"The Australians will retire," said an officer, jumping in front of the attacking line.

"Who said so?" asked Colonel Killem, looking at the man.

"I say so. I'm one of zee Staff."

"You damned German!" shouted the colonel, shooting him dead. The game which had been so well played in France did not come off.

The remnants of the Turks were bayoneted and butted to death; but the main body were fleeing up the hill.

"Rapid fire!" roared the colonel; but the eager men were already after the enemy with the bayonet. Up the steep, steep sides of the cliff they clambered and stumbled. It was more like a race for a prize than a juggle with death. Occasionally the morning light showed the red blood on the bayonets and hands of the charging men.

These blood-stained, panting soldiers terrified the Turks at the top of the hill. Their tactics had surprised them. They had looked for the usual musketry assault; instead, they had received the chilling steel. And the bayonet on a cold morning is a sight that sickens the best. Furiously they pumped another dose of lead into the gallant Australians. More fell dead, others dropped wounded, blood spattered the grass, and above the din of musketry and guns could be heard the cries of:

"Bearers—stretcher bearers!"

"Water, for God's sake!"

"Send up the doctor."

"I'm done, boys—I'm d-o-n-e!"

The units, by this time, had become mixed. Many officers had been killed. There was that confusion which is found in all attacks. Still, all these men knew that "forward—forward" was the game. The roughest and most daring took charge of little groups, and, with these, they cheered, cursed, and leaped into the trench at the edge of the green plateau. Again, the main body had fled, leaving the more weary and stubborn to defend the hill.

"Kill the beggars!"

"Plug his bread-basket!"

These were some of the things that were shouted, for all soldiers, in a charge, curse like Marlborough's troops did in Flanders.

A charge seems a terrible thing when reading of it at one's fireside. Folks shiver and ask, "How can they do it? Don't they feel afraid?" They may at the outset; but the noise, the swing, the officers' inspiration, the sight of blood and a fleeing foe damp down the sensitiveness of culture and recreate the primitive lust to kill.

For the moment the man is a savage; Nature blinds him to the perils of wounds and death. Duty steels him harder still, and pride of race tells him that he must do as his fathers did—die like a gentleman and a soldier.

The success of the first troops inspired the following reserves. They all wanted to emulate the Kangaroo Marines and other dashing corps. Without waiting for their complete units, these little groups crawled, floundered, and wriggled their way up the gully on to the hill. It was now daylight. As they gained the summit the Turks greeted them with terrific bursts of shrapnel and common shell. The crack, the white puff of smoke, then the scattering balls of lead did not dismay these warriors.

It roused their curiosity, and, like schoolboys, some stopped to see the fun of the show. Cover they disdained. They were too proud to duck and hide in a hole or trench. This was the recklessness for which they had to pay. Yet it was useful. It taught them that to take advantage of all cover was the modern soldier's game.

"Extend, boys, extend!" roared an officer as the reserves came up. They ran out and tried to make a long, rough line. They could see the fleeing Turks, and behind them the Kangaroo Marines and other members of the first landing force. Ahead was a little valley and then a slope. This was commanded by the Turks.

"Come on, boys," shouted an officer.

Little groups, under subalterns, N.C.O.'s, or privates with the leader's instinct, dashed towards this hill. More were killed, more wounded on the way; but, undaunted, they pushed on. Up the slopes crawled, clambered, and cursed the dashing infantry. They reached their objective, and, again, the Turks had gone.

"My God—what a sight!" said Claud, looking behind. The ground was dotted with dead and dying. Wounded men crawled and limped to the rear, their clothes soaked in blood. Men with limbs shattered to pulp lay moaning and pleading for death. Others, slightly wounded, poured water down the parched throats of the suffering. It was a shambles. It was war.

Yet the touch of mercy and humanity was not absent. Doctors and bearers, disdaining death, tended the wounded and dying. Under a ruthless fire orderlies carried the sufferers down to the beach below. Many were killed at the job. Nobly they stuck to it. The heroism of these Red Cross men is one of the finest things in the Gaba Tepe show.

The attack had now developed into a galloping pursuit. Turks were demoralised, and after them went the Australians like whippets on the course. There was no regular line. Little units were here and there. It was the day for the born leader. Having no precise information as to where the pursuit should end and a defensive line made, many pushed right on with a courage that was amazing.

One group was caught in a gully and decimated; others, who pushed almost across the Peninsula, were either killed, wounded, or captured. The remainder, realising the need of consolidating into a general line, came back to the main body. With their entrenching tools they dug holes in the ground, and from behind these little mounds of earth they kept up a steady fire. Without rations, without water—and, at times, without ammunition—they patiently hung on.

All this, too, in a sweltering heat and in the centre of a terrific bombardment. It was the greatest trial any force could have experienced. The Australians exceeded all expectations.

"They're coming back again," said an officer late that afternoon.

Sure enough, there was the Turkish host. Rapid fire wiped many out; still on they came right up to the line. The Australians charged. And all day it was charge and counter-charge. Officers have seldom displayed the tenacity and courage of these Australians' leaders. They played the game as well as the scions of Eton and other historic schools. And then God, in His mercy, sent down the fall of night. This hid the shambles, gave ease to the wounded and dying, and allowed the living to snatch a drink and bite.

But none were idle. On their knees, on their backs, on their sides, they had to dig in, for the fire was still deadly and many were being killed and wounded. The sailors worked like Trojans, bringing rations, ammunition, and reserves ashore. Thanks to them, the gunners, and the untiring zeal of the Staff, the line next day was fairly well established.

The landing was complete; they had achieved what the Germans had advertised as the impossible. Australians have, therefore, every right to feel proud. And all Britishers ought to feel proud of them too.

* * * * *

"Well, boys—how's things?" asked Colonel Killem, one day, when visiting his men in the trenches.

"A1 at Lloyd's, colonel. But I reckon we ought to pull old Johnny Turk's leg."

"How?"

"Play tricks on him. Give a cheer an' kid we're going to charge. They'll fire every bally round they've got."

"Good idea, Buster—good idea! We'll do that to-night."

About 8 P.M. that night the whole front line fixed bayonets and showed them above the parapet. At a given signal all let out a ringing cheer. The poor old Turks got into an awful stew. Machine-guns, field-guns, and rifles opened up a terrific fire. They kept it up for over half an hour, firing thousands of rounds.

"Another cheer, boys," ordered the colonel.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" went the Turks again. The ruse was a splendid one. But the wily Turk tumbled to the game at last.

"We'll need to get something new, boys; that game's played out," said the colonel next day.

After consulting his men they hit on another scheme. About twenty men were ordered to fix bayonets and continually pass along the line, allowing their bayonets to show above the parapet as they marched along.

On reaching the end they pulled their rifles down and crept back to where they had started from. Again they marched along, showing their bayonets, as before. The old Turks simply saw this constant stream of bayonets. They concluded that the Australians were massing for the attack. The Turks lined their trenches and opened up another furious fusillade, supported by machine-guns and shrapnel. Thousands of rounds were expended before they realised that they had been fooled once more.

