A BRAVE NEW ZEALANDER
There's a difference between the New Zealander and Australian, and the
difference is this: when an Australian says "Home," he means Australia;
when a New Zealander says "Home," he means the Old Country. The sense
of nationality is deep in the Australian's soul; the sense of
dependence and kinship is wrapped round the New Zealander's heart.
Australia is the older Dominion, and the Australian, like the Canadian,
is keen on running his own affairs. New Zealand is younger; many of
its first settlers are still alive, so their eyes and their children's
eyes are always turned to the land called "Home."
Fifty years hence the New Zealander will be like the Australian--a keen
exponent of nationhood and all that that means. But, understand, when
I speak of nationhood as applied to the Australian and New Zealander, I
mean pride of race, pride of dominion, pride of achievement, and the
ability to be a partner in the great Empire that is ours. Our
forefathers resented this attitude of our colonial cousins. For that
reason we lost the American colonies. That lesson was good. We now
realise that it is good business to let such as the Australian and New
Zealander manage their own affairs. It saves us worry, it saves
expense, it breeds a distinct type--a type conscious of their ability,
but aware of the need of co-operation and co-ordination in Imperial
defence and Imperial trade. Wise men ask no more.
Now in affairs of war there is also a difference between the New
Zealander and Australian. The Australian resembles the
Irishman--daring, desperate, and frequently reckless; the New Zealander
resembles the Scot--equally daring, equally determined, but more canny
and cautious. In brief, the New Zealander is more ready to weigh the
issues and count the cost. Both types are necessary in war; both are
extremely useful. Now I have reached my tale.
The General Staff had heard that the Turks were concentrating men and
munitions for a great attack. Information was scarce; information was
imperative, for on information the modern general depends. And this
information had to come from the very centre of the Turkish defence.
It was the hour for a man, and that man had to be found. That was the
problem which faced the Chief of Staff. He knew that almost every
officer would volunteer. He thought of many Australians; but no, their
reckless bravery might wreck his schemes. And then he pictured in his
eye the New Zealanders he knew. One by one they passed in review. At
last he recalled "Tony," a young subaltern from Hawkes Bay. He was a
graduate of an Auckland school--a strong, well-built, swarthy youth,
with that coolness, daring, and acumen necessary for the job. "Yes,
he'll do," muttered the Chief as he rang up the New Zealand Dragoons.
"Send Lieutenant Tony Brown to headquarters at once."
"Very good, sir," answered an orderly. In two hours Tony entered the
dug-out and saluted.
"I've a job for you, Mr. Brown. It might mean your death; it might
mean the D.S.O. Are you on?"
"I'm on, sir; but please explain."
"Get one of the Navy boats. Go up the coast for two miles. Land and
get across into the Turkish camp. Find out the strength of these
reinforcements, the guns, the ammunition, food and water supplies, and,
more important, the probable date, if not the hour, of this big attack.
I'll give you two days to do it. If you're not back on the third day
I'll count you as dead. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, my lad. Here's an order to the commander of the torpedo
boat at the beach. Make your own arrangements. Good luck to you,"
concluded the Chief, shaking him by the hand. And out went Tony on his
job. It was a tough proposition for a youngster to tackle, yet he
deemed it an honour. And there was no time for delay. He secured the
services of two Maoris because of their strength and swarthy
complexion. Turkish uniforms would make them "Turks," if need be.
The commander of the destroyer gave him a boat. This was loaded up
with water, biscuits, some Turkish uniforms, and rifles, with other
necessaries for the job. At night they pulled out. It was quite dark,
so all was favourable at the outset. For hours the Maoris seemed to
row, their only guide being the stars and dark coast-line. And then
came the first peep of dawn.
"Come on, you fellows; get into these things," said the subaltern,
pointing to the Turkish clothes. He did likewise. The disguise was
perfect. They looked thoroughly respectable members of the Sultan's
community.
"Ease in now, boys," ordered Tony as the light grew better. Gently
they pulled to the shore.
"That place will do," muttered the observant sub, looking towards a
shingly sort of beach beneath some cliffs. The boat grated on the
pebbles. They had arrived on their daring mission.
"Now, look here, you boys; you've got to loaf round here for two days.
Hide the boat and get into a dug-out. Keep a look-out for me. If I
don't come back at the end of the second day, go back and tell them
I've gone to Kingdom Come. Understand?"
"All right, boss," said the elder of the Maoris, a full corporal. And
off went Tony. He climbed up the cliffs and found himself on a scrubby
sort of soil dotted here and there with stunted trees. Away to his
right he could just discern the Turkish defences, while immediately in
front lay some scattered redoubts of the flanking outposts of the
enemy. In the distance was a high, grassy knoll--a perfect place for
observing things. He made for it, avoiding contact with some
straggling Turkish soldiers on the way. By the way, it is really
remarkable how one can walk through an enemy's lines when dressed in
their uniform; but it takes a stout heart to do it.
