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.