Out of Touch
After a wait of nearly ten minutes a rope was procured, while other
willing helpers brought a number of short ladders to the mouth of
the crater. These, lashed together, were lowered into the hole and
allowed to rest upon the steeply sloping sides.
Down swarmed several men, not New Zealanders, but belonging to an
Australian regiment. Foremost amongst them was Malcolm's Queensland
chum on board the _Pomfret Castle_--big Jack Kennedy.
"Hallo, Digger!" exclaimed that worthy, recognizing Rifleman Carr in
the candlelight. "What have you been doing? Cleaning out a chimney?
You're as black as an aborigine."
"I hardly thought to run across you again," remarked Malcolm.
"The world is small," rejoined Kennedy. "We were on your right when
the attack started. Your fellows have rushed Messines village and
are holding all the captured positions. Who are your pals? Beg
pardon, sir, I didn't know you were an officer!" (This to Captain
Nicholson, who, owing to the dirt and grime in which he was
smothered, was hardly distinguishable from the others.) "We'll give
you a leg up."
"Hold on," protested Captain Nicholson. "There are two of our men
who have to be brought along. They're rather shaken up. You'll want
a ladder--Carr."
"Yes, sir," replied Malcolm.
"Will you show these men the way into the other dug-out?"
Saluting, Malcolm turned and made his way over the wrecked woodwork,
three Australians following in his footsteps. Two of the latter
carried a short ladder.
"Fortescue with you?" enquired Kennedy, as the men planted the
ladder on the pile of earth that had fallen from the newly-excavated
tunnel.
"No," replied Carr. "He got a buckshie in his advance, but Selwyn's
there. Do you remember Pieter Waas on the old _Pomfret Castle_?"
"Do I not, the larrikin!" replied Kennedy. "I suppose you know that
he got away soon after he was landed at Plymouth?"
"Yes, and more," added Malcolm. "He was in our trenches last night,
and slipped over the top to the German lines."
The Australian smiled incredulously.
"Fact!" persisted his informant. "I spotted him and he spotted me.
Before he could be winged he was off in the darkness."
"Then let's hope he went up in the great bust," said Kennedy. "A bit
of a sell that, to bunk from the security of our trenches right on
top of a million pounds of aminol. This the way up? Golly, this
tunnel wasn't made for a man of my size!"
The rescuers found Grouser Joliffe indulging in a particularly
strong burst of grumbling--not at his adventures in the dug-out, not
at the hardships he had undergone, nor at the wounds he had
received. He had just made the disconcerting discovery that he had
lost a packet of five cigarettes, and, being a frugal man, the loss
irritated him exceedingly.
Dick Selwyn, although stiff and exhausted, was able to walk with
assistance, although Malcolm foresaw difficulties when his chum came
to the narrow tunnel and the swaying ladder leading to the other
dug-out.
"Which of the boys left his coat behind?" enquired Selwyn,
indicating a neatly folded bundle on the ground at a few feet from
him.
"None," replied Malcolm emphatically.
"Then what's this?"
Malcolm examined the clothing. Not only was there a coat, but a New
Zealander's complete kit.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I have it! That's the uniform the spy
fellow was wearing. He must have come here, knowing that this
dug-out was the Hun brigade head-quarters, and changed into a Boche
rig-out. Ten to one he was amongst that lot of staff officers."
"If so, he's properly done in," added Selwyn.
The two chums were only partly correct in their surmise. Konrad von
Feldoffer, on realizing that he had been recognized by a couple of
men who, he thought, belonged to another battalion, had rather
prematurely bolted for the German lines. In the guise of a New
Zealander he had been hoping to gather useful and definite
information concerning the forthcoming advance. Since most of the
Diggers were in ignorance of the mining operations under Messines
Ridge, von Feldoffer gained very little information on that point.
By means of a pre-arranged signal the spy arrived at the German
trenches without being fired on by his compatriots, despite his
khaki uniform and British-pattern shrapnel-helmet. Taken to the
head-quarters' dug-out, he made his report to the Hun authorities,
changed into German uniform, and left immediately afterwards for a
new sphere of activity. So, once more, by the matter of a few hours,
Konrad von Feldoffer escaped a well-merited death; while, through
ignorance of the terrific preparations made for the blowing up of
Messines Ridge, he had unwittingly done the Allies a good turn; for
instead of withdrawing the troops the Hun commander had concentrated
a thousand on the mined ridge in order to repel an infantry attack
that threatened only in the minds of the German staff.
"What are you fellows doing?" enquired Malcolm of the Australian.
"Demolishing dug-outs?"
"Not much," replied Kennedy. "We are not raiding this time. We're
here to hold what we've got, not to do as much damage as we can and
return to our own lines. Already our heavies are well up. A battery
of 14-inch guns is in a position just behind the original first-line
Boche trench. The air is positively stiff with aeroplanes--all
British. The Hun airmen take jolly good care to give us a miss. They
absolutely funk it."
