute silence just now."

For a time absolute silence reigned, and the little party stood peering out to the dim outline of the building 200 yards distant, whence an attack, if contemplated, would come.

The S.O.S. signal, which would call down the instant barrage s tood ready to the officer's hand.

An occasional shell came over, and now and then sniper's bullets hit the low parapet or whistled unpleasantly close overhead.

The soldier who had been admonished - a rather simple sort whose stupid behaviour had got on his officer's nerves, and who was known as "Weary" - had dropped back unobserved from the parapet and had sunk down on his haunches. From him presently came the sharp rattle of tins. An adjacent mate cursed him for the noise. A muttered curse in return.

" That you again, Weary ? "' asked the young officer. " Why aren't you standing-to ? "

" Don't you expect a fight, sir ? came a hoarse, whispered query. Well, what about it ? "

"Why, Sir, I've knocked about a bit, Sir, and I know a chap can't fight on an empty stomach! I'm havin' a bit of a feed of bully -it's all I've got."

"What the hell you were sent out here for I don't know ! All right have your feed."

An hour went quietly by and nothing happened. Then the tension became less and the regular sentries were posted, the remainder of the garrison preparing for what sleep was possible. The night runner and the ration carrier were sent off to headquarters.

Phitt ! Again the cursed sniper - apparently a Hun firing with a "fixed" rifle. There came a whispered call from the end of the trench for the officer. The latter stepped over the bodies of the sleeping men, his boots squelching out of the mud as he moved. It was as he had half feared from the sound and the call - the sniper had got one of his sentries.

With the aid of his guarded electric torch lie saw that the man was dead -the bullet had passed through his brain. Inwardly he cursed deeply. He loved his "boys", -all of them. The body of the lad was carefully carried to the far end of the short trench and another sentry was posted.

" Who is it, Sir ? - asked Weary, as the officer stepped back over him after placing an oil-sheet over the body.

" Dick," he replicd.

" What -Dick ! My cobber -Dick? Why, we was up in the bush at Taihape together. Poor old Dick I "

" Yes, poor old Dick. Your cobber, I know. We'll try, old chap, to get him out somehow. Cheer up, Weary -you're doing your best, I know."

"Poor old Dick! " still muttered Weary.

The corporal "took over" and the officer curled himself up on his oil-sheet for some sleep.

Half an hour later the corporal touched him and whispered : "Weary's not in the trench, Sir."

"That silly ass will be the death of me,*" groaned the young fellow". "Where the devil can he have gone to ? "

"Must have gone out over the back, Sir ; sentry hasn't seen him. . . . Sniper's been pretty busy, Sir. You want to be careful." This as an injunction as the lieutenant got on to his feet.

" Nothing to be done, I suppose," the officer said after a few moments' thought. "I'll put it in my morning report. I hope nothing has happened to the poor blighter. Seemed a bit extra dotty to-night." He again curled up on the oil-sheet.

The runner and the ration carrier returned. Provisions were handed round. The hours passed. Just before dawn the party were all awakened for the morning stand-to. The sniper's rifle had not spoken for some time.

Shivering in the cold morning air, the officer heard the sentry sharply challenge : " Who's there ? "

"Me -Weary," came a familiar voice. " It's me -don't shoot ! " The officer saw a form loom out of the darkness. He did not say anything, but waited till Weary had dropped into the trench.

"What does this mean, lad ? "' The officer asked with curiosity rather than anger. The man had come from the direction of the enemy.

"I found 'im, sir. This is what done it" - holding up a rifle.

" Did what, Weary ?"

"Killed old Dick !"

The lieutenant seized the rifle.

" God ! it's a Fritz ! "

" Yes, sir ; I sneaked about till I got the flash of the blighter's rifle, and then I put my bayonet in his back."

" You got him ? " asked the amazed officer putting his hand admiringly on the man's shoulder.

" Yes. 'Ere's 'is cap and 'is badges. 'E groaned lovely!"

The lieutenant told the story to his company commander when he came out of the strong point, and the company commander sent in a full report; and now simple Weary, who had so nobly avenged his cobber, but who everyone had thought should have been P.B., wears a piece of coveted ribbon on his left breast.

