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.