There was a lull next day, so Bill and his friends shaved off their whiskers and had a bath in a cupful of water. Claud cleaned his eyeglass, and Paddy went in search of a glass of rum from some of the sailors. Sandy, then on light duty, opened up a business as a curio agent. He swapped Turkish rifles, bullet clips, and other things for pieces of bread, a tin of jam, a tasty Maconochie, and some tea. This was a godsend to his famished pals in the trenches. Bill also wrote a letter home to Mrs. McGinnes, his old Sydney landlady and financier:

"DEAR OLD SPORT,—Hope's your well. I'm well, but the Turks ain't well. Reckon we've killed millions of 'em. Ain't got the V.C. yet. There's a shipload comin' next week for The Kangaroo Boys. You can 'ave mine for a brooch. Likin' the life fine here—except the bullets. They generally kills a feller wot ain't careful. There ain't no undertakers out here. When we wants a new kit we generally borrows the clothes an' boots of a dead feller. We live in little 'oles jist like rabbits, an' the old Turks keep throwin' nasty things called bombs. They ain't nice—one blew a feller's head off last night. Pore chap, an' he had such a nice pair of trousers—I've got 'em on now. The snipers are nasty fellers, 'demned annoyin',' as my ole friend Claud says. One keeps hittin' my loop-'ole, but I'm going to 'ave the dirty ole rascal's blood to-night. Now, ta ta, old girl. Love to the children.—Your ole friend,

"BILL BUSTER.

"P.S.—Lend me a quid. What a thirst I've got. We can generally buy rum from the sailors. Make it two quid an' I'll send you a lot of kurios.

"P.P.S.—I needs tobacco—couple of pounds 'll do. An' throw in some cigarettes. Wot a life!

"P.P.P.S.—x x x x x x x x. These are for you—don't tell yer hubby. Bye-bye."

That night Claud spotted Bill crawling out of the trenches.

"Where are you going, you silly ass?"

"Who's silly?" said Bill, looking back at his friend in the trench.

Ping! went a bullet from the sniper. It went right through his trousers, but missed his leg.

"It's that feller I'm after."

Before Claud could detain him he disappeared. Dropping on to his knees, he crawled for some distance, then lay flat.

Ping went the sniper's bullet again. He saw the flash. This incidentally revealed the position of the Turk. Fixing his bayonet, Bill made a wide detour, At last he arrived in rear of his object.

Ping! went the rifle again. So intent was the sniper on his job that he did not hear the crawling man behind. Like a snake, Bill wriggled along. He finished up ten yards behind his man. This sniper had killed and wounded thirty men in two days. He did not deserve a quick dispatch, and Bill had no intention of giving him that. With a bound, he jumped on him, and pinned him right through the shoulders with his bayonet.

"Allah! Allah!" shrieked the man, in the most dreadful pain.

"Old Allah ain't no good to you now. Get up!" And he was lifted up with the bayonet.

When he rose from the ground Bill found he had a green bush tied all round him. His face and hands were afterwards found to be painted green. All this the Turks had acquired from their German masters.

"Now, old cock, run!" said Bill, pushing the man in front.

Screaming with pain the sniper was pushed at the double right up to the Australian trench.

"What's all that row there?" roared the Colonel.

"Jest been catchin' a sniper, Colonel," answered Bill, throwing his man off the bayonet into the trench. He dropped dead at the Colonel's feet.

"A good death for him, too," said Sam, thinking of the fine fellows this man had killed and wounded. A sniper, let it be known, does not play the clean game of war, and any punishment is justifiable.

Bill had given him his deserts.



CHAPTER VIII

"HELL-FIRE POST"

"Bullets here, bullets there, Bullets, bullets everywhere."

Such is trench life. Death at every corner, death at every moment of the day. Bullets plunk against the parapet with a monotonous regularity; others crack in the air like a whip, while some whiz past the ear like a great queen bee. At odd intervals a dose of shrapnel heightens the nerves, and now and again a high-explosive comes down with a shuddering boom!

A trench isn't the place for a lady, it isn't the place for a mild-mannered curate. It's the place for blunt, hard and active men. In fact, the nearer man is to the brute creation the better he is at this game. The highly strung, carefully fed, hot-house plant, such as a mamma's darling, hasn't a look in. He finds it a beastly bore, and longs for the drawing-room cushions and afternoon tea. Trench life reveals the best and shows the worst. A man's nature stands out like a statue. For trench life a man needs the stomach of a horse, the strength of a lion, and the nerves of a navvy. Any man can do a bayonet charge; any man can shoot down the charging host; but it takes a braver man to live in a trench month after month. His nostrils are filled with the stench of the fallen, for his parapet is frequently built up with the dead. His tea is made with water polluted with germs, the bully beef stew is generally soaked in dust and sand.

And the flies! They're worse than all, the pestilential breed! Flies kill more men than bullets. Flies were surely invented by some ancient Hun.

Trench life in France is a picnic compared with the Dardanelles. In France, one can get soft bread, fresh coffee and yesterday's Times. But, in the Dardanelles it is biscuits and bully, bully and biscuits—without the news of Pollokshields and Mayfair. Yet, despite the severity of things, the Australasians were ever serene. To them it was a sporting game. They had been used to boiling their own billy cans; used to looking for firewood; used to making a shanty wherein to lay their heads. Where the Cockney might die from heat and thirst, the Australasian can thrive like a Zulu or aborigine. City bred troops demand an organisation of things; Australasian troops organise things for themselves. And where our friends of The Kangaroo Marines were certainly demanded all their cunning and courage. It was called "Hell-Fire Post." This was on the left of the Australian line, within thirty yards of the Turks. The post had developed from a thin line of holes into a strong redoubt. Many had died, more had been wounded in defending this place, but it was worth it. This was the key of the whole line. That was why The Kangaroo Marines were there. When they took it over, they found the parapets thin and bullets coming in all round.

"Hot shop, by Jove!" said Claud, adjusting his monocle to look through an aperture.

Crack! came a bullet, just missing his head.

"Better take that window out of yer face," said Bill.

"Why?"

"Them ole snipers thinks yer a general."

"My dear fellow, you're a positive bore—now, lend me a hand." And Claud, despite the whizzing bullets, filled more sandbags and shoved them up with a shovel. Bill helped him to make a V-shaped aperture. This work was continued all along the line. But all the sandbags and crack shots could not keep the rifle fire down. To move a hand or head above the level of the ground meant a wound.

"This won't do," said the Colonel, as he made his morning visit on his hands and knees.

"It's like a penny shooting show, Colonel," said Bill.

"Why?"

"Me an' the boys are doin' running man for them fellers over there. They chip bits on yer head, an' bits on yer chest. It ain't comfortable. It ain't war."

"It's sudden daith," chipped in Sandy Brown.

"All right, boys, I'll send up something to-day. Cheer up, you'll soon be at Manly amongst the girls," and off went Killem on his rounds. That afternoon a dozen big iron plates came up. These were square with a hole in the centre. This hole was covered by a little iron door, which could be lifted at will. Bill and his pals seized one and commenced to fix it in position. Under a hail of lead they worked sweating, grousing and cursing all the time. At last it was fixed and ready for business.

"This is my shot," said Bill, taking hold of his rifle. Slowly he opened the door, then peeped through.

"I see one, boys!"

"Where?" they whispered.

"Behind some bags. Gosh, ain't he ugly. He's got a face like a black puddin', and the eyes of a snake. He ain't a bit of Turkish delight, anyhow, I wouldn't like to lick his old face. Wheesht, boys, he's goin' to shoot."

"At you?"

"No! Some fathead down the line. But I'll get the one-eyed Moslem blighter," muttered Bill, taking careful aim.

"Mind yis don't hit the ould fellow up in the moon," said Paddy just as Bill let go.

"Ye spud-faced Paddy. Ye—ye—ye——" blurted out Bill, throwing down his gun in anger.