"Don't blame 'em!" added another Anzac. "We're top dog in the air
just now."
Taking the discarded uniform for identification purposes, Malcolm
proceeded to lead the rescue party on their return journey. The two
injured men gave considerable trouble. Joliffe, whose wounds were
giving him excruciating pain, showed a decided tendency to become
light-headed, while Selwyn was so badly bruised and shaken that he
could hardly crawl.
Yet, in spite of their difficulties, the Australians succeeded in
bringing both men to the foot of the shaft communicating with the
open air.
Placed on a stretcher, that was raised by means of a rope running
through a block at the end of a hastily constructed derrick, the
injured men were taken up the funnel-like shaft, while the others
ascended by means of ladders, Captain Nicholson being the last to
quit the dug-out that might have proved to be his grave.
After receiving medical attention, Selwyn and Joliffe were sent to
the base hospital, while Captain Nicholson and Riflemen Carr,
M'Turk, and M'Kane set out to rejoin their battalions at Messines
village.
A steady trickle of Anzac wounded--mostly walking cases--making
their way to the advance dressing-stations, gave indications that
the Diggers were still hotly engaged. Although the British guns
already in position were pounding away as hard as they could, there
was a heavy fire from the hostile artillery, of which a formidable
number had been placed in prepared positions behind the shattered
ridge. With typical Teutonic thoroughness the Huns had prepared for
the possibility of having Messines wrenched from their hands, and,
having lost the ground, they were ready to swamp it with
high-explosive shells before launching a counter-attack on a large
scale.
Judging by the cheerfulness of the wounded, the New Zealanders were
confident of being able to hold the captured village. To Captain
Nicholson's question every man expressed his opinion that Fritz was
badly beaten. Some of the pick of the Prussian and Bavarian
regiments had already attempted to retrieve the lost ground, but had
gone down against the brave lads of the Antipodes.
Malcolm found the bulk of his company entrenched on the right of the
shell-racked village. A line of captured trenches had been
reorganized and placed in a state of defence against its former
masters. Since the threatened counter-attack had not yet
materialized, most of the New Zealanders were resting in the
dug-outs obligingly constructed by Fritz, who little thought that he
would have to abandon his painstaking work except upon the
conclusion of a victorious German peace.
Apart from an alarm in the early hours of the morning, when a very
half-hearted attack was easily repulsed, the New Zealanders spent an
undisturbed and comparatively restful night.
With morning came most reassuring and gratifying reports from the
whole of the Messines Front. English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish,
Canadian, and Anzac troops had gained their respective objectives
with comparatively few losses, taking into consideration the
important results. Once more the prestige of the German army had
suffered a severe blow, while, in prisoners alone, the Huns lost
more than the total casualties of the successors to the
"contemptible little army".
It was not to be supposed that the High Command of the Hun armies
would suffer the loss of an important position without making
desperate and determined efforts to turn the scale of victory. Fresh
divisions were hurried up to relieve the wornout and demoralized
troops, whose _moral_ had, been badly shaken by the stupendous
explosion under Messines Ridge, and the fierce infantry attacks that
succeeded it.
Across the shell-pitted ground dense masses of field-grey-clad Huns
were hurled, supported by a terrific covering fire from the German
guns.
In the hastily-constructed trenches beyond the ruined village the
New Zealanders awaited the assault with a quiet confidence. To
Malcolm Carr the experience was a novel one. During his
comparatively brief service in the trenches he had been called upon
to repel isolated raids, both by day and night; he had taken part in
several successful excursions over the top to harry the German
trenches; he had participated in one of the greatest actions on the
Western Front; but, for the first time, he was helping to man a
captured position against a massive hostile counter-attack.
This was something very different from anything he had previously
experienced. The rousing cheer, the surging mass of khaki-clad
figures over the top, and the mad excitement of the headlong rush
were absent. In silence the riflemen manned the firesteps and
awaited the assault of Germany's crack "shock troops ".
Overhead, far above the bursting shells, aeroplanes were swooping
hither and thither. Whether they were friend or foe the Diggers
hardly troubled to ascertain. As a matter of fact they were both,
and high in the air fierce combats were in progress as the Hun
airmen sought in vain to drive off the almost too daring British
fliers.
One thousand yards--nine hundred--eight hundred.
Not a shot was fired from the Anzac trenches--although dozens of
Maxims, Lewis guns, and rifles were ready to receive Fritz in the
strictly conventional way--until the foremost of the serried
grey-clad masses drew within seven hundred yards. Then, like the
outpouring of a dozen concentrated thunderstorms, British guns that
hitherto had been silent set up a barrage--so heavy that the German
fire, furious though it was, seemed negligible in comparison.