Tony reached the foot of the knoll and commenced to ascend. Just as he
reached the top he was startled by a Turk who cried out a greeting. He
mumbled something in a boorish style and dropped down in a friendly way
beside his man. Before the old Turk realised what was happening he lay
dead with a revolver bullet in his brains.
"Phew! What a noise!" muttered Tony as he looked at his victim and
then all round the hill to see if the noise had alarmed the land. Luck
favoured him. A random shot is nothing in war. Finding a hole near
by, he dumped the body in, then covered it over with grass. This done,
he whipped out his glasses and commenced to study things. Away in
front he could see the convoys slowly moving past. There were guns,
ammunition wagons, water-carts, ration wagons, and streams of men.
This was not the usual reliefs and supplies. There was something
doing. The troops were new, their equipment was good, their bearing
fresh and alert. All this was very interesting; but Tony was not near
enough to get what he wanted. He decided to walk right through the
lines. Leaving his rifle and placing his revolver and glasses in the
Turkish haversack, he set off. He was soon one of the many straggling
Turkish troops on various errands. They hailed him in their oriental
way, but Tony simply grunted in reply.
That is a way of the East, so all went well. At last the daring
officer was close behind the Turkish lines. He stumbled on the
batteries well placed and well hid. Stacks of shells lay to hand in
preparation for their attack. In another part he located a
searchlight, and down in a little gully he found a forward base for gun
and rifle ammunition. This was a sound discovery. He memorised the
spot and tried to locate it on the map. Passing on, he came to a field
hospital. This was being cleared, for wagons were taking the wounded
men away to the ships which lay in the offing. When a hospital is
being cleared, look out for a fight. A soldier understands what it
means.
Tony finally arrived in a sort of rest camp. It was alive with
men--fresh ones from Constantinople. There were plenty of German
officers, too, also some sailors with _Goeben_ and _Breslau_ on their
caps. He wondered what the sailors were there for. They seemed to be
camped round an artillery park. He solved it; they were serving the
guns. Down the lines he stumbled, grunting like an old horse, and,
occasionally, sitting down to view the scene. They had plenty of
biscuits, and even such luxuries as coffee, bread, and water melons.
No signs of starvation or lack of supplies. That was an important
point. Tony was doing well. His scheme was succeeding beyond his
dreams. Indeed, he was beginning to feel quite cocky, till, on looking
round, he found a swarthy little fellow behind him. He was being
followed. Something gripped his heart. He had shot his bolt. Still
he did not lose his head. This little man must be led on a little
farther. Tony retraced his steps. The man followed him. He sat down;
the Turk also sat down. This was unnerving, and the young sub. almost
shouted in anger and agony. Rising again, he went on, striking into
the open and less populated part. And, all the while, the officer
wondered how he was going to deal with his sleuth-hound. He could not
shoot him there.
At last his eye caught sight of the little knoll where his dead Turk
lay buried. Good! He would lead him up there. He plodded on, and,
behind him, stalked the patient-looking Turk. Oh! the agony of those
moments. It was like a knife sinking by degrees into the human heart.
It was the hour for nerve, coolness and caution. Tony reached the top
of the hill. With a sigh he sat down, pulled out his pipe and
commenced to smoke. The Turk also sat down, but at the foot of the
hill. He too started to smoke. His face had the sense of ease, his
eyes a humorous gleam. He, apparently, was in no hurry. What the
devil did he mean? Tony wondered, and wondered. This torture was
insufferable; so insufferable that the subaltern waved his arm,
signalling the Turk to come up beside him. He obeyed. As he reached
the top he took off his cap and said, "Good days, Mr. Ingleesman."
"Who's English?" said Tony, smiling at his own audacity and apparent
admission.
"You very Inglees--you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty
savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."
"What the devil are you doing here?"
"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes
Inglees."
"But what are you following me for?"
"Well--monees--backsheesh. Me poor man."
"How did you spot me?"
"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an
identity disc out of his pocket. This was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown,
New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this
damning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets
in the camp below.
He inwardly cursed his stupidity.
"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found
friend.
"Oh, wery nice--wery Inglees _too_," said the Syrian, looking at the
inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in
Stamboul--eh?"
"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time
measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be
better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.
Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a
born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all
over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.
"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way.
The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It
left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily
answered, "Well----"
"Me poor man--me tell you things. How much?"
"Fifty pounds--eh?"
"One hundreds--it worth it--good beesness. Me plenty savvy--me know."
"What?"
"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and--beeg attacks----"
"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled.
He had divined his quest.
"Tell me then."
"Monees," said the Syrian, holding out his hand. The ways of the East
are, at least, direct.
"There you are," said the subaltern, handing him ten crisp Bank of
England notes. He had come prepared for this contingency.
"When is the attack, now?"
"Friday mornings early."
"The exact time I want."
"Half past fours."
"How do you know?"
"I orderleys and interpreeters to arteelery's staff."
"Oh! Now, isn't there a battery down there?" said Tony, pointing to a
piece of rising ground which he had passed over.
"No--one batterees there," said the Syrian, directing his eyes to the
exact place where Tony had discovered the first battery.
