The Last Stand
"Who says we won't be in Berlin before Christmas?" shouted a man
staggering past under the weight of a Stokes's gun, his burden
increased by reason of the quagmire. "Not 'arf, you Diggers!"
The riflemen within hearing expressed their approval of the idea,
for the obstacle that was holding up a section of the advance was a
row of concrete pill-boxes surrounding the entrance to a deep and
extensive cave--a formidable stronghold known as "Berlin". Beyond
was a large wood, which, when carried, would be the final objective
for the day's operations.
The New Zealanders settled Berlin redoubt most effectively, and in
far less time than had been taken in reducing Van Meulen, Otto, and
other concreted strongholds. Thirty rounds from the Stokes's mortars
in the short space of two minutes played havoc with the garrisons.
Then, with loud yells of triumph, the stormers rushed the position
on three sides simultaneously, bombarded the pill-boxes with grenade
and smoke-bombs, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the scanty
remnant of a once numerous garrison come forth in fear and terror,
accepting their conquerors' assurances that their lives would be
spared.
"See that the job's done properly, Sergeant," ordered a major of
another company, addressing Fortescue, who was assembling the
handful of his platoon.
Fortescue saluted, and, calling Malcolm and another man to follow,
made his way into the redoubt. The three did not tarry long. It was
a veritable slaughter-house. The floor was literally paved with
hideously-mutilated bodies of Germans who had fallen victims to the
deadly Stokes's bombs. No need to investigate lest a living Fritz
was lying doggo with the dead. The survivors had only been too eager
to seize the chance of leaving the place alive.
The operations at Berlin Farm had delayed a section of the line.
Before the men could be sent forward a pioneer battalion, composed
mostly of Maoris, whose skill at rapid digging-in had won the
admiration of the High Command, came surging up to assist in the
consolidation of the captured position. That, again, was a
distinctly satisfactory sign. New Zealand meant to hold what she had
gained.
As C Company, or rather what was left of it, were re-forming,
Malcolm encountered Grouser Joliffe. The man, ragged and
battle-worn, was grousing no longer. A supremely-satisfied smile
overspread his face.
"Boys," he whispered, "I've been in luck. Copped a dozen of the
dirty 'Uns back there, and not one of them had the courage to put up
a fight--an' me single-handed. I sent 'em back, and then had a look
round their dug-out. It was some show--not 'arf. Cigars, fags, and
drinks no end. Some of the boys strolled in and helped me refresh;
but I haven't forgot my pals. Thought I'd tumble across some of 'em
still left. Here, take this."
He handed Malcolm a bottle of soda-water, and bestowed a similar
gift upon Selwyn and Sergeant Fortescue, for two canvas bags, meant
to carry a stock of bombs, were crammed with filled bottles of
mineral water from the captured dug-out.
"Joliffe, you are a proper white man!" declared Fortescue, deftly
knocking off the head of the bottle and draining the contents at a
gulp. "But what have you been up to?"
"Mud-larkin', Sergeant," replied the man, with a solemn wink. He
touched the tip of his bayonet. "Like spearing eels in the Waikato,
it was."
The men went forward once more. Ahead, dimmed by the rain and
drifting smoke, could be discerned the rearmost edge of Berlin Wood.
It was quite unlike anything of the nature of a wood for the shells
had searched it so thoroughly that hardly a tree-trunk stood more
than ten feet in height, while every vestige of leaves and branches
had vanished. The blackened and badly-scored trunks looked more like
the columns of a long-buried temple than trees, while in many places
the charred wood was smouldering, despite the water-logged condition
of the ground.
Notwithstanding the terrific pounding of the British heavies, the
wood was still strongly held by the enemy. Fallen tree-trunks lay
athwart pill-boxes that were still intact, shell craters afforded
shelter for dozens of deadly machine-guns. Trip wires and other
fiendish contrivances abounded, while in several places _fougasses_
had been constructed, powerful enough to blow a whole platoon in the
air.
In cold blood even the bravest man would hesitate before entering
the forbidding wood of death; but the New Zealanders never faltered.
Into the gloomy sulphurous maze they plunged, with yells and shouts
of encouragement.
So intricate was the going that, although several bodies of troops
had passed well ahead, there were pill-boxes and other fortified
posts left undetected in their rear. Fritz, lying _perdu_, while the
crowd of Anzacs poured onward, would resurrect his tic-tocs and
direct a withering machine-gun fire into the backs of the luckless
men.