In front and in the rear of the advancing German infantry the hail
of shells descended like a giant twin portcullis, while the
intervening space was thick with shrapnel. The dense masses
desisted, recoiled, and attempted to flee through the barrage, while
death and wounds took heavy toll.
A whistle sounded; others took up the call. Whether the order to
advance was premeditated, or given on the spur of the moment, few of
the New Zealanders knew. At any rate, now was the opportunity to
secure another few hundred yards of ground.
"Up and over, boys!"
A line of khaki topped the parapet, leapt into the open, and broke
into a steady double.
Malcolm, with bayonet fixed and magazine charged, found himself
right-hand man of C Company as the Diggers surged onwards in
extended order.
A few scared and demoralized Huns, who had contrived to dodge the
barrage, came towards them slowly, as if uncertain of their
reception. With hands upraised and cries of "Kamerad" on their lips
the surrendering men passed between the advancing troops, who
saluted them with ironical advice to "Cut it out, and not so much of
your Kamerad stunt!"
Presently the battalion slowed down. The men were treading on the
heels of their own barrage. So perfectly were the shells falling
that there was little fear of one falling short and playing havoc
with the khaki boys. With a feeling of complete confidence, akin to
that of a child for its mother, the New Zealanders literally clung
to the skirts of the barrage, at the same time adjuring the distant
artillerymen to "Push it along and let's get on!"
In response to a signal from an observing aeroplane the barrage
suddenly parted, some of the guns surging round to the right, others
lifting and pounding away at a mass of German reserves. Immediately
in front of C Company was a gap that would bring men to hand-grips
with the foe.
Nothing could have kept the Anzacs back. In vain a daring German
aeroplane swooped down and brought a machine-gun to play with
absolute impartiality upon the combatants, finally to "crash" upon
the corpse-covered ground. With no visible result did the Huns send
up their so-called S.O.S. signals for aid. The retirement became a
rout, while the New Zealanders pressed hard at the heels of the
opponents.
"Enough of that, boys!" ordered Captain Nicholson, who of all the
company officers was the senior one unwounded. "Dig yourselves in
and stand fast."
Already the haunting suspicion that C Company had pushed on in
advance of the rest of the line assailed the young officer. Times
without number he had been impressed, and had impressed others, with
the need of keeping in touch with the flanking companies. How the
line ran, whether the Australian troops of the right were in advance
or to the rear of the New Zealanders, he knew not. Dense clouds of
low-lying smoke hid everything. The Huns were releasing prodigious
quantities of poison gas. Away to the left an advance
ammunition-dump went up with a terrific explosion.
In a slight depression, littered with coils of severed barbed wire
and displaced sand-bags, Captain Nicholson got his men in hand. The
defeated Prussians were being swallowed up in the haze of battle,
but dense masses of grey-clad troops were advancing under cover of
the liberated gas.
There was no doubt about it, C Company had lost touch. Every man
realized the fact, although none remarked it to his comrade. The
heat of battle over, they set to work to consolidate and hold the
position they had carried at such a cost. Rifle and machine-gun
bullets were beginning to spray the ground anew.
Captain Nicholson scribbled a few lines in his pocket-book, tore out
the leaf, and beckoned to Malcolm, who was engaged in collecting
sand-bags.
"Cut it out, Carr!" he shouted. The order, puzzling to a Tommy, was
plain to the rifleman addressed. Desisting from his task, he
approached his officer and saluted.
"Find the C.O.," ordered Captain Nicholson. "Give him this--at all
costs."
Malcolm took the folded paper and thrust it in his pocket, unfixed
his bayonet and returned it to the scabbard, slung his rifle, and
started off at a run in the direction of the invisible Messines
village. According to the ethics of the Great War a dispatch-bearer
must walk while under shell-fire, but when exposed to rifle-fire he
may run without loss of dignity or prestige. And, since the matter
was urgent, Malcolm felt glad that he was not to traverse a
shell-watered zone.
Wounded men, both friend and foe, called imploringly as he passed.
Beyond a few cheering words to his helpless comrades he could do
nothing to aid them. His errand was too pressing. There were dead,
too, in ghastly heaps, some with their fingers still clutching the
throats of their opponents, others in a naturally recumbent position
that gave the appearance of having fallen easily to sleep.
All the while bullets were whizzing overhead, thudding against the
debris that littered the ground, or ricochetting from the hard
earth. In his imagination Malcolm felt that he was the target for a
whole Prussian division. No wonder, then, that his heart was in his
mouth as, bending low, he darted from shell-hole to shell-hole and
took advantage of the slightest shelter afforded by a rise in the
terrain.