H. T. B. DREW.

ARMY BOOTS

IF boots could loosen their tongues and talk, what tales might they not tell about an Army! They know, far better than the Commander, how battles have been fought and won-and lost. One can imagine them writing their own communiqu6 in great detail. There are times when they hop cheer-
fully over the parapet, and rush hot-foot across No Man's Land to victory.

There are times when they come back with one of the saddest complaints of all - Cold Feet. But with
the British that has never been epidemic.

Creaking along the hard pavé of the long French roads, you can sometimes imagine that you hear the boots of a brigade protesting in chorus. If you have imagination enough you can hear the boots of the infantry-man swearing quietly as the Staff car swings past in a cloud of dust or a shower of liquid mud. It makes them sad to think that, while they are doing all the hard work of the campaign,
the boots of the car driver have nothing else to do but press a lever now and again to carry him to his meals or the nearest estaminet.

I knew a pair of infantry boots that got worn out once going between a billet and a brasserie. They made so many journeys in the course of the day that the fumes of the liquor got into their eyelet-holes, and they had great difficulty in finding their way home at night. And when they did find their way home they had so far lost their decency of mind that they insisted on going to bed with their owner. But by this time both the owner and his boots were very far gone, and in the morning each was ashamed of the other.

In these days, when crowns are toppling down and foreign kings are two a penny, - you would scarcely imagine that there could be any class distinctions among the boots of an Army. But there a few. For instance, the high field boots of a General look down on the common "cardboards" of the private, and would never be seen in their company. Even the boots of a junior sub are, at times, inclined to turn up their toes at the boots of the Sergeant-major. Gum boots have an aristocracy of their own, but they have to put up with a great deal, including trench feet.

If the war goes on for a few years longer there will be no more boots, and we shall have to finish the fight barefooted. Then all class distinctions will be swept away, and we shall have a true Democracy, even in Germany, where the seven-leagued boots of the Prussian Junker will be used for shipping.

B. HARZAIAIN.

"Oh! 'e ain't so bad," replied Nobby, " even if 'e 'asn't much time f'r you an' me. Any'ow, I know the lidy, and she'll soon show 'im wot's wot.

On'y lived in the nex' street from me old 'ome in Canning Town, she did."

The approach of the Sergeant-Major put a stop to the conversation for the time being, and they had littls opportunity of referring to the subject again until they had seated themselves that evening in the Bon Fermier, where the mellowing influence of bière Anglaise soon loosened their tongues.
" Wish I could git a transfer to a sub-section w'ere they 'ad a decent Sergeant," started Bill. " We'll be doin' C.B. again as soon as 'e's back here a-ragin' abaht."

"Transfer? 'Not for me, Bill, me lad. I'm askin' f'r Limber Gunner's job as soon as 'e gets back, an' wot's more, I'm goin' to get it too."

" You a limber gunner! " replied Bill scornfully. " You, wiv your conduct sheets. W'y, I've got as much chance of bein' made a bombardier, and 'eaven knows wot a big chance that is.'

"Just you listen to me," Nobby, lowering his voice and moving his chair nearer to Bill as he started
explaining. Whatever he had to say, lie soon succeeded in riveting Bill's attention, and for the next half hour they plotted and planned to all appearance as earnestly as though they were two anarchists arranging the overthrow of a monarchy.

You 'ave got a 'ead on you, Nobby said Bill admiringly, as they walked back, to camp. "Wonder to
me you ain't never joined the Diplomatic Corpse."

" Might 'ave, only f'r me 'igh principles. Wonderful 'ow they stick to some chaps, even in the Army. 'Ow ever, it's me f'r bed and you too, if you don't want to be on the mat again f'r missing roll-call."

Saturday evening, two weeks later, found Bill and Nobby in their favourite corner in the estaminet, and the Sergeant, newly returned from ten days' leave, sitting moodily in the recess by the stove with a glass of stout in his hand.

" Pretty 'ard coming back after Blighty, ain't it, Sergeant ? " inquired Nobby. " Is it true your noo missis and 'er ma 'avc lef' for Noo Zealand a'ready ? "

" Yes, worse luck. I saw them off in the old Waitaki the day before my leave expired, and I think it will be a year or two before I see them again, by the look of things."

