A Lively Bit of the Front

Malcolm Carr's Decision

"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the open doorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.

"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get your letters before we start. Expecting anything important?"

Malcolm Carr was a typical specimen of the youthful New Zealander. Although only seventeen years of age, he was a full inch over six feet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, was sparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut and slightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. His deep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness of vision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.

He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskin riding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latter provided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leather case that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather. Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to his up-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt a canvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.

His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearance and attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm--they raise tall youths in New Zealand--of greater girth, and slightly heavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrast to the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr prided himself.

Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of the Dominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in the survey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about to be commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.

It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. The month was November--late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen, yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away to the west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps, some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To the eastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly country merged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores of Pegasus Bay.

Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents there were no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and far between in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent road separated the camp from the nearest village, while another forty miles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch--Malcolm's home--was reached.

"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as he turned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour of frying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding. "Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be a jolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of the Boss yet?"

Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table for breakfast--the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interior of the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairs occupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against the walls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled with plans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagre supply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was a door leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple of sporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning one of those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization--a motor tyre.

It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxious for the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube was wanted--badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernaut making the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the coming Saturday.

Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under a rick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient and composite design--partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with a suspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the tout ensemble--the wondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given to Peter and Malcolm Carr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, the two brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of servile tractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare in Christchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanent record of Juggernaut's frailties.

Peter Carr--big, easy-going, generous Peter--had gone two years previously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part in the repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroic yet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as a scratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From Gallipoli Peter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. But before going on active service Peter had disposed of his share of juggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping to mitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older, and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, and vicissitudes of fighting the Boche.

"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.

"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into the hut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu's taken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in his office at nine."

Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to a thorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.

"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as a buggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down the dusty road.

Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited the postman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While the representative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the lad could obtain his mails without having to go down to the works office.

"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handed him a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll be able to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! More of them? A regular budget, Mike!"

Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over four newspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignment showed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.

The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brother Peter--"Somewhere in France".

"DEAR MALCOLM (it ran),

"U-boats and other noxious German insects permitting, I hope this will reach you. I cannot say much beyond that we are very busy on our sector of the Front. I'm afraid you'll be too late to join me out here, unless the war goes on for another two or three years. Our chaps are of the opinion that it won't. We are having a thundering good time, with plenty of excitement. I have a Hun helmet for you. I gained it properly, after a tough scrap in a mine gallery, but cannot give details. It's no more risky out here than it is driving juggernaut through the market-square on a Saturday night. By the by, how goes the old chariot? Must knock off now, as I have to write to the guv'nor. It is now a quarter to five, and we parade at half-past for (words deleted with blue pencil).

"Your loving brother,

"PETER S. CARR."

The next letter was from Malcolm's father, above referred to as the "guv'nor".

"DEAR MALCOLM,

"Just received a cablegram: 'No. 04452, Sergeant P. Carr, reported wounded and missing.' There are no further details, but as several of our Christchurch friends have received similar news, it is evident that the Nth reinforcements have been in the thick of it. Just what Peter wanted, dear lad! Cannot write more, as I can hardly realize the import of the cablegram. Hope to see you on Saturday.

"Your loving father,

"FRANK CARR."

Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder brother----

"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"

"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.

For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the lads within.

Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.

"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in and join up."

No. 99,109, R/M Carr

"You can't," said Dick. "For one thing, you are tied to your job; for another, you are not old enough."

"I'll have a jolly good shot at it anyhow," declared Malcolm resolutely. "Plenty of chaps have gone to the front at sixteen or seventeen. Ted Mostyn, for example; he's only eighteen, and he's back with two buckshees (wounds) already."

"Kia ora, then, old chap," exclaimed Selwyn. "I hope you'll pull it off."

Both lads set to work to fit the new inner tube and replace juggernaut's front off-side wheel. This task completed, Malcolm washed the dirt and grease from his hands, saddled his horse, and set off for the office of Mr. Hughes, the Head of the Wairakato Survey.

"Morning, Malcolm!" was that worthy's genial greeting. "Where's Selwyn? Coming along, is he? That's good. I wanted to see you about that section of pipe-line that has been giving trouble. Did you bring your rough book?"

Not until the matter of the survey had been gone thoroughly into did young Carr tackle his principal.

"I want to know," he began, straight to the point, "I if you could release me at noon."

"Certainly!" was the ready response. "The work is well in hand, and I believe you haven't had leave for some months."

"For the duration of the war, I mean," continued Malcolm.

"For the duration of the what?" exclaimed the astonished Hughes. "Dash it all, what's the war to do with you? They haven't put you in the ballot by mistake?"

"No," replied the lad. "It's like this. But perhaps I'd better show you the governor's letter."

Mr. Hughes read the proffered document.

"I see," he said gravely. "And you wish to avenge your brother?"