"Missed, be Jasus—yis couldn't hit the town of Sydney at a hundred yards. Paddy Doolan's the man for that job." He seized the rifle, but just as he was going to open the little iron door there was a rattle of bullets all over the plate.

"Down, boys, down," he shouted.

"It's a beastly Maxim," said Claud, looking up. And a Maxim it was. In ten minutes the so-called armoured plate was riddled. This was the experience with nearly all the other plates—one of the many annoying problems of war. However, the new plates were doubled and bolted. Then they were covered with sandbags and erected so as not to be too obvious on the parapet. This scheme defied the sniper and the Maxim, and, in this way, the Turks' fire was subdued. This was important. In trench warfare the enemy must be terrorised. Not a head must be allowed to bob up, not a rifle and eye seen. Snipers must be hunted to death and given such a hefty and quick dispatch as to intimidate their successors. Water parties and ration parties have to be set on the run; reinforcements spotted and scattered; officers, too, must be kept in their place—below the parapet, if not below the sod. All of this means that the enemy gets demoralised and sickened. And when he has had a month or two of this gentle treatment he is easily dealt with when the time comes for an offensive and bayonet charge.

Of course, the Turks did not let the Australasians have it entirely their own way. When sniping and rifle fire became too dangerous, they resorted to the bomb. The bomb isn't a respectable thing. It sometimes takes your head off, and frequently punctures the system in rather an ugly manner. When a bomb hits, you know it. It is something like a railway engine striking a match-box. These Turkish bomb-throwers had some idea of making a sort of Irish slew out of their opponents' bodies. They bombed and bombed and bombed. Now, this wasn't at all polite, and it was most uncomfortable, especially when sitting down to a stolen Maconochie—an appetising dish. These bombs burst the parapets, ripped up the sandbags, and knocked men's brains into other men's eyes. Most annoying! One morning a bomb just missed Bill's head.

"What the—who the—why the—— These blamed ole Turks think my head's a coconut," said Bill.

"I hope they'll never hit your head," remarked Claud.

"Why?"

"It's too full——"

"Of water," interjected Paddy.

"Yes, there would be a flood," concluded Claud, as he lit his pipe. Just then an order was sent down to pass all empty jam tins to the rear.

"Wot's the jam tins for?"

"Fly traps," said Paddy.

"'Spect we'll have to dig the lead out of the dead men's bodies next," groused Bill, as he went down the trenches to collect the fly-covered jam tins. These were sent down to the beach in bags, causing many a grouse on the way. Rumour had it that some Jew had made a contract for the empty tins, another yarn was that they were for growing flowers round the General's dug-out. But mysterious and resourceful are the ways of the General Staff! These jam tins were redelivered to The Kangaroo Marines next day in the shape of bombs.

"Well I'm jiggered!" said Bill. "First they puts jam in tins, next they puts bombs in them."

"And then they'll shove you in them," interjected Claud.

"What for?"

"Prime Australian beef, fresh tinned, straight from the Dardanelles. That would look well on a label."

"Yis couldn't do that with Bill," said Paddy.

"Why?"

"He's a bit high——"

Bang! came a Turkish bomb at that moment, scattering the group into their shelters below the parapets.

"Ye dirty, mouldy-faced sons of dog-eatin', blue-nosed spalpeens—Oi'll bomb yis," roared Paddy, gripping a jam tin and lighting the fuse.

Bang! it went. Bang! Bang! Bang! went more.

"Some jam," said Bill, as he watched through the periscope. And then they heard moaning, shrieks, and shouts of "Allah, Allah."

"More jam," ordered Bill. And more jam they received. It wasn't sweet, and certainly unpalatable. And it didn't stick. Tins labelled "Apricot," "Marmalade," "Black Currant," and "Raspberry," went hurtling through the air, then burst in a very nasty way above the poor old Turks' trenches. This battle of jam bombs made the Turks much more respectful for a time. Indeed, one of the officers, who must have been a sportsman, flung over a note, on which was written:

"DEAR AUSTRALIANS,—We like jam—in fact, we could do with a tin of it, but not that dam—jam—jammy stuff you were putting over last night.—Yours fraternally,

"YUSSEF BEY."

"By Jove! He's a sport—let's chuck him a tin," said Claud. And over it went. The Turks scattered and waited, but there was no explosion. With a smile the Turkish officer picked up the tin. Unfastening a note tied round it, he read:

"DEAR YUSSEF,—This is the real stuff. By the way, you were at Rugby with me. Shall be sorry to kill you.—Yours, etc.,

"CLAUD DUFAIR."

Plunk! came a stone into the Australian lines; round it was fixed a note:

"DEAR CLAUD,—Many thanks—it was a god-send. Fancy you being here. I thought you would have been guarding the Marys and Mauds of London from the Zepps. Congrats! Of course, I shall be sorry to kill you.—Yours, etc.,

"YUSSEF BEY.

"P.S.—There will be no firing to-day—go to bed."

And there was no firing. This Turkish officer, like every other Turkish soldier, was a gentleman.

It is remarkable how circumstances produce the inventor. At Hell-Fire Post the men found that the ordinary square periscope was almost useless. Every time one went up, bang went a Turk's rifle, and the periscope was blown to smithereens. Indeed, The Kangaroos lost nearly all their periscopes in the first few days. Now this was awkward. Periscopes are life-savers, for the periscope prevents a man pushing his head above the parapet to see if Johnny Turk is coming over to say "Good morning." Something had to be done, so the famous quartette began to cudgel their brains.

"I've got it," said Claud, picking up a walking-stick.

"Got what," inquired Bill.

"An idea—you watch." Taking a penknife out of his pocket, he deftly and quickly cut away the inner portion of the stick. This kept him busy for a couple of hours. When finished, he took a little pocket mirror out of his haversack.

"Too big," said Bill.

"No, it isn't," answered Claud, slipping a diamond ring off his finger. He scratched the mirror, then cut two pieces out of it. These he fixed into the walking-stick. "There you are now—a brand new periscope." And it proved just the thing. The field of vision was quite good. Being small it did not attract attention. The result of this discovery was that every officer's stick was immediately commandeered, and with the aid of Claud's ring and other people's mirrors, a good supply of periscopes were made.

"You think you're smart fellers, I suppose," said Bill, his envy roused by this success. "But I'll show you fellers something in a day or two."

"What is it?"

"'Wait and see,' as old Asquith says." For the next few days Bill was seen in close communion with a fellow Australian. They went about the trenches picking up bits of wood, nails, mirrors, and other odds and ends. These were carried into the little hole of the inventive genius, and there all gradually saw the growth of a wonderful invention. It wasn't Bill's idea exactly. He was simply the managing director, who stimulated curiosity, and fetched the mysterious genius the necessary supplies of material. Anyone who ventured too near the sacred sanctum was told to "hop it."

"What's that ould rascal doin'?" Paddy remarked one day.

"A bomb-thrower," said Sandy.

"Barbed wire burster," suggested Claud.

"No, it ain't," interjected Bill, who happened to come along at the time.

"What is it, then?"

"It's a man-killer. You can sit down in yer bed and kill all the ole Turks in front. They can't see who's killin' them."

"When do you try it?"

"To-day." And he did. That afternoon the inventor allowed Bill to have the trial shot. The instrument, in brief, was a periscope rifle. With the aid of an ordinary rifle, mirrors and wood fixed up in a rough, but ingenious way, there had been produced a killing instrument, which allowed the user to see and to kill without being seen. This was a godsend, for many of the casualties at this post were due to men aiming through the loopholes or over the parapet.