"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth.
Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round
about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines,
stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were
all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had
entered the highest realms of the Intelligence Service. It was dusk
when he had finished.
"Me go now," said the Syrian, rising.
"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."
"But I geeves you informations, what more?"
"Look here, old cock, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."
"Syrian good man," protested the informer.
"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, cocking his revolver suddenly.
"No' keels me--no' keels me!"
"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead--that way," said Tony,
directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in
his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.
"Here--look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander
bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.
"Uh!" shuddered the man.
"Now, keep quiet," ordered the officer, pushing him down the hill.
Stealthily they went, avoiding dug-outs, tents, and other hives of the
Turkish army. For hours they seemed to walk. Something was wrong.
"Stop!" said Tony suddenly. Instinct suggested danger. He had been
led astray. Pulling out a compass, he fixed it. The direction was
wrong. This Syrian was playing his own game. He wanted another
hundred pounds for this officer's body. It was worth more than that to
the Turkish army. And he knew it. War breeds parasites and rogues.
"You scoundrel!" said Tony, springing at the Syrian's throat. The
latter fought, kicked, and bit like a tiger. To have shot him would
have been madness, for they were now back in the centre of the Turkish
lines. Placing his great hands round the man's throat, Tony slowly
choked him into a state of collapse. Another knock on his head with
the butt of the revolver placed him in such a condition that he would
be unable to recollect his thoughts for many days. That was all the
subaltern desired. He left him. Taking a compass bearing again, he
struck out towards the beach. Luck favoured him almost till the end.
As he neared the top of the cliff which guarded the beach his foot
slipped, and he fell into a dug-out, right on the top of three Turkish
soldiers. Curses were mixed with shouts of "Allah!" Then questions
were asked. But Tony could answer none. A little flashlamp next shone
in his face. He was discovered.
"Inglees! Inglees!" exclaimed a Turk. The other two started and
chattered volubly. One lifted a rifle to finish him off, but the man
with the lamp stopped him. He knew his job. He wanted to know what
this man was doing there. Tony was searched, and the map discovered
secreted down the leg of his stocking. His heart quailed. He seemed
doomed. He had been so near success; now he seemed so far. He
inwardly shuddered at the prospect ahead. It would be death, and death
of a cruel and unrefined kind. Oh, the mental horror of that moment.
It was worse than a bayonet in the stomach, and that is bad enough. He
longed for death--death, sure and sharp. But it did not come. He was
seized and bound, then thrown into a corner to await the dawn, when
this coast patrol would take him back to the Turkish lines. His cords
cut into his hands and legs; his tongue was parched; his heart beating
at the coming of the dawn.
Still, the light of day brought a certain physical and mental relief.
He was given a drink; his cords were cut, and he was pushed out into
the open and marched off to the Turkish lines. He stumbled along, in
pain and confused. But deliverance was at hand.
True to their trust, his faithful Maoris were on the watch. One lay on
top of the cliffs as a guard for the boat hidden away in the cove
below; the other was a thousand yards ahead, directly in front of the
line of march which two out of the three Turkish soldiers were taking
him. This Maori's eyes were alert. A glance made him understand it
all. Filling his magazine, he lay low. They were then six hundred
yards away. Too far for a sure aim. He waited. Five hundred. Four
hundred. Three hundred. Yes; that would do. He settled down and
aimed.
Bang! The bullet told. The man on Tony's right dropped dead. The
subaltern realised the cause. He let drive with his fist at the other
man. The Turk stumbled back, recovered, then fled. But the Maori
nipped him like a farmer does a running hare. He, too, fell dead.
This was the one with the map which Tony had made. It was wrenched
from his haversack.
"Near shave, boss," said the Maori corporal, running up.
"Yes; but come on." They ran towards the cliff.
Bang! went a rifle. The faithful Maori corporal dropped dead at his
officer's feet. Tony looked to his front, and there was the third man
of the Turkish patrol coolly aiming at him too. He ducked just as a
rifle banged. For a minute he lay flat, and then a strange thing
happened. The second Maori, on the top of the cliff, unable to sight
his rifle at this assassin of his friend, was charging wildly down on
the Turk with his bayonet fixed.
"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turk as he turned about and threw up his
arms. A moment later he was bayoneted to death.
Tony jumped up and ran on, for in the distance he saw other patrols
running towards the scene. The surviving Maori followed him to the
beach. The boat was launched, and they pulled out from the shore.
Danger, however, was not passed. Turkish patrols had found them.
Volley after volley rattled through the air. They splashed all round;
some hit the boat, one struck Tony in the arm, two more pierced the
oars. But out and out pulled the plucky pair till, at last, they were
clear of the fire.
"Hot shop, boss," said the Maori.
"Yes, a bit too hot!" muttered Tony as he bandaged his bleeding arm.
That night the Chief of Staff received the information desired. And a
few days later Lieut. Tony Brown added the letters "D.S.O." to his
name. Everybody said, "Why?" But the Chief of Staff simply smiled and
passed on.