" I 'eard someone say she was a Aliss Reid, of Canning Town. Was she any relation to the Reids of 'Igh Street ? "

"Sure!" said the Sergeant. I married Miss Ida Reid in Trinity Church, High Street, next to her mother's house.

Nobby rose excitedly in his chair. "Ida Reid ! You married Ida Reid! Didn't you know I'm her uncle and Bill 'ere's 'er full cousin. Blimey! Just to fink the Sergeant wot got me' and Bill twenty-one days 'as gone and married me own dear little niece."

For the moment the Sergeant's surprise was too profound for expression, and Nobby started off again.

" Didn't Ida tell you nothink abaht 'er relations wiv the Noo Zealanders, Sergeant? I never - thought she'd be ashamed of 'er relations just because they never 'ad 'er schoolin'."

"I don't think it's that at all, Nobby," said the unhappy Sergeant.

" We didn't have much time to talk about relatives, and I never dreamed any of them were in this outfit."

" That's all right, Sergeant. Bill an' me understands, though I wouldn't like to fink wot Ida would say if she 'eard of the way me and Bill 'ave been treated since we joined your sub. Of course, we won't say nothink abaht bein' related like, as the chaps might think we was chasin' a limber gunner's job, but we are getting mighty sick of the bloomin' chaff-cutter, Sergeant."

" Thank, very much, boys,"' said the Sergeant, rather relived. " I'd just as soon that you didn't advertise it too much. However, we ought to have a glass of 'fizz' on the strength of it, if you'll call out to Marie Louise, Bill."

The ensuing hour was spent in getting rid of all the champagne the Sergeant could afford and in animated discussion of the Reids and Canning Town, Bill, who was not acquainted with the locality, keeping well in the background of the conversation. They parted at closing time on the best of terms, the Sergeant to his billet to add two more pages to a letter to his wife, and Bill and Nobby to their hut, to fall on each other's necks and indulge in strange and hilarious antics.

Bill and Nobby are, now limber gunners, and revel in comparative independence of their positions, with extra tobacco and passes thrown in; but, in view of the fact that their Sergeant is due to receive a letter from his wife with the next New Zealand mail, it is very probable that two very willing recruits will be accepted by the Divisional Trench Mortar Officer next time he asks for
volunteers.

A.F. M.

WAR STORIES

YOU talk about your Wellingtons,

Your Drakes and Nelsons too,

Of famous " Kings of Strategy"

On land and ocean blue.

Old Blucher may have helped to turn

The tide at Waterloo,

But still he might have got some hints

From--- Tut ! tut! You know who!

We used to think that Kitchener

Would pull the Nation through,

And bring the Kaiser to his wits

And show him " who is who."

But Kitchener has gone aloft-

A fact we all must rue,

There's no one left to save us now

But--- Tut ! tut! You know who!

When shells were falling thick and fast,

Our hero and his crew

Strafed Fritz from off the parapet-

And then for War's alarms to prove

He didn't care a sou.

He led the boys to play " two-up",

Did--- Tut! tut! You know who!

By daylight with his eagle eyes,

If nothing else to do,

He'd search for Fritz's periscopes

And find them - quite a few !!

With deadly aim he'd draw a bead

Let others take the cue,

And smash a periscope each shot

Like--- Tut! tut! You know who!

Some men are churlish to impart

Their knowledge, it is true,

And diffident in bringing forth

Their private point of view.

Not so with him, but Wisdom's pearls

Like largesse doth he strew;

He'd give the Colonel useful hints!!!

Would---- Tut! tut! You know who!

Some think that Gold will win the day

Before the year is new ;

And others that the winning card

Is held by "Ikey Jew."

But as to that, 'tis hard to say,

Thus " chacun à son goût."

I think the man to end the war

Is--- Tut! tut! That'll do!!!

C. R. A.

THE OLD BRIGADE

HIS fighting days were over, and now, battered and broken like a piece of wreckage that for long has been the sport of the waves, he had been cast up on the shores of the Land of Convalescence.

He was free now of the hospital, duly "Boarded" and declared unfit for further service. He was free from all military restraint, and once more a civilian. With khaki laid aside for ever, he could take up again the old life.