"Here goes," said Bill, fixing the rifle in position.

"See anything?"

"Yes, a big feller. I'll get him in his ole fat head." Slowly and steadily he took aim, then bang went his rifle.

"Got him! Got him! Right in his coconut," shouted Bill with a grim delight.

The invention was hailed as a great success, and the inventor complimented all round. His orders were many, and his instrument soon became general throughout the whole line. Indeed, it was owing to this wonderful invention that the rifle fire of the Turks was again subdued to a remarkable extent.

Other remarkable things were invented by these resourceful fellows. The General Staff also supplied them with new machines of war. One of the finest was the Japanese bomb-thrower, an instrument which threw a great, big bomb like a well-filled melon. This went tumbling over and over, like an acrobat doing a somersault, then burst in the most startling way. The explosion was terrific and destruction amazing. Parapets, trenches, men and Maxims were all destroyed if near the point of contact. "Some bomb!" as the boys said.

In this sort of warfare it is always the progressive and alert man who wins. It is useless sitting down and grousing. Every means, every trick is justifiable so long as the methods are fair and according to the rules of war. When the history of this war is written special attention ought to be devoted to the many devices which have been employed by the soldier. For example, the Turks opposite to The Kangaroos were always sapping towards the Australasian lines. This was a nuisance. The constant pick! pick! pick! upset everybody. Night after night these Turkish moles had to be bombed away. One evening a sapping party recommenced operations quite near to Claud and his friends.

"At it again," Bill remarked.

"Yes, they're a beastly nuisance, I'll have to worry them a bit," said Claud, picking up a little paper bag. He fixed a piece of thin white string round it, then jumped over the parapet. It was quite dark, so he was perfectly safe. Crawling on his hands and knees, he at last reached within ten yards of the sapping Turks. For a few minutes he lay still. His eyes got used to the darkness, enabling him to get a glimpse of the diggers. Pulling out the paper bag, he threw it smartly towards the hole. It burst on the edge of the parapet and the contents scattered all round. Claud waited.

Aitchoo! went one.

Aitchoo! went another.

Aitchoo! went a third.

Aitchoo! Aitchoo! Aitchoo! sneezed all the Turks between their oriental grunts and curses.

Claud burst out laughing and so gave himself away. A head popped out of the hole. Claud was seen. Down it went, and up came a rifle, but before the Turk could fire, Claud, who had a couple of bombs prepared, flung them into the hole. There was a loud bang! bang! followed by a series of shouts, shrieks and moans. The sapping party fled for their lives. This was as Claud desired, so he quietly crawled back to his trench.

"Got 'em that time, Dufair," said an officer as he tumbled in.

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, what was all the sneezing about?"

"A little trick, sir," laughed Claud.

"Was it snuff you chucked at them?"

"No, common or garden pepper, issued with the rations."

"Good," said the officer pursuing his rounds.

Now it was on this same evening that Paddy Doolan roused the whole regiment to a state of alarm. He was on sentry go on the extreme left of his regiment's line. Being dark, Paddy began to feel the effects of things supernatural. Every sound, every moving leaf or blade was a Turk. He had fired at a few nothings, and during a spell of silence he was amazed to hear on his left a chattering in a strange tongue.

"Turks, be Jasus, they're in our trenches. Mother of Mary, preserve us," said Paddy, crossing himself. He listened again. They were chanting a weird dirge. It was something between a Highland lament and a Hindoo snake song. Paddy was amazed. Life seemed to be a shorter affair, and he pictured himself lying dead on the parapet with his throat cut. His teeth were chattering, and his nerves on the run. At last he managed to bellow out, "Stand to!" The half-sleeping men jumped to their rifles and waited below the parapet.

"What's up, Doolan?" said the officer on reaching them.

"Turks in our trenches, sor. Heaven preserve us."

"Where?"

"There, sor! There, sor! Listen to them."

The officer listened. He heard the weird chanting. It wasn't English, it didn't seem Turkish. What on earth was it, he wondered. At last he made up his mind.

"Here, six of you fix bayonets, follow me," and down the communication trench he crouched and crawled towards the left. They now neared the weird chanting noise. The officer cocked his revolver and whispered back, "Get ready, boys." Then, dashing round a bend, he burst on to a dark-skinned group.

"Hands up!" he shouted.

"What's up, boss?" said a smiling dusky gent in khaki, with a New Zealand badge on his shoulder.

"Who the deuce are you?"

"Maoris, boss, Maoris."

"Hang it all, I thought you were Turks. Good night."

"Good night, boss," shouted the laughing Maoris—the finest dark-skinned gentlemen in the world.



CHAPTER IX

A BRAVE NEW ZEALANDER

There's a difference between the New Zealander and Australian, and the difference is this: when an Australian says "Home," he means Australia; when a New Zealander says "Home," he means the Old Country. The sense of nationality is deep in the Australian's soul; the sense of dependence and kinship is wrapped round the New Zealander's heart. Australia is the older Dominion, and the Australian, like the Canadian, is keen on running his own affairs. New Zealand is younger; many of its first settlers are still alive, so their eyes and their children's eyes are always turned to the land called "Home."

Fifty years hence the New Zealander will be like the Australian—a keen exponent of nationhood and all that that means. But, understand, when I speak of nationhood as applied to the Australian and New Zealander, I mean pride of race, pride of dominion, pride of achievement, and the ability to be a partner in the great Empire that is ours. Our forefathers resented this attitude of our colonial cousins. For that reason we lost the American colonies. That lesson was good. We now realise that it is good business to let such as the Australian and New Zealander manage their own affairs. It saves us worry, it saves expense, it breeds a distinct type—a type conscious of their ability, but aware of the need of co-operation and co-ordination in Imperial defence and Imperial trade. Wise men ask no more.

Now in affairs of war there is also a difference between the New Zealander and Australian. The Australian resembles the Irishman—daring, desperate, and frequently reckless; the New Zealander resembles the Scot—equally daring, equally determined, but more canny and cautious. In brief, the New Zealander is more ready to weigh the issues and count the cost. Both types are necessary in war; both are extremely useful. Now I have reached my tale.

The General Staff had heard that the Turks were concentrating men and munitions for a great attack. Information was scarce; information was imperative, for on information the modern general depends. And this information had to come from the very centre of the Turkish defence. It was the hour for a man, and that man had to be found. That was the problem which faced the Chief of Staff. He knew that almost every officer would volunteer. He thought of many Australians; but no, their reckless bravery might wreck his schemes. And then he pictured in his eye the New Zealanders he knew. One by one they passed in review. At last he recalled "Tony," a young subaltern from Hawkes Bay. He was a graduate of an Auckland school—a strong, well-built, swarthy youth, with that coolness, daring, and acumen necessary for the job. "Yes, he'll do," muttered the Chief as he rang up the New Zealand Dragoons.

"Send Lieutenant Tony Brown to headquarters at once."

"Very good, sir," answered an orderly. In two hours Tony entered the dug-out and saluted.

"I've a job for you, Mr. Brown. It might mean your death; it might mean the D.S.O. Are you on?"

"I'm on, sir; but please explain."

