The Anzacs' Hoax
For the next few weeks events moved rapidly. With the belated
arrival of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement, Malcolm Carr and
Dick Selwyn found themselves reverted to the ranks. Fortescue, by
virtue of having seen active service, still retained his stripes.
Rumours of something great in the nature of a stunt about to take
place gained credence from the fact that the men were put through
their final training as quickly as possible. The "Diggers" accepted
the "speeding up" with alacrity. They realized that the sooner they
completed their arduous "field exercises" the sooner they would
attain their ambition to "put it across Fritz".
The spring gave place to early summer, a spell of beautifully fine
weather, so much so that the mud of Salisbury Plain vanished, and
the green grass of the rolling downs turned russet for lack of rain.
Yet, in spite of the heat, bayonet practice, bombing instruction,
and long route marches kept the men lean, active, and in the very
pink of condition.
"_Ehoa!_ It's Sling."
The announcement ran like wildfire along the line of huts. It meant
that the transfer of the brigade to Sling Camp was another milestone
in the long trek to the Front.
It is futile to attempt to find Sling on the pre-war maps of
Salisbury Plain. A large town of mushroom growth, it had been one of
the places inseparably associated with New Zealand's part in the
Great War. To the man who had yet to undergo his baptism of fire,
Sling meant proficiency for the firing-line. To the wounded New
Zealander recovering from wounds, being ordered to Sling meant that
he was considered fit to "I get one back on Fritz". In brief, Sling
Camp was a piece of New Zealand soil planted in England, where the
pick of the manhood of the Southern Dominion forgathered for the
final polishing touches of the noble profession of arms.
Before June was far advanced word went round that the brigade was to
cross the Channel and go into camp at "Etaps"--as Étaples is almost
uniformly designated by the khaki lads. Again rumour spoke
truthfully, for at four o'clock the next afternoon the "Diggers"
were ordered to entrain for Southampton.
"Wonder if there's any chance of looking round Southampton?" asked
Selwyn. "I've a second cousin there."
Fortescue smiled grimly.
"No, you don't, my dinky lad," he replied. "After Muizenberg we
steer clear of your relations. As a matter of fact, they'll push us
straight on board a transport, and she'll sail as soon as it gets
dark."
The train, upon arrival at the place of embarkation, ran straight
into the docks, and brought up close to one of the many transports
that were berthed there with banked fires ready to sail at any hour
of the day or night.
In full marching order the men trooped up the gangways, divested
themselves of their packs, and made themselves as comfortable as
possible for their twelve or fourteen hours' voyage. Within the
space of two hours twelve hundred troops, both Australians and New
Zealanders, were embarked.
"Good-bye, Blighty!" shouted an Anzac. "Shan't see you again for
many a long day."
"Stow your jaw and get your life-belt," ordered a non-com. "You'll
be in the soup if the platoon commander finds you without it."
The wire hawsers were cast off. A couple of tugs began straining at
their huge charge, and slowly the transport drew away from the side
of the dock. Then, gathering speed, she slipped down the land-locked
expanse of Southampton Water, through the fort-guarded Spithead, and
gained the English Channel.
"We'll be airing our French by this time tomorrow," declared
Malcolm.
"For the preservation of the Entente we would be wise to keep our
mouths shut," said Selwyn. "From what I remember, Malcolm, you were
last but one in French at the Coll."
"And you?"
"Absolutely the last," admitted Selwyn.
"Talking of French," began Fortescue, "reminds me of something that
happened to me at Plug Street. Hallo, what's the move now?"
Fortescue's narrative, or rather attempted narrative, of what
occurred at Plug Street was somewhat remarkable. On three previous
occasions Malcolm and Selwyn had heard him commencing the tale, and
each time something had occurred to "switch him off."
It was no ordinary interruption on this occasion. The transport had
altered helm and was turning to starboard, with her bows pointing
towards the Foreland end of The Wight. Still porting helm, she swung
round until she reversed her former direction, then, standing on her
course, began to make for Spithead once more.
"What's up now?" was the enquiry on the lips of hundreds of men.
