CHAPTER XV
The Eve of Messines
"Now then, you chaps, if you aren't hungry your pals are. Lookslippy and get those rations up. You'll tumble across the wagons atLa Tuille Farm."
"Right oh, Sergeant!" responded a youthful corporal. "Come along,chapses! Best foot forward!"
The Sergeant, having seen that a start was about to be made, backedout of the dug-out, dropped the tapestried curtain--it was a raggedand soiled ground-sheet--over the entrance, and disappeared along thenarrow trench.
Crowded into the small dug-out were seven New Zealand riflemen.Three of them are old acquaintances: Carr, Selwyn, and Macready, alllooking lean, dirty, and unkempt, while their uniforms were caked indried mud and frayed with hard usage. The final touches at Stapleswere a thing of the past. For four long days the men had been in thefirst-line trenches facing the formidable Messines Ridge.
The dug-out was comparatively dry. For one thing, the weather hadbeen propitious, and the loathsome mud had almost disappeared. Theroof was composed of untrimmed tree trunks on which were piledsand-bags sufficiently thick to stop shells of medium calibre. Thewalls were likewise timbered, while along three sides ran a narrowshelf on which were bundles of straw to serve as beds. Hanging fromnails driven into the rough-and-ready wainscot were the men'shaversacks and other equipment, while ranged alongside the door weretheir rifles. Those were the only objects upon which any great carehad been bestowed. In spite of rain, mud, discolouring fumes ofshells, hard usage, and a dozen other difficulties, the rifles werekept well-oiled and in perfect condition.
In the centre of the dug-out stood a cylindrical piece of perforatediron in which a fire was burning dully. The fumes filled theconfined space to such an extent that it was difficult for any ofthe occupants to distinguish their companions' features, but thatwas a detail to be endured with equanimity in the trenches. As itwas the month of June, and warm, the men were lucky to be able tohave a fire, considering the scarcity of fuel and the difficulty ofconveying wood and charcoal up to the firing-line.
During the day Fritz had been actively engaged in "watering" theline with high-explosive shells. Not only did the advance andsupport trenches get it hot, but for miles behind the lines hostileshells were dropping promiscuously, on the chance of blowing up oneor more of the numerous dumps and otherwise hampering the supplycolumns. But as night fell the "strafe" became desultory, and undercover of darkness the fatigue and foraging parties were able to setto work with a reasonable chance of getting through without being"done in".
"Come along, boys," exclaimed the young corporal--Billy Preston fromTimaru--a veteran of Egypt and Gallipoli notwithstanding the factthat he was within a month of his twenty-first birthday. "The soonerwe get the job done the better."
The men were dog-tired. A couple of hostile raids had kept them onthe qui vive the previous night, while throughout the day they hadhad but few opportunities for sleep. And now, just as they werepreparing to snatch a few hours' rest, they had been told off tobring up the rations.
"We've got to assemble at two, haven't we?" enquired RiflemanJoliffe--commonly known as Grouser Joliffe. "They say our chaps areto attempt to take Messines Ridge. Attempt, I say, mind you, and ourguns haven't hardly touched the job. There's uncut wire, you can seethat for Yourselves, and machine-guns every yard of the way.'Struth! I'm for swinging the lead. You don't catch me hurrying whenthe whistle goes."
His remarks fell on unheeding ears. The men were used to GrouserJoliffe's complaints by this time, They knew that when the criticalmoment arrived Joliffe would be amongst the first to mount thefire-step and clamber over the parapet. Yet there were grounds forbelief in what the rifleman had said. The formidable ridge was to beattempted. The British knew it; the Huns knew it. With itslabyrinths of wire and nests of skilfully-hidden machine-gunsMessines Ridge was far more difficult to assault than in the earlierstages of the war, when French won and lost the important position.
Meanwhile Malcolm had rolled out of his narrow uncomfortable perchand was stretching his cramped limbs. Selwyn was fumbling with hisputtees.
"Hang it," he exclaimed. "A rat has been gnawing at them. Anyone gota piece of string?"