"Get one of the Navy boats. Go up the coast for two miles. Land and get across into the Turkish camp. Find out the strength of these reinforcements, the guns, the ammunition, food and water supplies, and, more important, the probable date, if not the hour, of this big attack. I'll give you two days to do it. If you're not back on the third day I'll count you as dead. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, my lad. Here's an order to the commander of the torpedo boat at the beach. Make your own arrangements. Good luck to you," concluded the Chief, shaking him by the hand. And out went Tony on his job. It was a tough proposition for a youngster to tackle, yet he deemed it an honour. And there was no time for delay. He secured the services of two Maoris because of their strength and swarthy complexion. Turkish uniforms would make them "Turks," if need be.

The commander of the destroyer gave him a boat. This was loaded up with water, biscuits, some Turkish uniforms, and rifles, with other necessaries for the job. At night they pulled out. It was quite dark, so all was favourable at the outset. For hours the Maoris seemed to row, their only guide being the stars and dark coast-line. And then came the first peep of dawn.

"Come on, you fellows; get into these things," said the subaltern, pointing to the Turkish clothes. He did likewise. The disguise was perfect. They looked thoroughly respectable members of the Sultan's community.

"Ease in now, boys," ordered Tony as the light grew better. Gently they pulled to the shore.

"That place will do," muttered the observant sub, looking towards a shingly sort of beach beneath some cliffs. The boat grated on the pebbles. They had arrived on their daring mission.

"Now, look here, you boys; you've got to loaf round here for two days. Hide the boat and get into a dug-out. Keep a look-out for me. If I don't come back at the end of the second day, go back and tell them I've gone to Kingdom Come. Understand?"

"All right, boss," said the elder of the Maoris, a full corporal. And off went Tony. He climbed up the cliffs and found himself on a scrubby sort of soil dotted here and there with stunted trees. Away to his right he could just discern the Turkish defences, while immediately in front lay some scattered redoubts of the flanking outposts of the enemy. In the distance was a high, grassy knoll—a perfect place for observing things. He made for it, avoiding contact with some straggling Turkish soldiers on the way. By the way, it is really remarkable how one can walk through an enemy's lines when dressed in their uniform; but it takes a stout heart to do it.

Tony reached the foot of the knoll and commenced to ascend. Just as he reached the top he was startled by a Turk who cried out a greeting. He mumbled something in a boorish style and dropped down in a friendly way beside his man. Before the old Turk realised what was happening he lay dead with a revolver bullet in his brains.

"Phew! What a noise!" muttered Tony as he looked at his victim and then all round the hill to see if the noise had alarmed the land. Luck favoured him. A random shot is nothing in war. Finding a hole near by, he dumped the body in, then covered it over with grass. This done, he whipped out his glasses and commenced to study things. Away in front he could see the convoys slowly moving past. There were guns, ammunition wagons, water-carts, ration wagons, and streams of men. This was not the usual reliefs and supplies. There was something doing. The troops were new, their equipment was good, their bearing fresh and alert. All this was very interesting; but Tony was not near enough to get what he wanted. He decided to walk right through the lines. Leaving his rifle and placing his revolver and glasses in the Turkish haversack, he set off. He was soon one of the many straggling Turkish troops on various errands. They hailed him in their oriental way, but Tony simply grunted in reply.

That is a way of the East, so all went well. At last the daring officer was close behind the Turkish lines. He stumbled on the batteries well placed and well hid. Stacks of shells lay to hand in preparation for their attack. In another part he located a searchlight, and down in a little gully he found a forward base for gun and rifle ammunition. This was a sound discovery. He memorised the spot and tried to locate it on the map. Passing on, he came to a field hospital. This was being cleared, for wagons were taking the wounded men away to the ships which lay in the offing. When a hospital is being cleared, look out for a fight. A soldier understands what it means.

Tony finally arrived in a sort of rest camp. It was alive with men—fresh ones from Constantinople. There were plenty of German officers, too, also some sailors with Goeben and Breslau on their caps. He wondered what the sailors were there for. They seemed to be camped round an artillery park. He solved it; they were serving the guns. Down the lines he stumbled, grunting like an old horse, and, occasionally, sitting down to view the scene. They had plenty of biscuits, and even such luxuries as coffee, bread, and water melons. No signs of starvation or lack of supplies. That was an important point. Tony was doing well. His scheme was succeeding beyond his dreams. Indeed, he was beginning to feel quite cocky, till, on looking round, he found a swarthy little fellow behind him. He was being followed. Something gripped his heart. He had shot his bolt. Still he did not lose his head. This little man must be led on a little farther. Tony retraced his steps. The man followed him. He sat down; the Turk also sat down. This was unnerving, and the young sub. almost shouted in anger and agony. Rising again, he went on, striking into the open and less populated part. And, all the while, the officer wondered how he was going to deal with his sleuth-hound. He could not shoot him there.

At last his eye caught sight of the little knoll where his dead Turk lay buried. Good! He would lead him up there. He plodded on, and, behind him, stalked the patient-looking Turk. Oh! the agony of those moments. It was like a knife sinking by degrees into the human heart. It was the hour for nerve, coolness and caution. Tony reached the top of the hill. With a sigh he sat down, pulled out his pipe and commenced to smoke. The Turk also sat down, but at the foot of the hill. He too started to smoke. His face had the sense of ease, his eyes a humorous gleam. He, apparently, was in no hurry. What the devil did he mean? Tony wondered, and wondered. This torture was insufferable; so insufferable that the subaltern waved his arm, signalling the Turk to come up beside him. He obeyed. As he reached the top he took off his cap and said, "Good days, Mr. Ingleesman."

"Who's English?" said Tony, smiling at his own audacity and apparent admission.

"You very Inglees—you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes Inglees."

"But what are you following me for?"

"Well—monees—backsheesh. Me poor man."

"How did you spot me?"

"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an identity disc out of his pocket. This was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown, New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this damning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets in the camp below.

He inwardly cursed his stupidity.

"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found friend.

"Oh, wery nice—wery Inglees too," said the Syrian, looking at the inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in Stamboul—eh?"

"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.

Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.

"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way. The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily answered, "Well——"

"Me poor man—me tell you things. How much?"

"Fifty pounds—eh?"

"One hundreds—it worth it—good beesness. Me plenty savvy—me know."

"What?"

"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and—beeg attacks——"

"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled. He had divined his quest.

"Tell me then."

"Monees," said the Syrian, holding out his hand. The ways of the East are, at least, direct.

"There you are," said the subaltern, handing him ten crisp Bank of England notes. He had come prepared for this contingency.

"When is the attack, now?"

"Friday mornings early."

"The exact time I want."

"Half past fours."

"How do you know?"

"I orderleys and interpreeters to arteelery's staff."

"Oh! Now, isn't there a battery down there?" said Tony, pointing to a piece of rising ground which he had passed over.

"No—one batterees there," said the Syrian, directing his eyes to the exact place where Tony had discovered the first battery.

"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth. Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines, stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had entered the highest realms of the Intelligence Service. It was dusk when he had finished.

"Me go now," said the Syrian, rising.

"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."

"But I geeves you informations, what more?"

"Look here, old cock, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."

"Syrian good man," protested the informer.

"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, cocking his revolver suddenly.

"No' keels me—no' keels me!"

"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead—that way," said Tony, directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.

"Here—look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.

"Uh!" shuddered the man.

"Now, keep quiet," ordered the officer, pushing him down the hill. Stealthily they went, avoiding dug-outs, tents, and other hives of the Turkish army. For hours they seemed to walk. Something was wrong.

"Stop!" said Tony suddenly. Instinct suggested danger. He had been led astray. Pulling out a compass, he fixed it. The direction was wrong. This Syrian was playing his own game. He wanted another hundred pounds for this officer's body. It was worth more than that to the Turkish army. And he knew it. War breeds parasites and rogues.

