



Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen




A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT


BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
50 Old Bailey, LONDON
17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW

BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY

BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
TORONTO

[Frontispiece: HE HAD BLUNDERED RIGHT INTO A PARTY OF HUNS]


A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT

A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles
on the Western Front

BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Illustrated by Wal Paget

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW


By Percy F. Westerman

  Captain Fosdyke's Gold.
  In Defiance of the Ban.
  Captain Sang.
  The Senior Cadet.
  The Amir's Ruby.
  The Secret of the Plateau.
  Leslie Dexter, Cadet.
  All Hands to the Boats.
  A Mystery of the Broads.
  Rivals of the Reef.
  A Shanghai Adventure.
  Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
  The Junior Cadet.
  Captain Starlight.
  The Sea-Girt Fortress.
  On the Wings of the Wind.
  Captured at Tripoli.
  Captain Blundell's Treasure.
  The Third Officer.
  Unconquered Wings.
  The Riddle of the Air.
  Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
  Clipped Wings.
  The Luck of the "Golden Dawn ".
  The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
  Winning his Wings.
  A Lively Bit of the Front.
  A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
  The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
  East in the "Golden Gain"
  The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
  Sea Scouts Abroad.
  Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
  The Wireless Officer.
  A Lad of Grit.
  The Submarine Hunters.
  Sea Scouts All.
  The Thick of the Fray.
  A Sub and a Submarine.
  Under the White Ensign.
  The Fight for Constantinople.
  With Beatty off Jutland.
  The Dispatch Riders.

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow


  Contents
  CHAP.
      I. MALCOLM CARR'S DECISION
     II. No. 99,109, R/M CARR
    III. THE FIRST TREK
     IV. THE INTERRUPTED CONCERT
      V. BROKEN DOWN IN MID-OCEAN
     VI. MAN OVERBOARD
    VII. QUITS!
   VIII. LEFT BEHIND
     IX. IN THE RING
      X. VOLUNTEERS FOR THE STOKEHOLD
     XI. CORNERED
    XII. RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
   XIII. NEWS OF PETER
    XIV. THE ANZACS' HOAX
     XV. THE EVE OF MESSINES
    XVI. KONRAD VON FELDOFFER
   XVII. OVER THE TOP
  XVIII. THE CAPTURED TRENCH
    XIX. TRAPPED IN A DUG-OUT
     XX. THE WAY OUT
    XXI. OUT OF TOUCH
   XXII. A PRISONER OF WAR
  XXIII. AT DUeREN CAMP
   XXIV. ESCAPE
    XXV. ON THE BARGE
   XXVI. AT THE FRONTIER
  XXVII. THE END OF A SPY
 XXVIII. IN THE FIRING-LINE AGAIN
   XXIX. THE BATTLE IN THE MUD
    XXX. THE LAST STAND

Illustrations

  HE HAD BLUNDERED RIGHT INTO A PARTY OF HUNS (Frontispiece)
  "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"
  "WING HIM!" EXCLAIMED MALCOLM
  "IT'S SPUD MURPHY AND JOE JENNINGS!"


A LIVELY
BIT OF THE FRONT




CHAPTER I

Malcolm Carr's Decision


"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the open
doorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.

"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get your
letters before we start. Expecting anything important?"

Malcolm Carr was a typical specimen of the youthful New Zealander.
Although only seventeen years of age, he was a full inch over six
feet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, was
sparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut and
slightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. His
deep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness of
vision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.

He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskin
riding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latter
provided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leather
case that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather.
Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to his
up-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt a
canvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.

His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearance
and attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm--they
raise tall youths in New Zealand--of greater girth, and slightly
heavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrast
to the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr prided
himself.

Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of the
Dominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in the
survey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about to
be commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.

It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. The
month was November--late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen,
yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away to
the west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps,
some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To the
eastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly country
merged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores of
Pegasus Bay.

Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents there
were no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and far
between in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent road
separated the camp from the nearest village, while another forty
miles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch--Malcolm's
home--was reached.

"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as he
turned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour of
frying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding.
"Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be a
jolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of the
Boss yet?"

Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table for
breakfast--the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interior
of the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairs
occupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against the
walls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled with
plans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagre
supply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was a
door leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple of
sporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning one
of those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization--a motor tyre.

It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxious
for the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube was
wanted--badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernaut
making the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the coming
Saturday.

Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under a
rick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient and
composite design--partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with a
suspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the _tout ensemble_--the
wondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given to Peter and Malcolm
Carr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, the
two brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of servile
tractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare in
Christchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanent
record of Juggernaut's frailties.

Peter Carr--big, easy-going, generous Peter--had gone two years
previously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part in
the repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroic
yet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as a
scratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From Gallipoli
Peter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. But
before going on active service Peter had disposed of his share of
juggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping to
mitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older,
and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, and
vicissitudes of fighting the Boche.

"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.

"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into the
hut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu's
taken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in his
office at nine."

Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to a
thorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.

"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as a
buggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down the
dusty road.

Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited the
postman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While the
representative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the lad
could obtain his mails without having to go down to the works
office.

"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handed
him a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll be
able to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! More
of them? A regular budget, Mike!"

Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over four
newspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignment
showed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.

The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brother
Peter--"Somewhere in France".

  "DEAR MALCOLM (it ran),

  "U-boats and other noxious German insects permitting, I hope this
  will reach you. I cannot say much beyond that we are very busy on
  our sector of the Front. I'm afraid you'll be too late to join me
  out here, unless the war goes on for another two or three years.
  Our chaps are of the opinion that it won't. We are having a
  thundering good time, with plenty of excitement. I have a Hun
  helmet for you. I gained it properly, after a tough scrap in a
  mine gallery, but cannot give details. It's no more risky out here
  than it is driving juggernaut through the market-square on a
  Saturday night. By the by, how goes the old chariot? Must knock
  off now, as I have to write to the guv'nor. It is now a quarter to
  five, and we parade at half-past for (_words deleted with blue
  pencil_).
                          "Your loving brother,
                                     "PETER S. CARR."

The next letter was from Malcolm's father, above referred to as the
"guv'nor".

  "DEAR MALCOLM,

  "Just received a cablegram: 'No. 04452, Sergeant P. Carr, reported
  wounded and missing.' There are no further details, but as several
  of our Christchurch friends have received similar news, it is
  evident that the Nth reinforcements have been in the thick of it.
  Just what Peter wanted, dear lad! Cannot write more, as I can
  hardly realize the import of the cablegram. Hope to see you on
  Saturday.
                          "Your loving father,
                                     "FRANK CARR."

Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in its
envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded
and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were
greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the
mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New
Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother
had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left
behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood
less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able
to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun
brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into
the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the
only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate
friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great
sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of
the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder
brother----

"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are
two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a
farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru
dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"

"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.

For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping
his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the
lads within.

Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.

"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's
plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in
and join up."




CHAPTER II

No. 99,109, R/M Carr


"You can't," said Dick. "For one thing, you are tied to your job;
for another, you are not old enough."

"I'll have a jolly good shot at it anyhow," declared Malcolm
resolutely. "Plenty of chaps have gone to the front at sixteen or
seventeen. Ted Mostyn, for example; he's only eighteen, and he's
back with two buckshees (wounds) already."

"_Kia ora_, then, old chap," exclaimed Selwyn. "I hope you'll pull
it off."

Both lads set to work to fit the new inner tube and replace
juggernaut's front off-side wheel. This task completed, Malcolm
washed the dirt and grease from his hands, saddled his horse, and
set off for the office of Mr. Hughes, the Head of the Wairakato
Survey.

"Morning, Malcolm!" was that worthy's genial greeting. "Where's
Selwyn? Coming along, is he? That's good. I wanted to see you about
that section of pipe-line that has been giving trouble. Did you
bring your rough book?"

Not until the matter of the survey had been gone thoroughly into did
young Carr tackle his principal.

"I want to know," he began, straight to the point, "I if you could
release me at noon."

"Certainly!" was the ready response. "The work is well in hand, and
I believe you haven't had leave for some months."

"For the duration of the war, I mean," continued Malcolm.

"For the duration of the what?" exclaimed the astonished Hughes.
"Dash it all, what's the war to do with you? They haven't put you in
the ballot by mistake?"

"No," replied the lad. "It's like this. But perhaps I'd better show
you the governor's letter."

Mr. Hughes read the proffered document.

"I see," he said gravely. "And you wish to avenge your brother?"

"Not avenge--it's duty," corrected Malcolm. "I can't exactly
explain---- Now Peter's gone----"

"You have no positive information on that point, Malcolm."

"Wounded and missing--that means that there is no longer a member of
our family in the firing-line. I'm seventeen, I'm a sergeant in the
cadet corps, physically fit, and all that sort of thing. And I don't
suppose they'll be too particular as to my age if I forget to say
that I was born somewhere about the year 1900."

The Boss considered for some moments.

"I won't stand in your way, my boy," he said kindly. "After all, the
actual work here won't start until after the war. The preliminary
surveys can still go on. All right, Malcolm! jolly good luck and all
that sort of thing, you know. Come and lunch with me before you
start."

The morning passed ever so slowly. Contrary to his usual manner,
Malcolm found his thoughts wandering from his work. The desire to be
up and doing, to push on with his share in the great adventure,
gripped his mind to the exclusion of all other topics. In the ranks
of the Dominion lads there was one of many gaps waiting specially
for him to fill, and he meant to fill it worthily.

On his way back to the hut, after having lunched with Mr. Hughes,
Malcolm encountered a sturdy Maori.

"Hallo, Te Paheka!" he exclaimed. "You're just the man I want to
see. You want another motor-car? All right, come with me to
Christchurch, and you can have my blessed car. That's a bargain."

Te Paheka was a typical specimen of a twentieth-century Maori. He
was a tall, heavily-built, muscular man of about forty-five years of
age, and lived at a _whare_ about