CHAPTER XIV
The Anzacs' Hoax
For the next few weeks events moved rapidly. With the belatedarrival of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcement, Malcolm Carr andDick Selwyn found themselves reverted to the ranks. Fortescue, byvirtue of having seen active service, still retained his stripes.Rumours of something great in the nature of a stunt about to takeplace gained credence from the fact that the men were put throughtheir final training as quickly as possible. The "Diggers" acceptedthe "speeding up" with alacrity. They realized that the sooner theycompleted their arduous "field exercises" the sooner they wouldattain their ambition to "put it across Fritz".
The spring gave place to early summer, a spell of beautifully fineweather, so much so that the mud of Salisbury Plain vanished, andthe 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 verypink of condition.
"_Ehoa!_ It's Sling."
The announcement ran like wildfire along the line of huts. It meantthat the transfer of the brigade to Sling Camp was another milestonein the long trek to the Front.
It is futile to attempt to find Sling on the pre-war maps ofSalisbury Plain. A large town of mushroom growth, it had been one ofthe places inseparably associated with New Zealand's part in theGreat War. To the man who had yet to undergo his baptism of fire,Sling meant proficiency for the firing-line. To the wounded NewZealander recovering from wounds, being ordered to Sling meant thathe was considered fit to "I get one back on Fritz". In brief, SlingCamp was a piece of New Zealand soil planted in England, where thepick of the manhood of the Southern Dominion forgathered for thefinal polishing touches of the noble profession of arms.
Before June was far advanced word went round that the brigade was tocross the Channel and go into camp at "Etaps"--as Etaples is almostuniformly designated by the khaki lads. Again rumour spoketruthfully, 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?" askedSelwyn. "I've a second cousin there."
Fortescue smiled grimly.
"No, you don't, my dinky lad," he replied. "After Muizenberg westeer clear of your relations. As a matter of fact, they'll push usstraight on board a transport, and she'll sail as soon as it getsdark."
The train, upon arrival at the place of embarkation, ran straightinto the docks, and brought up close to one of the many transportsthat were berthed there with banked fires ready to sail at any hourof the day or night.
In full marching order the men trooped up the gangways, divestedthemselves of their packs, and made themselves as comfortable aspossible for their twelve or fourteen hours' voyage. Within thespace of two hours twelve hundred troops, both Australians and NewZealanders, were embarked.
"Good-bye, Blighty!" shouted an Anzac. "Shan't see you again formany a long day."
"Stow your jaw and get your life-belt," ordered a non-com. "You'llbe in the soup if the platoon commander finds you without it."
The wire hawsers were cast off. A couple of tugs began straining attheir huge charge, and slowly the transport drew away from the sideof the dock. Then, gathering speed, she slipped down the land-lockedexpanse of Southampton Water, through the fort-guarded Spithead, andgained the English Channel.
"We'll be airing our French by this time tomorrow," declaredMalcolm.
"For the preservation of the Entente we would be wise to keep ourmouths shut," said Selwyn. "From what I remember, Malcolm, you werelast but one in French at the Coll."
"And you?"
"Absolutely the last," admitted Selwyn.
"Talking of French," began Fortescue, "reminds me of something thathappened to me at Plug Street. Hallo, what's the move now?"
Fortescue's narrative, or rather attempted narrative, of whatoccurred at Plug Street was somewhat remarkable. On three previousoccasions Malcolm and Selwyn had heard him commencing the tale, andeach time something had occurred to "switch him off."
It was no ordinary interruption on this occasion. The transport hadaltered helm and was turning to starboard, with her bows pointingtowards the Foreland end of The Wight. Still porting helm, she swunground until she reversed her former direction, then, standing on hercourse, 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 andwe'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 wirelessmessage ordering her to return to Southampton, as four Germansubmarines had been reported lying in wait at a distance of tenMiles south of the Nab Lightship. Since the night was pitch dark,the escorting ships could not carry out their protective duties withthe same degree of efficiency as usual. In the circumstancesprudence directed the temporary abandonment of the cross-channelvoyage.
It was one o'clock in the morning when the transport berthed in theEmpress Dock. Orders were given for the troops to disembark andproceed to the large rest camp on the outskirts of Southampton.Disappointed though they were, the men maintained theircheerfulness, and before the long column was clear of the dock gatesthey were cheering, laughing, and shouting frantically, despite allattempts 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 fullyequipped proceeding _towards_ the docks; never since the outbreak ofhostilities had they seen soldiers in heavy marching order trampingin column of fours away from the place of embarkation.
"What's up?" was the oft-repeated enquiry from the invisible heightsof many a darkened window in the High Street.
"Haven't you heard?" shouted a bull-voiced Anzac. "Peace isdeclared, and we're the first troops home from the Front."
At the prospect of a gigantic hoax others took up the mendaciousparable, and long before the men reached their destination for thenight the startling news had spread far and wide. It was not untilthe arrival of the morning papers that the good folk of Southamptonrealized that they had been "properly had".
The enforced detention at Southampton, was, however, not withoutcertain compensations. The men were allowed out of camp during thefollowing afternoon, a boon they thoroughly appreciated.
Selwyn had seized upon the opportunity to visit his relations, butwhen fie again invited Malcolm and Fortescue to accompany him theybegged to be excused, and wandered round the town instead.
Old Southampton was both a surprise and a revelation to MalcolmCarr. Coming from a country where a fifty-year-old building isconsidered to be old, the sight of the fourteenth-century walls andfortified gates filled him with enthusiasm, while Fortescue was ableto explain the nature of the various architectural features.
Wandering down a narrow and far from clean street they came face toface with an ancient stone building flung athwart the road. On theside of the archway a notice board announced it to be the oldWestgate, through which the armies of Edward III and Henry V marchedto embark upon the expedition that ended respectively in thevictories of Crecy and Agincourt.
"One can imagine the throng of mailed knights leathern-jerkinedarchers pouring under the double portcullis," remarked Fortescue."Those armies left this place as enemies of France; to-day ours alsoleave Southampton, but with a different purpose, to rid French soilof 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 thousandtroops--not a third of the number of men raised in New Zealandalone."
"To carry the comparison still further," continued his companion,"our quota is roughly a fiftieth of the fighting forces of theEmpire. For every man who levelled lance or drew
bow at Agincourtagainst the French, one hundred and fifty are to-day fighting sideby side with their former enemies. Those chaps--'island carrions,desperate of their bones', as Will Shakespeare aptly puts it--areour ancestors, Malcolm, whether we are New Zealanders, Australians,or Canadians, and although we are up against a big thing I haven'tthe 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 assharp as we can, or we may have the Muizenberg business all overagain."
That evening the troops re-embarked. By this time the lurkingU-boats had been dealt with in a most effective way. Their shatteredhulls lay on the bed of the English Channel. The route was nowclear, and the transport's voyage was practically devoid ofincident.
Without the loss of a single man, thanks to the mysterious yeteffective means of protection afforded by the British navy, theThirty-somethingth reinforcement had completed yet another stage oftheir Odyssey. At last they were upon the soil of La Belle France,and within sound of the hostile guns.