He had drifted into the theatre with his companion to while away the evening. She suggested it, he acquiesced; it was really too much trouble to think for himself, and after all one place was as good as another. Life now was somewhat purposeless, for, after the crowded scenes of life and death among which he had moved for the last two years, it seemed difficult to find his place again in the quietly moving stream of civil life. He might have gone back to his little native town, but at present he felt that that was more than he could bear - there were so many faces he would miss, and, moreover, it was (strange irony of Fate) too peaceful.

He must gradually attune himself to the new life that lay before him, and the crowded city offered the best means of transition. The girl did not find him a lively companion. But one could not be too particular in these times when men to take one to the theatre were scarce, and even though he did not wear khaki yet he had "been out" and many persons turned in the street to give a second glance at the weather-beaten man with the empty sleeve. Besides, if he had only been in the ranks, it was quite apparent that he was a gentleman. She would have preferred an officer. It looked so much better, but lie was better than nothing.

As for him, well, he was sometimes amused by her narrow outlook of life, her mincing ways, and her affected conversation, and, though she often bored him yet that was preferable to being bored with one's own company.

The curtain was just' rising on-the second act of the revue and, as the hum of conversation ceased once more throughout the theatre, he settled back- in his seat, glad that the resumption had silenced the battle of small talk of his companion; this evening, it worried him strangely. He
could not have explained it, even to himself. But to-night he seemed to cling to realities. The life around him appeared artificial and unreal, and the stage and its occupants a mere collection of lath and tinsel.

The show that evening was the usual style of thing that passes for a patriotic display -a crowd of chorus girls in travesties of the full-dress uniforms of some of our best regiments minced across the stage in a style that was about as unmilitary as could possibly be imagined.

"How lovely " The girl at his side was quite enthusiastic, but fie only winced as if with pain, for this was not the military world as he knew it.

"Isn't it pretty ?"

She was quite charmed with the display and the glittering kaleidoscope of colour, but the question failed to draw an answer from the irresponsive man at her side.

Then, as the smirking chorus of beauty, after marching and countermarching, swung to the back of the stage -a glittering semicircle of colour - the band broke from the joyous quick inarch into the slower strains of "The Old BrIgade"- as there entered a group of broken and wounded Tommies- a mere tithe of the flotsam and jetzam of war.

"Poor old things! " She meant to be sympathetic; the tone was kindly, but somehow or other the words stung him to the quick.

The crippled and wounded array had now swung into line at the front of the stage, and as it came to a halt, the full orchestra, backed by the voices of the whole stage, broke forth into the old triumphal chorus :

"Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder,

Steadily, blade by blade,

Ready and strong, marching along,

Like the boys of the old Brigade."

Once again the chorus was repeated, and this time the whole house joined in.

He was back again with the old regiment, and a thousand scenes and incidents flashed before, his eyes. First came those early days when they had gathered in from all parts of the Empire, when everything was so strange, and the military life and discipline seemed something unreal and of another world. Then came the inevitable sorting out, the birth of a soldier spirit, and the cementing of those friendships that now he looked back upon with a feeling of longing.

How quickly from a mere crowd of civilians they had grown into a disciplined unit, and ultimately into a regiment with the true regimental spirit. Looking back he could hardly believe it possible that so much could have been done in so short a time, but now he realised how the CO's long battle had been won at last, and how much this had meant in the day of trial.

Then came the days "out there" -the weary days and nights in railway trucks, the long marches, the further training in the back area, and the crowded billet. They had roughed it; officer and private alike, for the regiment had the true spirit and the CO's rule was ever "men first." Yet with it all there had been some good times, for say what you will, 'tis not the surroundings that make the atmosphere so much as the human environment. Could any performer on the stage, even -if he were drawing a princely income from an admiring public, make him laugh as Brown used to do in the old days ? Would any club ever furnish him with such a circle as when Williams, Smith, Johnston and himself used to forgather in the estaminet in the rest area, and talk and talk over a bottle of Vin Rouge ?

The beauty chorus on the stage had now reached the second verse :

Over the seas far away they lie,

Far from the land they love,

Nations may alter, the years go by,

But Heaven still is Heaven above."

Memory was flying back now to those awful nights in the trenches when death surrounded them on all
sides. In one continuous stream the deadly missiles came over, shrieking wildly their scream of death. It was guns, guns, guns, and nothing but guns. Parapets built up with much labour and care were blown in a second into nothingness, and amidst the dark cloud of dust that went upwards were fragments of what a moment before had been a friend.