"Look out! On your left!" shouted Fortescue, whose ready eye had
detected a sinister movement behind a prostrate tree-trunk.
Half a dozen men of C Company dashed towards the spot with levelled
bayonets. For some reason not a bomb was hurled, nor was a shot
fired either by the Diggers or the Huns.
In a skilfully-concealed emplacement were two machine-guns, with a
crew consisting of an officer and twelve stalwart Prussians.
"Hands up!" roared Fortescue.
The German officer set the example, his men quickly imitating him,
as with arms upraised he awaited the approach of the New Zealanders.
He was a tall, bald-headed man with a prominent double-chin. His
beady eyes were furtively taking stock of the scanty number who
opposed him.
"Fritz looks greasy," mentally commented Malcolm, as he fingered the
trigger of his rifle.
The German officer rapped out an order. Hands were dropped and
rifles seized.
"Do 'em in!" shouted Fortescue. "The treacherous swine."
Although outnumbered, the Diggers did the work Diggers smartly and
effectually. As the Prussian officer raised his revolver to fire
point-blank at Sergeant Fortescue, Malcolm plunged his bayonet into
the Hun's side, while Fortescue reciprocated the service by shooting
a German who was about to deal Rifleman Carr a smashing blow with
the butt of his rifle before the latter could disengage his blade.
"Now what's to be done, Sergeant?" enquired Joliffe, as he surveyed
the scene of the struggle. Of the seven New Zealanders who had
rushed the position only four were left standing--Fortescue,
Malcolm, Joliffe, and Henderson. Dick Selwyn was lying with his back
propped against a tree-trunk and a gunshot wound in his left arm.
The bullet, fired at close range, had been almost as destructive as
a dum-dum. The other man was dead.
"Got it this time, Malcolm!" murmured Dick faintly, as his chum
knelt beside him, and with a queer smile on his face Selwyn passed
into unconsciousness.
While Rifleman Carr was busy with first-aid dressings, Sergeant
Fortescue was pondering over the situation. He had lost touch with
the advance. It was a vain sacrifice to attempt to push on with a
mere handful of men. He decided to sit tight and await developments.
Reserves would be speedily coming up; of that he felt certain.
"Can we get him out of this, Fortescue?" enquired Malcolm,
indicating his unconscious chum. Fortescue shook his head.
"No," he replied. "'Gainst orders. Sorry!"
It cost the man an effort to refuse, but the sense of discipline had
the upper hand. He, too, knew that once a wounded man was left in
the depths of the battle-swept wood there was little chance of his
being removed before it was too late. Yet if the rule were broken,
and every unwounded man took upon himself to succour his disabled
chum, the advance would be jeopardized.
Out of the smoke stumbled a wounded man, hesitatingly, as if not
certain of his bearings. His shrapnel-helmet had fallen off,
revealing an unbandaged bullet wound extending over both eyebrows.
From his waist downwards he was literally caked with plastic mud.
"This way, chum!" shouted Fortescue, seeing that the man was partly
blinded by the flow of blood, and as likely as not dazed by the
nature of his wound.
"Look out!" exclaimed the wounded Digger, as Joliffe and Henderson
assisted him into the emplacement. "We've copped it properly up
there. The boys floundered into a bog, and were shot down like
rabbits. And the Boches are counter-attacking. They'll be along here
in half a shake."
It was bad news. The main attack had inclined away to the right,
while the thinly-held line between the New Zealand division and the
English regiments on the left had been stopped, not by the Huns, but
by the impossible condition of the marshy ground. Into the gap a
strong body of German troops, who, having previously held the wood,
knew how to avoid the treacherous swamp, came hurriedly, with the
intention of driving a wedge between the assaulting troops. It was
one of those minor operations which, if successful, might turn the
fortunes of the day.
"By gum!" ejaculated Fortescue. "We're up against something. Any of
you fellows know how to handle these?"
He indicated the two captured machine-guns, in one of which a fresh
belt of ammunition had just been placed when the Diggers upset
Fritz's preparations.
"Guess I'll have a cut at it," remarked Malcolm. Joliffe also
signified his belief that he would be able to "work the gadget".