The deficiency remedied, and the scanty toilet operations performed(the inhabitants of the dug-out had turned in "all standing", evento their boots), the men put on their shrapnel helmets, seized theirrifles, and sallied forth into the night.
For some moments Malcolm could see nothing. The transition from thesmoky, ill-lighted dug-out to the darkness of the open air confusedhis sight. All he could do was to keep in touch with the manpreceding him until he grew accustomed to the change of venue.
Fresh air--is there such a thing anywhere within miles of No Man'sLand? Malcolm doubted it. The atmosphere reeked of numerous anddistinct odours. Traces of poison gas lurked in the traverses,pungent fumes from bursting shells wafted over parapet and parados,while the report, passed on from various successive occupants ofthis section of the line, that a dozen dead Huns had been buriedunder the floor of the support trench--the old first-line trench ofa Prussian regiment--seemed to find definite confirmation.
A low whine and a terrific _wump_ as a high-explosive shell arrivedand burst fifty yards in the rear of the trench showed that Fritzwas still strafing. A fortnight previously Malcolm's heart wouldhave been in his boots. Now he scarcely heeded the messenger ofdeath and destruction, although showers of dust and calcined woodflew over the parados amongst the ration party. Familiarity withmissiles of that description had quickly bred contempt.
At frequent intervals lurid star-shells lit up the sky. The Hunswere getting decidedly jumpy of late. Expecting a strong attack, yetnot knowing the actual time, they were massing their men on theridge under the protection of their artillery. Away to the leftmachine-guns were delivering a _staccato obbligato_.
"Our heavies are quiet to-night," remarked Selwyn, who was trudgingalong the duck-boards literally on Malcolm's heels. "Why to blazesdon't they give Fritz half a dozen for every one he throws over?Hanged if I can make things out."
Malcolm pulled tip suddenly, to avoid charging into the back of theman immediately preceding him. Those behind bunched up and halted,while from the front of the single file came a very strongexclamation of pain and anger.
"What's wrong?" enquired the Corporal "Someone buckshied?"
"Yes," replied the voice of Grouser Joliffe. "Copped it in myblessed arm."
"Then foot it to the dressing-station," ordered Corporal Preston.
"Me?" enquired the rifleman. "Me? Not much. Wait till we've broughtin the grub, and then--you don't catch me going over the toptonight."
For another hundred and fifty yards the party proceeded before themen turned into the zigzag communication-trench. This ran backwardsfor nearly a mile. In places it was eight feet deep, with sand-bagson either side in addition, In others, in marshy spots, where thehigh-explosive shells had spitefully disturbed the tranquillity ofmeandering streams and carried the sluggish water to overflow andswamp the surrounding ground, the "trench" was above normalground-level, with a lofty and broad wall of sand-bags to right andleft. Here and there the trench was roofed in, where, fromexperience, men had learnt it was unhealthy owing to being exposedto machine-gun fire. The Huns had got to know the weak spots. Aerialobservation during daylight had enabled them to train machine-gunsupon certain points of the communication-trenches. The lethalweapons would be ominously silent until after dark; then, on theoff-chance of receiving a good bag, they would let loose a hail ofbullets.
The men hastened across the more-exposed sections generally on theirhands and knees. Even the bravest heaved a sigh of relief when thedanger-spot was safely crossed. Going over the top they wouldunhesitatingly rush a machine-gun emplacement, but crawling awayfrom the enemy, never knowing when a hail of bullets would sweep theground, was enough to try the nerves of the case-hardenedcampaigner.
Presently the communication-trench ended, and the ration-partystumbled across a double line of narr
ow-gauge rails, part of theintricate system behind the lines. The track ran diagonally to thedirection of the trench. To the left it led to and beyond the ArmyService Corps dump at La Tuille. In the opposite direction itdisappeared in the bowels of the earth, while a network of branchlines complicated the system. All through the hours of darkness, forseveral months past, heavily-laden trucks carefully covered withcamouflaged canvas rumbled away from the lines to return empty eredawn. Latterly the reverse conditions prevailed. Full trucks, eachpropelled singly by manual labour and with long intervals betweenthe vehicles, proceeded towards the trenches but never reached them.
