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.