"Not avenge--it's duty," corrected Malcolm. "I can't exactly explain---- Now Peter's gone----"

"You have no positive information on that point, Malcolm."

"Wounded and missing--that means that there is no longer a member of our family in the firing-line. I'm seventeen, I'm a sergeant in the cadet corps, physically fit, and all that sort of thing. And I don't suppose they'll be too particular as to my age if I forget to say that I was born somewhere about the year 1900."

The Boss considered for some moments.

"I won't stand in your way, my boy," he said kindly. "After all, the actual work here won't start until after the war. The preliminary surveys can still go on. All right, Malcolm! jolly good luck and all that sort of thing, you know. Come and lunch with me before you start."

The morning passed ever so slowly. Contrary to his usual manner, Malcolm found his thoughts wandering from his work. The desire to be up and doing, to push on with his share in the great adventure, gripped his mind to the exclusion of all other topics. In the ranks of the Dominion lads there was one of many gaps waiting specially for him to fill, and he meant to fill it worthily.

On his way back to the hut, after having lunched with Mr. Hughes, Malcolm encountered a sturdy Maori.

"Hallo, Te Paheka!" he exclaimed. "You're just the man I want to see. You want another motor-car? All right, come with me to Christchurch, and you can have my blessed car. That's a bargain."

Te Paheka was a typical specimen of a twentieth-century Maori. He was a tall, heavily-built, muscular man of about forty-five years of age, and lived at a whare about three miles from the camp. In his youth he had been given a thoroughly sound college education, and had gone to England in order to graduate. As a scholar he shone; as a business man he was a failure, owing to the fatal and all too common trait amongst Maoris of the educated class of pleasure in the spending of money, and, oddly enough, to an inherent tendency to relapse, if only temporarily, to an aboriginal existence.

Te Paheka owned a considerable amount of land. Frequently he sold tracts of ground to settlers, displaying much shrewdness in the various transactions. He never went back on his word. To those who dealt fairly and squarely with him he was a stanch friend, but it was his boast that no white man would have the opportunity of letting him down a second time.

With the proceeds of the sales Te Paheka would come into the nearest large town, and have a right royal time while funds lasted. Usually his weakness in that direction was a motor-car. He had been known to go to the largest dealers in Christ-church and purchase the swiftest car procurable, drive it at breakneck speed until he collided with something, and then sell the remains and retire to his pah until he found an opportunity for another exuberance of pecuniary extravagance. But of late Te Paheka had fallen on hard times. The war had hit him badly. With the heavy drain upon New Zealand's man power and the sudden and marked diminution in the stream of immigrants, the opportunities to sell land vanished, and with them the prospects of buying another motor-car.

Malcolm knew this. He also had found the Maori ready to do him a good turn. On one occasion Te Paheka had extricated the lad from a dangerous position during a landslide on the Wairakato Ridge; and now the chance had arrived to repay the courteous native by making him a present of the ancient but still active Juggernaut.

"Would I not?" was Te Paheka's reply to the lad's offer. "Yes, I'll take great care of her for your sake, Mr. Malcolm. What can I knock out of her--a good fifty?"

"Hardly," replied Malcolm, laughing. The idea of juggernaut ambling along at nearly a modest mile a minute was too funny. "Come along. I am starting for home at three o'clock."

"I suppose you'll let me drive?" enquired Te Paheka.

Mental visions of seeing juggernaut toppling over the edge of Horseshoe Bend, and crashing upon the rock four or five hundred feet below, prompted Malcolm to a discreet reply.

"It's my last chance of driving a car for a very long time, Te Paheka," he said diplomatically. "You'll be able to do what you like with her after I get home."

"You lucky bounder!" was Dick Selwyn's greeting when the chums met at the hut. "The Boss is a decent sort. He might very well have put the tin hat on your suggestion. Shall I lend a hand with your gear?"

"Packed already," announced Malcolm. "All except my .303 rifle and the greenheart rod. Thought they might come in useful for you, and I don't suppose I'll need them in a hurry."

With hardly anyone to see him off, excepting a couple of Maori lads who were employed as messengers, Malcolm, accompanied by Te Paheka, set off on the momentous journey that was to end--where? Perhaps in France, perhaps on the high seas. He found himself counting the chances of getting back to New Zealand. Would it be as a wounded, perhaps crippled man, or as a hale and hearty veteran after that still remote day when peace is to be declared, and German militarism crushed once and for all time?

Without incident the lad brought the car to a standstill in the market-place of Christchurch. Te Paheka, torn between the desire to run away with his new gift and to wish his white friend farewell and kia ora in a manner worthy of a dignified and old-standing Maori gentleman, looked like prolonging the leave-taking ceremony indefinitely, until he leave-taking happened to see the tail-end of a Napier racing car disappearing round the corner.