Subterranean works of an extensive nature were on the point of beingcompleted. Every load of excavation was carefully taken miles to therear in the dead of night, in order to baffle the enemy's aerialobservers. So well guarded were these operations that even the menin the trenches were unaware of their nature, although many shrewdconjectures were not far out.
"Hallo, chums!" called out one of the ration-party as a truck hauledby three sappers rattled along. "How's your Channel Tunnel schemegetting along?"
"Fine!" was the reply. "Are you taking up any shares in the concern?There'll be a sharp rise very shortly, you know."
Another fifty yards and a word of command from Corporal Prestonbrought the squad to a halt. Out of the darkness came the sound of ahundred marching feet; then, almost invisible in their khakiuniform, a battalion of Australian infantry passed. It wassignificant that the men were in light marching order.
"By Gum! There's something up," whispered Selwyn. "Crowds of bombersand a whole crush of Lewis guns. Hallo! Here's more of them."
The progress of the ration-party was slow. A constant stream ofinfantry, swarms of transport of all conditions, clearly denotedthat operations of more than minor importance were impending.
"There's enough to swamp our trenches," declared Malcolm. "Where onearth are they going to assemble?"
"That Sapper fellow evidently knew something when he talked about asharp rise," said Selwyn. "And look! Tanks--crowds of them!"
Ambling along by the side of the tramway came a long line ofarmoured mastodons. The ground shook under the relentless pressureof the tractor bands, the air reeked with petrol fumes. Viewed inbroad daylight the Tanks looked formidable enough; in the darkness,their weird outlines distorted by the misty atmosphere, theyappeared like huge, grotesque monsters from another world.
"If I were Fritz I'd think twice before standing up to one of thosebrutes," soliloquized Malcolm. "Twenty-two of them. This will be abig stunt, and no mistake."
At length, after many delays, the ration-party arrived at thefarm--or, rather, the pile of rubble that was known as La TuilleFarm before a nest of German machine-guns had attracted the noticeof an observant battery-commander. That was three months ago.Already nettles and briers were covering the blackened debris, as ifNature were doing her best to disguise the destructive handiwork ofMan.
At the rear of the mound was the A.S.C. advanced depot. Piles ofbully-beef tins, tiers of barrels and cases, small mountains ofloaves covered with tarpaulins, were diminishing rapidly under theheavy calls made upon them by deputations from the men in thetrenches. Although within range of hostile guns, the "dump" had sofar escaped serious damage, To bring the supplies nearer the linesby mechanical transfer would be to court disaster, so every ounce offood had to be carried by squads detailed for that purpose. Everyscrap of provisions the men in the trenches received had to bebrought at the risk of life and limb. The task was a hazardous one,but there was never any lack of men willing and eager to run therisk of being strafed for the sake of feeding their comrades in thefiring-line.
Corporal Preston went off to find the non-com. who had to issue therations to his section, leaving his men to stand easy until hereturned.
Someone touched Malcolm on the shoulder.
"Bear a hand, chum, and help me turn off the tap," said a huskyvoice.
Malcolm turned, and found that the speaker was Grouser Joliffe.
"Turn off what tap?" he asked.
"S--sh! Not so loud!" continued the rifleman. "It's my arm, I mean.Bleeding like anything. Help me off with my coat and clap afirst-aid dressing on it, and I'll be all right. No dressing-stationfor me, I'll miss this stunt. Think we'll be back in time?" he addedanxiously. "Corporal's a long time about it."
The two men withdrew a few paces, and Carr helped Joliffe to removehis coat. Already the sleeve was moist and clammy. On the left arm,just below the shoulder, was a nasty gash, caused by a fragment of ashell.
"It's good enough for Blighty, old lad!" exclaimed Malcolm.