"You scoundrel!" said Tony, springing at the Syrian's throat. The latter fought, kicked, and bit like a tiger. To have shot him would have been madness, for they were now back in the centre of the Turkish lines. Placing his great hands round the man's throat, Tony slowly choked him into a state of collapse. Another knock on his head with the butt of the revolver placed him in such a condition that he would be unable to recollect his thoughts for many days. That was all the subaltern desired. He left him. Taking a compass bearing again, he struck out towards the beach. Luck favoured him almost till the end. As he neared the top of the cliff which guarded the beach his foot slipped, and he fell into a dug-out, right on the top of three Turkish soldiers. Curses were mixed with shouts of "Allah!" Then questions were asked. But Tony could answer none. A little flashlamp next shone in his face. He was discovered.

"Inglees! Inglees!" exclaimed a Turk. The other two started and chattered volubly. One lifted a rifle to finish him off, but the man with the lamp stopped him. He knew his job. He wanted to know what this man was doing there. Tony was searched, and the map discovered secreted down the leg of his stocking. His heart quailed. He seemed doomed. He had been so near success; now he seemed so far. He inwardly shuddered at the prospect ahead. It would be death, and death of a cruel and unrefined kind. Oh, the mental horror of that moment. It was worse than a bayonet in the stomach, and that is bad enough. He longed for death—death, sure and sharp. But it did not come. He was seized and bound, then thrown into a corner to await the dawn, when this coast patrol would take him back to the Turkish lines. His cords cut into his hands and legs; his tongue was parched; his heart beating at the coming of the dawn.

Still, the light of day brought a certain physical and mental relief. He was given a drink; his cords were cut, and he was pushed out into the open and marched off to the Turkish lines. He stumbled along, in pain and confused. But deliverance was at hand.

True to their trust, his faithful Maoris were on the watch. One lay on top of the cliffs as a guard for the boat hidden away in the cove below; the other was a thousand yards ahead, directly in front of the line of march which two out of the three Turkish soldiers were taking him. This Maori's eyes were alert. A glance made him understand it all. Filling his magazine, he lay low. They were then six hundred yards away. Too far for a sure aim. He waited. Five hundred. Four hundred. Three hundred. Yes; that would do. He settled down and aimed.

Bang! The bullet told. The man on Tony's right dropped dead. The subaltern realised the cause. He let drive with his fist at the other man. The Turk stumbled back, recovered, then fled. But the Maori nipped him like a farmer does a running hare. He, too, fell dead. This was the one with the map which Tony had made. It was wrenched from his haversack.

"Near shave, boss," said the Maori corporal, running up.

"Yes; but come on." They ran towards the cliff.

Bang! went a rifle. The faithful Maori corporal dropped dead at his officer's feet. Tony looked to his front, and there was the third man of the Turkish patrol coolly aiming at him too. He ducked just as a rifle banged. For a minute he lay flat, and then a strange thing happened. The second Maori, on the top of the cliff, unable to sight his rifle at this assassin of his friend, was charging wildly down on the Turk with his bayonet fixed.

"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turk as he turned about and threw up his arms. A moment later he was bayoneted to death.

Tony jumped up and ran on, for in the distance he saw other patrols running towards the scene. The surviving Maori followed him to the beach. The boat was launched, and they pulled out from the shore. Danger, however, was not passed. Turkish patrols had found them. Volley after volley rattled through the air. They splashed all round; some hit the boat, one struck Tony in the arm, two more pierced the oars. But out and out pulled the plucky pair till, at last, they were clear of the fire.

"Hot shop, boss," said the Maori.

"Yes, a bit too hot!" muttered Tony as he bandaged his bleeding arm.

That night the Chief of Staff received the information desired. And a few days later Lieut. Tony Brown added the letters "D.S.O." to his name. Everybody said, "Why?" But the Chief of Staff simply smiled and passed on.



CHAPTER X

VICTORY

Night was falling fast over the Australasian lines. The darkness was welcome, for it brought a certain rest and coolness to the thousands of sun-baked and weary men. For two days they had slaved like navvies—digging, sand-bagging, reorganising trenches, improving communications, and bringing up supplies, Maxims, and ammunition. It was not the usual thing. Indeed, it was most unusual. Only the Staff knew why, for this war has taught us that we must not advertise our coming events. Of course the Tommies groused. They always do. It is the privilege of the soldier. And Bill Buster was not behind in this land of moaning.

"Thinks I'm an old mule. Me feet's skinned, me back's skinned, me heart's skinned carryin' them blessed boxes of crackers. Oh, why did I leave me little happy home?" he exclaimed, wiping the sweat off his sunburnt brow.

"Had to—ye frizzly-faced bushwhacker," said Paddy.

"All this means that there's something doing," remarked Claud, cleaning his monocle with a piece of rag.

"Ay, there's gaun tae be an attack. Say yer prayers the nicht, boys," added Sandy.

"Thank God!" uttered Claud. "I'm sick of inaction. I don't mind death; but it's a beastly bore waiting to be killed. One can't quite regulate supplies. Now, if to-morrow was the day for our dispatch, we might have a beano out of our spare biscuits and Woodbines to-night."

"It ain't all beer and skittles, as you say," Bill said. "Next war I'm goin' to be a general or a Navy bloke. Them's the safe jobs. These ole Turks have a spite at me. Think I'm a sort o' runnin' man."

"Let them come!" Paddy exclaimed. "We'd bate the life out of thim. Teach thim manners, the dirty blaggards!"

"Don't be too cocky about that. We're only hanging on the edge of this cliff by the skin of our teeth. The German Staff say they'll push us into the sea, and you bet they'll have a good try."

"It's a soft snap, if they come. They can't beat us," interjected Bill, who had all the self-assurance of the Australian born.

"That's where our boys always err," answered Claud. "They underestimate the power of the enemy. That isn't the thing in war. It's all very well to be confident, but it's equally important to be prepared to the last cartridge and bomb. Pluck's a very good thing, but pluck without brains is as useless as an engine without coal. If these Turks make a big show, they'll give us a run for our money. Now I'm going to sleep."

Claud wrapped himself in his coat for a snooze. The others followed suit, little dreaming what the dawn would bring. While they slept, secure in their innocence of things, the General and Chief of Staff sat keen and anxious in their dug-outs; for the dawn was the time stated for the attack. Everything was prepared; still, they had all that mental worry which only an officer knows. They smoked and talked—and talked. While they passed these anxious hours their subordinate commanders were quietly filling up the reserve trenches with supporting troops. The gunners, too, were busy checking ranges and noting down the approximate position of the magazines and other stores as supplied by the map of Tony Brown. The doctors were also alive. They were clearing out the field hospitals preparatory to the gruesome slaughter ahead. Out at sea a flotilla of gunboats and destroyers had quietly arrived and were circling round, waiting for the coming fray. Everything had been thought of; everything was ready.

"It's getting light, sir," said the chief, looking out of his dug-out about 3.30 A.M.

"Very well; 'phone the brigadiers. Tell them to be prepared for the bombardment in accordance with our pow-wow of yesterday."

"Very good, sir." The 'phone transmitted the order and the chief sat down again.

Boom! echoed a gun in the Turkish line. A shell crashed right over the General's dug-out. Tony Brown's information was right. The battle had commenced. A sense of relief spread over the General's face. His suspense was at an end.