"All right, then," continued Fortescue. "Henderson, you and I will
do a bit of bombing. How about you, chum? Can you bear a hand?" The
wounded man who had brought the news of impending danger seized a
couple of discarded rifles.
"I'm good for a few rounds rapid," he replied, as he examined the
magazines of the weapons. "If I do a few of 'em in I don't mind
overmuch. One of my mates told me he saw them shooting every wounded
man of our crush they came across, so it's stick it to the last."
There was one alternative: to abandon the position. It meant leaving
Dick Selwyn to the mercies of the Huns, for retirement through the
mud would be impossible if hampered by a wounded man. Fortescue
promptly dismissed the thought.
"Yes," he exclaimed, "we'll stick it out to the last! If I go under,
Rifleman Carr takes command, then Joliffe. Now, stand by! Here they
come!"
The foremost of the advancing Germans appeared in sight at a
distance of about eighty yards from the devoted New
Zealanders--bombers and riflemen in a compact mass--the advance
guard of the formidable counter-attack.
They approached cautiously, almost furtively. Although assured by
their officers that this part of the wood was not held, they
appeared to have their doubts as to the success of their desperate
measure.
Both machine-guns got off the mark almost at the same time. At that
short range it was impossible to miss. Where men had been standing a
second or so before was a struggling heap of writhing figures,
while, to add to the slaughter, several of the bombs carried by the
enemy exploded in their midst with devastating effect.
Back pressed the survivors, the wounded crawling slowly to the
shelter of the fallen trees. Grouser Joliffe cheered. So far the
Diggers had scored heavily.
Bullets whistling past their ears told them the unpleasant news that
the Huns were developing an encircling movement. While the main body
kept well back, skilled riflemen, taking advantage of abundant
cover, were converging upon the little band of New Zealanders.
Bombs, too, were hurled, but the distance was too great. They fell
and exploded harmlessly.
Except for the moral effect, the machine-guns were now of little
use. Better work could be performed by individual shooting, but the
diverging fire from five rifles was a feeble reply to the converging
volleys from ten times that number, while the emplacement,
constructed to meet an attack from the westward, was ill-designed to
ward off an assault from the opposite quarter.
For full five minutes the defenders lay low, replying cautiously to
the hostile fire, yet conserving their energies for the time when
the Huns would attempt to rush the scantily-held post.
Then came a catastrophe. A bullet, passing through an aperture in
the concrete, struck Fortescue in the chest. Almost at the same time
the already wounded Digger who had brought the news received a
second wound in the right shoulder.
Malcolm Carr was now in charge of a garrison of four effectives all
told.
With a weird attempt at cheering a number of Boches, mostly bombers,
emerged from behind the tree-trunks and rushed towards the defences.
Both guns quickly stopped the rush, but not before three men were
astride the concrete wall.
Hardly realizing what he was about, Malcolm abandoned the
machine-gun, seized a rifle, and dropped the foremost Hun. The
second promptly lunged with his bayonet, and, although Malcolm
parried, the blade transfixed his left arm just above the elbow. The
next instant Henderson dropped the fellow with a bullet at close
quarters, while Joliffe accounted for the third.
The three New Zealanders quickly slipped behind cover, just in time
to escape a hail of bullets from the Huns, who had witnessed their
comrades' deaths. Deftly Joliffe tied a strip of linen tightly above
Malcolm's wound, for there was no time to lose. Although unable to
use a rifle, Malcolm could still work the machine-gun, in spite of
the throbbing and burning pain that shot through his left arm and
down his side.
"We've settled a good many of the swine," exclaimed Joliffe. "When
the boys come up they'll see we've died game."
Beyond a few desultory shots the attack had quieted down. It was
ominous. The Huns, unable to rush the position, were bringing up a
trench-mortar.
Suddenly the lull in this part of the wood (elsewhere the noise of
combat was still intense) was broken by the rattle of rapid
independent rifle-firing and the well-known battle-cry of the New
Zealand boys. Bombs, too, were crashing in all directions, while
Lewis guns added to the din.
Then, as swarms of khaki-clad figures dashed from between the
shattered tree-trunks, Malcolm realized that aid was forthcoming in
the very nick of time. His work accomplished, he dropped inertly to
the ground between the bodies of his greatest chums, and everything
became a blank.