"No dinkum Blighty for me!" expostulated Joliffe vehemently. "Neverhad a chance to fire a round yet--nor to use my blinkin' bay'net.But I mean to," he added. "If the boys go over the top without methere'll be trouble!" Malcolm bound up the wound, adjusting thebandages tightly. Although the dressing operation was a painful one,Grouser Joliffe never uttered a sound, although Malcolm could seebeads of perspiration glistening on the rifleman's wrinkledforehead.
"How's that?" he asked.
Joliffe lifted his left arm with an effort.
"Feels a bit stiff," he admitted. "Maybe you've tied those bandagesa bit too tight. Still, 'tisn't your fault. When we get back I'llhave a few swings with my rifle and bay'net; then if the dressingwants altering you'll bear a hand?"
"Certainly!" said Malcolm, as he helped the man on with his coat.
"You'll be lucky if you don't fall out before we get back," hesoliloquized.
Having drawn the stores, the ration-party set out on the returnjourney. Until they reached the commencement of thecommunication-trench they were able to make use of a couple of emptytrucks which were lying on a siding close to the dump.
The vehicles each had four flanged wheels. The bodies were made ofwood, originally painted grey, but little of the paint was left.Caked mud still stuck to the bottom of the trucks, but men in thefiring-line cannot be fastidious. Loaves, bags of sugar, tea, andtins of bully beef were thrown in indiscriminately. Thewater-carriers lifted their heavy burdens--every drop of water hadto be taken into the trenches, for, although there are springs andwater-holes in abundance close to the firing-line, the risk ofcontamination had to be carefully guarded against--and the"homeward" trek began.
Beyond a few desultory shells the British artillery was practicallyinactive. Fritz had already been used to a furious bombardment as apreliminary of a "big stunt". For change, he was not being warned inthis fashion, and, consequently, although expecting an attack withinthe next few days, the absence of a downright strafe put him off hisguard. Nevertheless, the German guns on the spur of Messines Ridge,and miles beyond the heights, were persistently "watering" theground behind the British lines.
Stumbling over the sleepers, the ration-party kept their groaningvehicles rumbling along the hastily-laid track. Grouser Joliffe wassilent now, but Malcolm noticed that, although he used only one handto help propel the truck, he was not lacking in energy.
"He won't last out at that rate," thought the lad; but when heoffered to take the place of the wounded man, Joliffe turned uponhim almost savagely.
"I'm all right," he persisted. "You keep your mouth shut and let mealone, or the other fellows will tumble to it. I was a blamed foolto holler when I copped it!"
A shrieking, tearing sound had the effect of making every man throwhimself upon the ground. With a terrific crash an 8-inch shellexploded within fifty yards of the track, sending showers of dirtover the trucks and upon the prostrate party.
"All right there?" enquired the Corporal, as the men regained theirfeet. "Good! Carry on."
A short distance farther on the party came to an abrupt halt. Therails had vanished. Across the track was a crater twenty feet indiameter, from which acrid fumes were still slowly emanating fromthe pulverized earth. Already a fatigue-party was at work divertingthe lines round the edge of the yawning pit. At all costscommunication must be maintained, in order to leave no hitch in thearrangements
for the morning's attack.
"You'll have to unload, mate," said the sergeant in charge of theEngineers. "Thank your lucky stars you weren't here twenty minutesago. The Jocks copped it. They've carted fifteen of 'em off. There'sbeen two of 'em already to-night, so look out for a third for luck."
The Diggers set to work to negotiate the obstacle. The idea ofunloading did not appeal to them in the slightest. Leaving a man incharge of one truck--experience had taught them the necessity forthat, where unguarded stores are anyone's property--all hands liftedthe second vehicle clear of the rails.
The flanged wheels sank deeply into the soft ground, but by sheerhard work the truck was propelled round the crater to the spot wherethe lines resumed their-sphere of usefulness.
On the way back to the other track Malcolm glanced at the luminousface of his wristlet watch. It was nearly midnight.
Suddenly a blinding flash appeared to leap from the g round at thelad's feet. With a tremendous roar ringing in his ears, Malcolmfound himself being hurtled through the air, and amidst a shower ofdebris he fell, a limp mass, into the smoking crater.