Boom! Boom! Boom! went the other guns. More shells, more splinters, and here and there the moan of a dying or wounded man. But this was only the preliminary business. In ten minutes every Turkish gun, from the giant howitzers to the more simple field pieces, were pounding shrapnel, common shell, and high explosives into the Australasian lines. There was no excitement; the men were used to the game. They crouched in holes or hard against the stony sides of the trenches. Still, the noise was deafening, and the gunners' aim was often good. Shells burst on the parapets and destroyed them, frequently killing or burying the men behind. Others burst above and sent their balls of death into the heads or backs of the crouching men. High explosives crashed with an unnerving boom in and around the trenches, pounding, killing, and maiming. Maxims rattled out a hail of lead, rifles squirted bullets into every corner where a living soul was likely to be found. There was no romance in this sort of business. It was butchery, blood, anguish, and death. Hell is the only word that fits such a bombardment. Those who read such things sit at home in tears and terror. Yet the men who live through them sit calm, even cool, and often in smiles.

"Bit hot," said Claud, looking at his hat, which had been pierced by a shrapnel bullet.

Bill ejaculated something unprintable and dropped a hot piece of shell he had intended to collar as a curio.

"I weesht I had a hauf o' whisky; this is a dry job," said Sandy, as he cuddled closer against the side of the trench.

"May ould Allah have mercy on yis when I get yis wid me can-opener!" muttered Paddy as he fingered his bayonet.

Boom! Boom! Boom! crashed three more shrapnels above them, scattering lead and iron in all directions. Old keys, brass fittings, nails, iron knobs and other things tumbled in, too.

"Queer shrapnel—eh?" said Claud, picking up one of these curios—and a sign that the Turks were surely scarce of the real stuff.

"Don't mind bullets," growled Bill; "but I objects to them chuckin' an ironmonger's shop at my ole head. It ain't nice——"

Boom! Boom! came two more.

"A miss!" said Sandy, signalling a "wash-out" with a shovel.

Boom! crashed another almost overhead. It was a narrow shave. Sandy, with that caution of his clan, resigned the post of marker. The gods were favouring this genial quartette, but in many parts of the line men lay dead, dying, and maimed. They bore their wounds with a wonderful patience, and few complained. Comrades ripped out their field dressings and staunched the blood. Doctors, regardless of whizzing shells and bullets, crept from patient to patient. Stretcher-bearers manfully did their job. Over shell-swept zones they carried and pulled the wounded to succour and safety. Despite the danger, men even found time to note and praise the deeds of these Red Cross heroes. The name of the R.A.M.C. ought to be printed in letters of gold on the dome of St. Paul's. It is one reminiscent of heroism, faith, hope, and charity.

Now, during all this gun and rifle firing not a reply was sent. The Staff allowed the Turks to expend their shells and bullets. That is always good business in war. It adds to the enemy's problem of supply. This bombardment lasted for two hours. No doubt the Turks were well pleased. But immediately they ceased their fire there was a universal Boom! from the Australian lines. Battleships, cruisers, torpedo boats, howitzer batteries, field batteries, and Maxim guns sent back salvo after salvo of a deafening and devilish kind.

The unerring aim of our gunners paralysed, for a time, the initiative of the Turkish Staff. This tremendous reply was unexpected. And the British shells burst in their magazines, their supply depots, their headquarters dug-outs in a startling way. Never was gunnery so deadly. Never was slaughter so sure. Regiments waiting en masse for the assault were torn and butchered. Trenches were burst and destroyed. It was death, desolation, and disaster of an unexpected and amazing kind. Such is the value of information in war. A good Intelligence Officer is equal to a complete division of all arms.

Yet this bombardment did not deter the Turkish assault. It had been arranged; it had to go on. When the British bombardment ceased, they leaped boldly from their trenches and came on en masse. A strange silence now pervaded the Australasian lines. Not a shot was heard. It was the calm before the storm. They allowed the Turks to advance. On they came, great, dark, strong-looking men. They shouted "Allah!" "Allah!" as they ran. This cry for "Allah" was a bad sign. The Turks expected "Allah" to do what they felt they had not the confidence to do themselves. Still, the German task-masters had given them a certain assurance by sending them forward elbow to elbow, line upon line.

In brief, this attack was meant as an overwhelming flood of bayonets upon the Australasians' lines. The Turkish Staff argued that, after all, these troops were only volunteers; they could not withstand a violent offensive movement. But they did; they even surprised their General and the Staff. And the ability to wait for a signal to shoot was in itself a sign of perfect control, excellent fire discipline.

The Turks were now close to the barbed wire entanglements. This was the moment desired. A whistle sounded in the lines.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Z-r-r-p! went thousands of rifles and dozens of machine-guns. Gad! How these Turks withered and fell. It was brutal, yet it was inspiring. Shrieks, curses, and groans were mixed with pitiful cries for "Allah!" "Allah!"

Bravely these Turkish soldiers died, and bravely the more fortunate came on. They tore through the barbed wire with a fiendish frenzy and leaped down on to parts of their enemy's lines. With that mad ferocity which only a Moslem fanatic can display, they plugged their bayonets into the first opposing man. Cold steel is hard to face. Few armies can face it. Only Russians, Britishers, and Japs are good at the game. And these sons of John Bull stood up to the test with a magnificent courage. They plunged, thrust, hacked, butted, cursed, and fumed in this awful combat. Civilisation had gone. Primitive lusts were triumphant. Blood flowed in streams, men fought with gaping wounds, dying men fell crying to Allah or to God according to their race and creed. There was no time to moralise on the hellish side of modern war. There was only time to fight or die.

And in this awful combat The Kangaroos had a terrible time. Their redoubt was invaded. Yet they did not yield. One great Turk charged down on Claud. Sandy parried the thrust, the Turk recovered and thrust again straight into poor Sandy's heart. He gasped, and fell lifeless at Bill's feet.

With maddened fury Bill crashed his butt down on the foeman's skull.

Another Turk almost pinned Colonel Killem, but Paddy dashed forward, struck up the bayonet, and killed the man with a blow.

"Thanks, Doolan, thanks!" shouted the Colonel as he turned to deal with another man. This gallant defence, combined with the deadly musketry on the less exposed parts of the line, completely smashed the first Turkish attack. The enemy withered away, their survivors and wounded creeping back into the shelter of their trenches.

"Don't fire, men! Don't fire at those poor devils," shouted the officers as they watched them limp away.

This was chivalry, and chivalry can always be found in a British heart.

"Thank God for a breath," said Claud, leaning wearily against the parapet. But the attack was not finished. The Turkish reserves were swarming up the gullies and through the communicating lines. Lyddite, shrapnel, and Maxims tore great gaps in their ranks. Yet on they came. One regiment deployed from the top of a gully and made the charge.

"Rapid fire!" roared Killem. A terrific fusillade burst forth. The Turks fell in heaps, moaning, shrieking, and yelling. The sight was sickening. Heaps of dead and dying all around. But again the Turkish host came on. Two great columns of men burst out in front of the New Zealanders and The Kangaroos.

This was really the most critical moment of the day. Here entered the Drill Book maxim: "An attack should be met with a counter-attack." For this was to be the last and desperate throw of the Turkish Staff. If it broke the Australasian lines, the enemy would realise their boast of pushing them into the sea. The New Zealanders and Kangaroos appreciated the danger to the full. And so the command rang out: "Prepare to charge!" Every man placed his foot for the jump.

"Charge!"