* * * * *
Up the hill leading to No. 1 General Hospital, Brockenhurst--an
establishment known as Tin Town--two men in "hospital blues" were
slowly making their way. Both were wearing new, stiff-brimmed New
Zealand hats, adorned with scarlet puggarees. The "blues" might be
ill-fitting and sloppy, but it was a point of honour amongst the
"boys" that their head-gear should be smart.
One of the men had his left arm in a sling, the empty sleeve being
pinned to his coat; the other, in addition to wearing a bandage
round his forehead, walked with a pronounced limp and leant heavily
upon a rubber-shod walking-stick.
"Think you'll manage it, Malcolm?" enquired the man with the
crippled arm. "It's a stiffish pull."
"I guess I'll do it, Dick," replied Rifleman Carr. "We've tackled
some job for our first walk beyond the grounds; but Fortescue will
be disappointed if we don't fetch there. How much farther is it?"
"Foot a bit stiff?" enquired Selwyn as his companion paused and
rested one hand on Dick's shoulder.
"It gives me gip at times; suppose I'm a bit out of training, too,"
replied Malcolm. "What puzzles me is how did I get that buckshie?"
"What puzzles me," rejoined Dick, "is how any of us came out of it
alive. There's Fortescue, with a hole drilled completely through his
chest, alive and kicking. You came off lightly, my boy; but when
they carted me into the operating-room I thought it was good-bye to
my arm."
At length the chums reached the portals of Tin Town. Following an
asphalted path between well-kept lawns they arrived at the
corrugated-iron building in which Sergeant Fortescue was to be
found. Being a fine afternoon, and most of the cases convalescent,
the ward was almost deserted. The object of their search was soon
discovered.
"Glad to see you," exclaimed Fortescue when the preliminary
greetings had been exchanged. "I hear you're boarded for New
Zealand, Selwyn?"
"Yes, I'm off to Torquay on Thursday," replied Selwyn. "Suppose
it'll be six weeks more before I get a boat, and then cheer-o for
Christchurch."
"Lucky dog!" commented Fortescue. "By the way, Malcolm, I've news
for you. That boxing Maori pal of yours, Te Paheka's his name, I
fancy, is in the next ward. Do you know, he carried you right back
to the advance dressing-station, and that you were both bowled over
by a shell just the other side of Hannebeke stream? That's how you
got it in the foot, and Te Paheka had a chunk taken off his
shoulder. Yet he stuck to you and carried you in before he
collapsed."
"That's news," declared Malcolm. "How is he? I'll look him up when
we leave you. And now I'll tell you some news. I've been recommended
for a commission, and am to have a staff job in Blighty until I'm
fit to go out again."
"_Kia ora_, laddie," said Fortescue heartily. "C Company, or what's
left of the boys, seem to be dropping in for plums. They've even
given me the D.C.M. Goodness only knows what for," he added
modestly. "They say it was for holding a captured post. But what
else were we to do? It was a case of sticking it or going under. My
word, our fellows paid the price; but they are great."
"We had a lady visitor this afternoon," remarked Selwyn after more
blunt congratulations had been tendered and received. "She started
by remarking how magnificent it was of the boys to come all the way
from New Zealand to help smash Big and Little Willie; how loyal to
the Mother-land, and all that sort of talk. We managed to enlighten
her some; told her that we preferred to fight in Europe than to sit
still and run the risk of meeting Fritz down under--for that's what
it would be if Germany did get the upper hand. So we chuck in our
little lot to help others, and at the same time to help ourselves.
Well, so long, Fortescue, we'll look you up again to-morrow."
Te Paheka's olivine features were wreathed in smiles when Malcolm
entered his ward. The Maori's fighting days were over. Never again
would he use either bayonet or boxing-gloves, for his right arm was
totally incapacitated. He, too, was "boarded" for Aotea Roa[1]--the
Land of the Southern Cross.
"I am lucky, Malcolm," he said after Rifleman Carr had thanked him
for his act of devotion. "Lucky to be able to bring you in. Golly, I
can still drive a motor-car. When you come home, Malcolm, I'll be
waiting for you at Lyttelton with the most top-hole car going. And
you'll be there all right, with honours and distinctions. _Kia
ora_."
"Thanks, Te Paheka!" replied Malcolm. "I'll do my level best to
carry on, for the honour of New Zealand and the Anzac Brigade."
[1] Aotea Roa--"the white cloud"--is the Maori name for New Zealand.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Lively Bit of the Front, by Percy F. Westerman