"One of the brass hats' has dropped his toothbrush overboard and
we're going back to look for it," declared a South Australian.
"Corker, my boy, you were too sharp on your bead when you chortled,
'Good-bye, Blighty!'"
Presently it transpired that the transport had received a wireless
message ordering her to return to Southampton, as four German
submarines had been reported lying in wait at a distance of ten
Miles south of the Nab Lightship. Since the night was pitch dark,
the escorting ships could not carry out their protective duties with
the same degree of efficiency as usual. In the circumstances
prudence directed the temporary abandonment of the cross-channel
voyage.
It was one o'clock in the morning when the transport berthed in the
Empress Dock. Orders were given for the troops to disembark and
proceed to the large rest camp on the outskirts of Southampton.
Disappointed though they were, the men maintained their
cheerfulness, and before the long column was clear of the dock gates
they were cheering, laughing, and shouting frantically, despite all
attempts on the part of their officers to enforce silence.
Up the long High Street the khaki-clad troops marched boisterously.
The inhabitants, roused from their sleep by the unusual clamour,
flocked to the windows. Many a time had they seen troops fully
equipped proceeding _towards_ the docks; never since the outbreak of
hostilities had they seen soldiers in heavy marching order tramping
in column of fours away from the place of embarkation.
"What's up?" was the oft-repeated enquiry from the invisible heights
of many a darkened window in the High Street.
"Haven't you heard?" shouted a bull-voiced Anzac. "Peace is
declared, and we're the first troops home from the Front."
At the prospect of a gigantic hoax others took up the mendacious
parable, and long before the men reached their destination for the
night the startling news had spread far and wide. It was not until
the arrival of the morning papers that the good folk of Southampton
realized that they had been "properly had".
The enforced detention at Southampton, was, however, not without
certain compensations. The men were allowed out of camp during the
following afternoon, a boon they thoroughly appreciated.
Selwyn had seized upon the opportunity to visit his relations, but
when fie again invited Malcolm and Fortescue to accompany him they
begged to be excused, and wandered round the town instead.
Old Southampton was both a surprise and a revelation to Malcolm
Carr. Coming from a country where a fifty-year-old building is
considered to be old, the sight of the fourteenth-century walls and
fortified gates filled him with enthusiasm, while Fortescue was able
to explain the nature of the various architectural features.
Wandering down a narrow and far from clean street they came face to
face with an ancient stone building flung athwart the road. On the
side of the archway a notice board announced it to be the old
Westgate, through which the armies of Edward III and Henry V marched
to embark upon the expedition that ended respectively in the
victories of Crécy and Agincourt.
"One can imagine the throng of mailed knights leathern-jerkined
archers pouring under the double portcullis," remarked Fortescue.
"Those armies left this place as enemies of France; to-day ours also
leave Southampton, but with a different purpose, to rid French soil
of the Hun and all his works."
"And it shows," added Malcolm, "in another way how times change.
Unless I'm mistaken, Henry V's army consisted of thirty thousand
troops--not a third of the number of men raised in New Zealand
alone."
"To carry the comparison still further," continued his companion,
"our quota is roughly a fiftieth of the fighting forces of the
Empire. For every man who levelled lance or drew bow at Agincourt
against the French, one hundred and fifty are to-day fighting side
by side with their former enemies. Those chaps--'island carrions,
desperate of their bones', as Will Shakespeare aptly puts it--are
our ancestors, Malcolm, whether we are New Zealanders, Australians,
or Canadians, and although we are up against a big thing I haven't
the faintest doubt that blood will tell, as it did in those days.
But, by Jove, it's close on four o'clock. We'll have to get back as
sharp as we can, or we may have the Muizenberg business all over
again."
That evening the troops re-embarked. By this time the lurking
U-boats had been dealt with in a most effective way. Their shattered
hulls lay on the bed of the English Channel. The route was now
clear, and the transport's voyage was practically devoid of
incident.
Without the loss of a single man, thanks to the mysterious yet
effective means of protection afforded by the British navy, the
Thirty-somethingth reinforcement had completed yet another stage of
their Odyssey. At last they were upon the soil of La Belle France,
and within sound of the hostile guns.