Up leaped Killem and his willing men, and at their side charged the New Zealand boys. Grimly they gripped their rifles, bravely they ran and cheered. A charge is a thrilling and soul-inspiring affair. Danger and death pass away from the soldier's heart. He is alive, he is filled with the tingling blood and full of the traditions of his race. The Kangaroos met the Turkish host midway. A shock of men, a shock of arms, a blind confusion, a horrible fierceness and hacking of human flesh.

"Give it 'em, boys," roared Killem above the din. A Turkish officer heard him and aimed his revolver at Killem's head. But Doolan was there again. He pinned his man through the chest, and, with an oath, flung him off his bayonet—dead.

Claud got lost in the melee. He found himself surrounded. Bravely he fought, but a bayonet was stuck in his shoulder, and he fell into the struggling mass of wounded men. Bill, though wounded in the head, fought with the madness of a fiend. With Doolan, he kept close to the Colonel's heels, preserving the body and life of the bravest man in the Australasian force. In that awful hour Killem could often be heard shouting out, "Thanks, boys, thanks!"

At last tenacity and courage told. The Turks broke and fled, yelling in pain and fear. But the price of victory had indeed been costly. Still, it was worth it all. The position had been saved. Australasians had again written deep in the annals of war a story of valour as great as Corunna or Waterloo.

* * * * *

"Paddy," shouted Bill as they jumped back into the trenches.

"Yis."

"Where's Claud?"

"He's hit," interjected a sergeant. "I saw him fall."

"What—dead?"

"Couldn't say." And the sergeant passed on. War does not allow of sentiment or lengthy harangues.

"Curse them!" said Bill, throwing down his rifle in anger. And then this great, strong man collapsed with grief. When a soldier weeps it is sad. This was but the climax of a highly nervous day. Bill's heart, like every bushman's heart, was full of that faith and devotion which passes all understanding. Claud was a pal whom he loved like a mother or a brother.

"D—— their bullets! I'm going back to get him," he muttered, preparing to jump out again.

"Paddy Doolan's wid you," said the Irishman. They both jumped out into the still bullet-swept zone.

"Come back, you fools," roared a sergeant.

There was no answer. Bill would not allow discipline or danger to interfere with the call of duty or friendship. On their hands and knees they crawled round the heaps of dead and dying.

"Here he is—here he is, poor boy! Poor boy!" said Paddy as he gazed at the pale, bloodless face of Claud below some battered Turks.

"He's livin', he's livin'. God be thanked!" mumbled the faithful Irishman as he crossed himself. Bending near, he pulled the listless form from under the dead weight of the men above. Claud groaned.

"That's a good sign, Paddy, eh?"

"Sure, an' he'll drink a glass wid us yet! But, Heavens! what a hole!" exclaimed the Irishman, looking at the gaping wound in Claud's shoulder.

"Get his dressing out," said Bill.

Paddy made to rip the dressing out of Claud's jacket. Alas! man proposes and the Turk disposes. A sniper's rifle pinged, and a bullet hit Paddy in the arm. It fell, shattered and useless.

"Back, Paddy—into the trenches for your life. I'll carry Claud."

The brave Irishman, realising he was now useless, reluctantly obeyed. Bill then heaved Claud over his shoulder and followed hard.

Bang! Bang! Bang! went the Turkish rifles. Claud was hit in the hand, and poor Bill struck in the leg and back; then he fell exhausted into the trench, the wounded Claud on top.

"Bravo! Buster—you're a white man, anyway," said the Colonel.

"A done man, Colonel," said Bill with a wan smile as he fainted away. His wounds and Claud's wounds were bound with the Colonel's own hand. Then commenced the weary procession through trench after trench to the hospital below. They were but two in a cavalcade of thousands. They passed from the zones of dead into the camp of tears and moaning. Men shattered and dying were there; others, more fortunate, wetted their lips and eased their way to God.

Poor Claud and Bill arrived, senseless, almost lifeless. But kind hands staunched their wounds, allayed their thirst, and carried them on board the ship for Alexandria. There they found the first taste of that gentle peace which is soothing to the heart of every nerve-racked soldier. Nourishment soon brought them round. And, strange to say, both returned from the land of wanderings to the delights of reality at the same time.

"Bill! Bill!" muttered Claud as he came round. "I'm here, ole sport," said Bill, holding out his pale, wan hand.

"Good! But where's Paddy?"

"Sure, an ould Paddy's here," roared Doolan from a berth on the other side of the deck.

"Thank God!" And Claud tumbled into a more natural sleep, refreshed with the thought that at least two out of his three friends still lived.

Sips of brandy, drops of milk, clean bandages, and willing Australian nurses soon brought the genial three round to a more normal state. And in speaking of Australian nurses, let me say that they are the finest girls in the hospital world. They may laugh, they may flirt, but they can work. They have no side and no false airs. They want to do their job in the quickest, kindest, quietest way that can be found.

* * * * *

The great ship slipped through the breakwater of Alexandria. Hundreds awaited her coming—nurses, doctors, and friends. Bill and Claud could not get up to view the scene. But Paddy watched it all. His eyes scanned the faces on shore. At last they rested on a familiar figure—a girl with a beautiful form, a charming but an anxious face. Yes, it was Sybil Graham. He slipped down to the ward below and stepped to Claud's bed.

"I've seen her, and doesn't she look swate?"

"Who?" said Claud in a knowing way.

"Sybil, ye fathead! And, mind ye, mine's a kiss for bringing the news."

"Right, old chap; and I'll see that you get it," said the now excited owner of this Australian girl's heart.

The boat was now alongside. Ropes were down and fixed. The shore gangway was up, and, in response to the somewhat wild and frantic shouts and grins of Paddy Doolan, Sybil Graham dashed up the steps three at a time.

"Oh, Paddy!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "Where is he?"

"This way, ye darlint." And down into the ward leaped the now madly excited Irishman. Sybil followed. As she reached the foot of the stairs she saw her lover. Nurses, doctors, and patients were then startled with a shriek of delight from a beautiful vision who pounced to a bed and smothered her hero with kisses. Bill and Paddy watched it all.

"Say, Miss Sybil, where do I come in?" said Bill with a sort of well-feigned growl.

"Surely! There's one for you, you dear, dear old bushman," she said, kissing his black-bearded lips.

"Here, Sybil, isn't it Paddy's turn now? He brought the news of you."

"Oh, you lovable Irish rogue—you're worth the kissing—you helped my boy to safety too." And so Paddy received his dues.

"And now, miss," said a smiling nurse, "we're going to take those three lovers of yours to hospital in Cairo."

"How mean of you," said Sybil with a smile. "Of course, you can't prevent me from seeing them there?"

"Certainly not, my girl. That will be the biggest part of their cure."

"Oh, by the way, I've news for you, boys," said Sybil, turning again:

"Bill, you've got the V.C."

"Paddy, you've got the V.C."

"Claud, you've got a commission."

"And you—eh?" smiled Claud.

"Well—yes."

"And very nice too," whispered a doctor into the nurse's ear as the very happy girl went out.



CHAPTER XI

WHAT LADY READERS LIKE

(Extract from Cairo Press)

"At Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo, Lieutenant Claud Dufair, eldest son of Lord Dufair, to Sybil Graham, daughter of "Bob" Graham, of New South Wales. Private Bill Buster, V.C., and Private Doolan, V.C., acted as groomsmen. Colonel Killem, D.S.O., also attended the ceremony. The happy couple left for a three days' honeymoon, as Lieutenant Dufair is returning to the trenches."

THE END