"There's Tom Kaiwarawara with his new motor, Malcolm!" he exclaimed, making a dash for juggernaut's steering-wheel. "Golly, I'll catch him up or bust. Kia ora, Malcolm."

And the last the lad saw of juggernaut was the car cutting round a sharp corner at a good twenty-five miles an hour, whilst pedestrians scattered right and left to avoid being run down.

"I'll see Te Paheka's name in the papers before a week's up," mused juggernaut's late owner. "Either in the police-court intelligence or in the inquest reports."

"I am not at all surprised at your decision, Malcolm," said his father, when the lad had reported the progress of his quick yet carefully considered project. "I can see that you are resolved, and on that account I won't stand in your way. After all's said and done, you are likely to make a far more efficient soldier than some men I know who have had to go. And the old adage 'a volunteer is worth two pressed men' still holds good. Unless a man has his heart in his work he's not likely to shine at his job."

Two hours later Malcolm Carr duly enlisted, and for many a day his official designation was to be No. 99,109, Rifleman Carr, N.Z. Rifle Brigade.

The First Trek

"Cheer-oh, Malcolm!"

Carr gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment; then, recovering himself, 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 let you have all the fun? You impshied without even asking me to chip 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 fellows chucking their hands in on the same day. Told me he could get along very well without us. I doubt it though. Smithers is an ass with the theodolite, and Hedger's 'trig' is rotten. By the by, on my way down last night I passed Te Paheka."

"Going strong?"

"Very," replied Selwyn, grinning. "He was sitting on a pine-trunk half-way up the Horseshoe. There were a few disintegrated remains of Juggernaut on the track, the bulk of the wreckage was down the valley."

Early in the afternoon a batch of recruits, amongst them Malcolm and Dick, left Christchurch for Port Lyttelton to embark for Wellington, and thence to Featherston Camp.

With a very few exceptions the men, although still in civilian clothes, bore themselves erect, and marched in a way that would have evoked praise from an English drill sergeant. The exceptions were those men who for some reason had not undergone military training while at school. Now they had cause to regret the omission. They were mere beginners at the great game of war, while others, younger in years, were already their seniors in the profession of arms.

At Featherston Malcolm worked harder than ever he did before, but it was interesting work. Drills and parades, from early morn till late in the afternoon, soon brought the detachment up to a state bordering upon perfection, and the word went round that the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements would be sent to France some weeks earlier than the usual time, thanks to the efficiency of all ranks.

There was one man, however, who proved a sort of stumbling-block--Rifleman Dowit. It was soon a standing joke that Dowit never could "do it" properly, except to grouse. Yet he was justified in his boast that he had put the Brigade Staff to ignominious flight.

It was on the bombing-instruction ground. The preliminary course with dummy bombs had been completed, and now came the exciting part of this particular branch of training--hurling live Mills' bombs.

A squad, including Carr and Selwyn, had been marched down to the bombing-trench, where each man had to throw three bombs over the parapet at a target twenty yards away. It was a bright moonlit night, which perhaps accounted for the good attendance on the part of the Brigade Staff to witness the operations.

"I wonder how Dowit will manage," remarked Dick to his chum. "The man can't throw straight, or anything like it. He'll be hitting the top of the parapet, and letting the bombs tumble back into the trench. 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 acquitted themselves well, including Carr and Selwyn. Then came Rifleman Dowit's turn.

"Here you are, Dowit," said the sergeant, handing him the three dangerous missiles. "Do you want me to say it all over again? 'Hold the bomb firmly in the right hand, at the same time gripping the lever. Withdraw the safety-pin, and----' Here, you idiot, what are you doing?"

Rifleman Dowit had removed the safety-pin, and was whirling the missile round and round at arm's length. At every complete circle the head of the bomb missed the edge of the parapet by a hair-breadth. If the wielder had omitted to grip the lever, then in four seconds----!

Already, in anticipation of the rifleman's awkwardness, the rest of the squad were either flat on their faces or else disappearing round the traverse into the adjoining bays. The sergeant alone stood his ground.

Describing a magnificent parabola, the released bomb hurtled through the air; but instead of towards the target it was whizzing in the opposite direction--straight for the group of officers standing a dozen yards from the rear of the trench. They promptly and precipitately scattered, some taking to their heels, others throwing themselves flat upon their faces in momentary expectation of a terrific explosion. A subaltern, however, did his best to avert the threatened catastrophe. Picking up a conveniently-placed sandbag, he hurled it at the now motionless bomb, missed it, but caught the recumbent form of a portly major squarely between the shoulders.

Pluckily the subaltern did the next best thing. At imminent danger he placed his foot upon the latent missile of destruction and waited.

"It's all right, sir," exclaimed the sergeant, who had clambered over the parados and run to the extended group of officers. "It's only a dummy. I had my doubts about Rifleman Dowit, and a thundering good job I did," he added grimly.