A feeling of utter loneliness assailed him. It was different from
advancing with tried and trusted comrades around him and the
inspiring dash that accompanied the rush of men confident of
victory. Save for the slain and wounded he was alone in the open,
not facing bullets, but followed and overlooked by a regular hail
coming from an unseen source.
"I've got the wind up this time," he muttered. "Hope I'm on the
right track. I don't remember passing this----"
His foot tripped on a strand of wire, the lowermost and only intact
part of an entanglement. Down he crashed heavily, his
shrapnel-helmet rolling down a declivity for a distance of nearly
ten yards.
"Buckshie for me this time," he exclaimed, without making an effort
to rise. "Wonder where I've got it?"
Gradually he made the discovery that beyond a grazed instep, for one
of the barbs had penetrated his boot, he was unwounded. His ankle
was throbbing painfully. In his fall he had sprained it. With an
effort he regained his feet, clenched his teeth as a sharp twinge
shot through his frame, and again pushed onwards. Although at a
deminished pace he still ran--not from inclination but from a sense
of duty.
A bang and a cloud of white smoke high above his head told Malcolm
that the guns were renewing their activity.
"Shrap., and I've lost my helmet!" he exclaimed. "I'll lose my head
next, if I haven't done so already. By gum, I'm out of my tracks!"
He stopped and surveyed his surroundings. He was now quite alone.
Even the dead and wounded were no longer in evidence. Smoke limited
his range of vision to a distance of less than a hundred yards.
Beyond, a few gaunt stumps of trees loomed through the pungent
vapour like distorted shadows. With the sun completely obscured, he
had no means of ascertaining his direction. For all he knew he might
have followed a semicircular course. The sound of the guns helped
him not at all. Which were the hostile and which the British
artillery was a question he was unable to answer.
A whiff of nauseating gas drifted across his path. His right hand
sought his anti-gas mask. It had vanished. Only a portion of one of
the straps remained; it had been completely severed by a bullet.
And now another difficulty arose. The deadly gas used by the Huns,
having a density greater than air, has a tendency to fill the
hollows and leave the high ground comparatively clear. On Malcolm's
front the ground rose gradually to a height of about twenty feet.
While it might afford protection from the noxious vapour, the ridge
was certainly open to rifle-fire. Nor could Carr understand why, in
a temporarily-deserted expanse, there should be such a persistent
hail of machine-gun fire.
"Better to risk a bullet than a dose of gas," decided the rifleman,
and with this intention he breasted the slope as rapidly as his
sprained ankle would allow.
"Might get a sight of the village, too," he soliloquized as he
neared the summit of the ridge.
Something struck him sharply on the hip. Mechanically he glanced
down. The butt of his slung rifle was splintered, the brass
heel-plate curiously twisted. A piece of shell, which otherwise
would have inflicted a dangerous if not mortal wound, had been
intercepted by the rifle.
"A miss is as good as a mile," he remarked to himself.
The sensation akin to panic had passed. A kind of blind fatalism
gripped him.
"If I'm booked to be plugged it's no use getting flurried over it,"
he continued, talking aloud. His voice seemed strange and distant,
but for want of someone with whom to converse it afforded him a
slight sense of companionship--an audible indication that he was
still alive. "On the other hand, if my number isn't up, why worry?
All the same, I should like to know how far I'm away from Messines."
Fifty yards ahead was a zigzag trench, its direction only
discernible by interrupted sections of sand-bags and badly-shattered
wire. Subjected earlier in the day to a terrible artillery pounding,
it had been abandoned, but whether by Briton or Hun there was no
indication except by closer examination. Evidently it was the
rearmost of an intricate system of field-fortifications, for Malcolm
was on the parados side while beyond, merging into smoke and haze,
were other ramifications of the maze of trenches, all silent and
deserted.
"They are bound to lead somewhere," was Malcolm's surmise. "To the
Messines salient most likely. I'll risk it. It's certainly safer
than in the open, so here goes."
Choosing a gap in the parados, Rifleman Carr cautiously slid on to
the floor of the trench. The effort gave his ankle a wrench that
sent a pain through his leg like the searing of a hot iron.
"I'll get there if I have to crawl for it," he muttered. "There's
one thing certain, I won't be able to go back."
The trench was dry and the floor made good going, except in places
where the sand-bags had slipped and formed awkward obstacles. There
were no indications as to who were the owners of the place.
Discarded British and German rifles, clips of cartridges, and other
articles were impartially strewn about.
Just as Malcolm was approaching the fourth or fifth bay a heavy
shell landed about twenty yards from the parapet. With a concussion
that sent sand-bags flying and hurled tons of dirt high in air the
missile exploded.
Bending to avoid the flying fragments that were descending like
rain, Malcolm, regardless of his sprained foot, bolted round the
traverse, and before he was fully aware of the fact he had blundered
right into a party of Huns.