It seemed impossible that anything could live through it-, and yet the little band held on. It was indescribable , the clangour of Hell, and Death was reaping a rich harvest. Then, when the storm had passed away, with what anxiety they would look round to count the cost ! Brown missing, Smith dead, Jones and Wilson wounded ; the little band of old comrades thinning day by day.

And last of all was the time when, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, they had gone over the top ; when behind the barrage of fire they went forward and still forward until at last they were in the enemy's trenches where it was primitive war, hand to hand, urged forward by the blood-lust, till at length they stood as conquerors with only the dead and dying of the foe around them. Then, and then only, did their thoughts return to the price paid. And again came the long list of those for whom there was no coming out. So through the war they had dwindled away, till now hardly any were left of the old crowd, and those few were scattered lie knew not where, leaving him alone with a host of sad memories.

The chorus on the stage was dropping into the pianissimo of those lines so full of unutterable pathos:

"The gallant boys of the Old Brigade,

They live in Old England's heart."

A sudden movement on his part as lie leaned forward in his seat, gripping the arm with one hand, attracted the girl's attention. Frivolous she might be, but with a woman's intuition she could see that he was in the throes of some great excitement, and unless carefully handled would commit the unpardonable crime of " making a scene." To her warped little mind there crime worse than that.

" What's the matter? " The tone was full of fear as she laid a restraining hand on his arm. " Sit down, do, please.

He was strung to the uttermost, memories were crowding in on him, there was something in his throat that was choking, choking him. The stage had gone, the theatre had gone, only in its place stood a hundred scenes and incidents, peopled by those who were dead and gone, while through it all like a hammer beating into his brain were the words of the final chorus now being given with all the force of voice and orchestra :

"Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder,

Steadily, blade by blade,

Ready and strong, marching along,

Like the boys-"

He could stand it no longer, and, roughly throwing off her restraining hand, he jumped to his feet and, shaking his fist at the orchestra, screamed in tones that rang through the house :

"For God's sake stop that dammed tune !"

1914

BRANDS PLUCKED FROM THE BURNING

AT THE GAS LECTURE. -Corporal of a Scottish Regiment instructing New Zealanders: " I'm thinkin' you New Zealanders will need to be mair particular aboot your respirators, because your verra life depends on them. An' what is mair important, dinna lose them, for if you do you'll have to pay for them."

ARTILLERY NOTES.-The Artillery paves the way for the Infantry by blowing away the paved way!

THE best of all "dial sights "- A peep into a mirror.

SUITABLE presents for topers- Nose-caps.

THE nomenclature and venue of the Hague Conventions have both been changed by the War; they are now "Haig" conventions, held "Somewhere in France."

Army Doctor (Pointing to breast of wounded soldier) : " Inoculation? ". Soldier: "No. That's merely where the Army Commander tried to pin the ribbon."

FLAG DAY IN ABERDEEN. -Partner in firm to English commercial traveller: " I'm awfu', sorry I canna' tak ye to lunch the day. Ma brither's oot, an' lie's got the flag."

SCENE, : Officers' mess. Time: Dinner hour.

O.C. (to Mess Orderly): "By Jove, Thomas, a ripping dinner to-night. How much did you pay for the chicken ? "

Mess Orderly: "Well, sir, we didn't pay anything."

O.C. : "Oh ! a present ?"

Mess Orderly: "No. sir. Cook found it out of bounds away from its billet and improperly dressed after 9.30 p.m., contrary to D.R.O. 222, and sentenced it to death. The sentence was duly carried out."

AUSTRALIAN (to mate at early dawn) Wot lot's that over there, Bill ? " Mate "Must be Noo Zealanders.
I can see shovels."

FIRST FERNLEAF: "Why has the General ordered riding breeches to be handed in ? That's non bon for me. I had a lot o' trouble getting mine off a dead Ossie on Gallipoli."

Second Fernleaf : " Dunno, Bill, s'pose 'e wants a good pair for himself."

VERDUN.-Merely the German pronunciation of " We're done."

UNSATISFACTORY Lines of Communication: -Those printed on the Field Service Post Cards