"Bring the man here," ordered the major breathlessly, for the blow from the sandbag had shaken him considerably.

Thereupon Rifleman Dowit was given a good dressing down and promptly transferred to the bearer section. For the time being he passes out of this story, but we shall hear of him again.

Malcolm and Dick found bayonet exercise exciting work--thrusting at suspended sacks stuffed with straw called for strength and strenuous activity--while at the ranges both lads gained a high percentage of bulls, and in a very short while the "crossed rifles ", denoting marksmanship, ornamented the sleeves of their uniforms.

Before the training course at Featherston was completed, Malcolm won his sergeant's stripes, while Dick was made full corporal. Both the lads knew that it was but a temporary step, all non-coms. reverting to riflemen on arrival in England, before proceeding across to France. Nevertheless the rank conferred certain privileges upon the holders, besides giving them valuable experience in the duties of non-commissioned officers.

During their leisure hours there was plenty to amuse the men in camp. A battalion picture-theatre, billiard rooms, voluntary swimming parades, boxing, and a variety of other indoor and outdoor games contributed to the men's enjoyment; and, although discipline was well enforced, there was a total absence of irritating petty restrictions that form a constant source of annoyance to the men of the New Armies of the Motherland.

At last came the welcome news of a parade at midnight in full marching order. Every man of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements knew what that meant: a move to Trentham--the final camp before embarkation. It was a point of honour that no man should fall out during the arduous fourteen-hours' march over The Summit. Malcolm would never forget that midnight trek. It was a perfectly still evening. The Southern Cross was blazing in the sky. The air was warm but bracing.

Out of the lines of tin huts the two thousand five hundred men comprising the draft poured forth like bees. They made plenty of noise, "barracking" each other like boys out of school. The utmost enthusiasm prevailed, yet despite the turmoil the sense of discipline made itself felt.

In full marching order the men set out briskly to the strains of the band that was to play them for the first few miles of the route. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, crowds of civilian friends of the departing troops accompanied them--in motor-cars, horsed vehicles, mounted, and on foot. New Zealand knew how to bid her sons a fitting farewell.

Once clear of the camp (the band having carried out its part of the business) the men burst into song. It was an unwritten law that each draft should attempt to sing all the way to The Summit, and the Thirty-somethingth was not going to be outdone.

Mile after mile of the steep ascent the men toiled gamely. Backs began to ache under the drag of the packs; entrenching tools began to make their presence aggressively known as they chafed the men's legs; rifles were being constantly shifted from shoulder to shoulder or carried at the trail, as the weapons seemingly increased in weight at each step. Yet not a man fell out, nor did the singing cease until the order was given to halt at The Summit.

"A smart bit of work. The boys are in fine fettle," remarked Platoon-sergeant Fortescue to Malcolm. "I had my doubts about Tosher Phillips. He is the weak link in the chain, so to speak."

"As a matter of fact," rejoined Malcolm, "the man has galls on his heels to the size of half-crowns, and one boot is almost full of blood. He wouldn't take advantage of a lift in one of the wagons--said he'd rather stick it."

"By Jove!" ejaculated Fortescue. "Is that so? Then I think I must call back all I said concerning Tosher. All the same, I'll speak to the Company Officer and get him to order the man to fall out. The boy's shown his grit; that's the main thing."

Sergeant Fortescue was a man of about thirty years of age, and a seasoned veteran. English born and bred, he had gained a degree at Cambridge, and, failing to turn it to any good account, had been sent to New Zealand by his disappointed father.

In the Dominion he found that he was "up against something" in which an ornate classical education did not count. Down on his luck, he tried 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 law bluntly. "This is a live country, not a dead one. Good morning!"

So Fortescue drifted up-country and found employment on a farm. It was hard work. The polished 'Varsity man, who hardly knew how to use a saw or to drive a nail in straight, found it particularly so. He had grit. He got on well with his fellow farm hands, who promptly dubbed him "Fortyscrews", a name that was eventually cut down to "Screws". He accepted the nickname cheerfully, stuck to his job, and in five years saved enough to start sheep-farming on his own account.

Then came the war. Fortescue promptly "sold out" and enlisted. At Gallipoli he acquitted himself manfully, was mentioned for gallantry in an affair at Quinn's Post, and was brought back to Alexandria in a hospital ship, with a wound sufficiently dangerous to smash many a man 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, but declined it, preferring to see more fun at the Front. For the second time Trevor Fortescue had marched over The Summit on the long trail that ended within sight and sound of hostile guns.

Dusty, tired, footsore, but in high spirits, the Thirty-somethingth marched into camp at Trentham. Their stay was but a short one, for three days later the reinforcement embarked at Wellington on Transport 99 for England--and France.