Part 7

Eager, and burning with the zeal of youth, Our Second Anzacs sprang from out the ground, Bound by their mateships and their love of truth, The Third Division its new soul has found; Straight o'er the top amidst a hail of shell To their objective which they knew so well.

On, on, thro' poison gas and rattling roar, Past ulc'rous craters, blackened foul and deep, These comrades 'stuck' as ne'er they had before. And kept together in their rushing sweep; Deafened and rattled, hung up in the wire, Helping each other thro' such fearful fire.

On still until they reached the furthest goal, There to dig in and hold the new-won line. By linking up each torn and shattered hole-- By no means easy, but their grit was fine-- They fought and worked like demons till the dawn, Harried and pestered by the 'Kaiser's spawn.'

And, baffled from his gun-pits far away, Low-down, well south, an angry foe doth roar, He opens out again upon another day And rakes the slope with shrapnel as before. But only working parties on the top are found, The rest, save A.M.C., are underground.

Strange sights are seen upon that battle-ground, But stranger still are unearthed from below; Here many supermen may now be found, Just watch those stretcher-bearers where they go, And see those parties bearing food and drink, Past all those blizzard shells--then stand and think!

But one poor shell-crazed loon roamed far and wide; Sweat-grimed, wild-eyed, and now bereft of all. 'Me mates? W'ere is my mates?' he plaintive cried, 'They's in that 'ole with ME when IT did fall.' We took him to three huddled heaps near by, But he roamed on as tho' he wished to die.

And as the sun's great light bursts o'er the scene, La Petit Douve, one-time a sparkling stream, Now sluggish slides, red-tinted, she has been Past horrors thro' the night and did not dream. For many days she'll, silent, strive to bear Such human wreckage down a path once fair.

G.P. CUTTRISS and J.W. HOOD.

BILL THE BUGLER

I well remember when the subject of this sketch 'joined up.' He was small of stature, and his general appearance was by no means prepossessing. That he had seen a good deal of the world was very evident, even to the most superficial observer. His language was picturesque, though not profane. A few weeks sufficed to 'lick him into shape,' and he presented a fairly tolerable figure in uniform. At spinning yarns he was an adept, and at camp concerts could invariably be depended upon for an item or two, always of a humorous nature.

Bill quickly established himself amongst the 'boys' as a general favourite. This enviable position he still occupies. On account of his duties as bugler requiring him to be one of the first up in the morning, and one of the last to retire at night, he sought a change of duty. He became a bandsman, then a stretcher-bearer, and eventually was detailed to assist in a cook-house--in cook-house terminology an 'off-sider.'

Though Bill had as much military experience as most of us, we could not think of him as a soldier. That our opinion of him was justified the following incident will illustrate. A party of officers, including a staff-major, was inspecting cooking and billeting arrangements in our quarters. Bill, who happened to have a couple of hours off that day, was strolling towards the party. He was in cook-house attire--tunicless, his hat well back on his head, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands deep in his breeches pockets, a cigarette between his lips. Regardless of the critical eyes which were focused upon him, he sauntered leisurely towards the officers, and when in line with them he nodded and said 'Good-day.' The officers stopped, and one of them peremptorily inquired, 'Aren't you a soldier?' 'Oh, no,' he replied; 'I'm D Company's cook!' His reply so amused the officers that he was allowed to continue on his way without being reminded that as a soldier he was required to salute all officers.

After spending a few weeks in the cook-house, he asked permission to go to the trenches when the battalion went into the line. The transfer was effected, and he made a start with real soldiering. No amount of discipline could transform him from the free-from-care, do-as-you-please individual into the polished soldier. One evening he was posted over the gas-alert in the front line trenches, when a shell exploded a few yards in front of him. The explosion caused his hat to disappear and the concussion projected him into a dug-out. Only the solidity of the wall prevented him from going further; as it was, the force with which he was hurled against the side of the dug-out made a deep impression on the damp wall. He lay in a motionless heap in the corner of the dug-out. A N.C.O. rushed along the duck-boards, thrust his head into the dug-out, and anxiously inquired of Bill as to whether he was hurt. Bill by this time had partially recovered from the shock. His small steel-grey eyes gradually opened. The N.C.O. again asked if he were hurt. Bill's eyes rolled, his lips moved, and then he blurted out, 'Oh, no, only my feelings!'

Bill is not a man to make a fuss about anything. He has no time for red-tape in any shape or form, it is true, but whatever work is assigned him is always done satisfactorily. Whether he is any less a soldier or his efficiency as a fighting force impaired because of his failure to meet the rigid requirements of an exacting military regulation is a matter concerning which there might be a difference of opinion; but this at least stands to his credit: he knows no fear, is the life of the unit, and the battalion to which he belongs would sustain a distinct loss by the removal of Bugler Bill, &c.

A TRAGEDY OF THE WAR

From strife they now march back to smiling farms, Recoiling from the crash and smoke and roar. Meadows, all verdant, faerie fields, whose charms Serve for a space to make them as before. And peaceful pictures of the days of yore, With thrilling thoughts of those they left behind Flash thro' the mental vision, and a score Of letters brightly occupy the mind Without a care, or woe, or doubt of any kind.

Anon they journey from this place of rest By night or early dawn back to the brink Of that volcanic crater where the best Sit tight, scarce caring if they swim or sink. Silent they bear it, as they quietly think The end approaching to their life at last, And face each other, with a smile or wink Outwardly stoic, tho' their hearts beat fast As, thumping down, great shells come racing in and past.

Erase such thoughts from out the o'er-wrought brain, Think rather of this freshness, and the sight Of nature in her harvest dress, refrain From plunging into the eternal night. Such contrasts seem the only choice by right Of those who battle for the joy of life. Out on this troubled spot where Armies fight, And peasants labour just behind such strife Shorthandedly, unhelped, save by a child or wife.

So come with me down hedgerows, down the glades, And thro' the cosy glens, till far away We come unto a hill-crest--lights and shades, Bright coloured landscapes far below us lay, Blue mists and fields of yellow corn and hay, In rows like soldiers, now the tired eyes see, And poplars guard the distant dim roadway, Whilst near the wind sighs thro' the acorn-tree, Till one feels hushed, serene, contented, almost free.

And here, tucked back behind a leafy lane, Low in a pocket of some sheltered ground, An unpretentious farm, so snug and plain, An invitation in itself; when found, Only a whining howl like dingoes' sound, Reminds one that there is a war near by. The tools of peace see littered here around, Weapons by which men learn to live, not die: A plough, a drill, and there a binder standing nigh.

'Bon jour, m'sieurs,' a little hunchback cries; A wizened, twisted human form divine; She flashed a look of welcome from her eyes, From which the soul of ages seem to shine. 'Entrez,' she welcomed, and her face looked fine, As proudly bustling o'er her clean stone floor She bade us linger, eat, and drink her wine. Refreshed with food and drink, we loiter more Within such cool retreat, delaying 'Au revoir.'

And soon the human tragedy in course Of progress thro' that little home becomes Clear to the senses, and to us much worse Compared with our Australia's peaceful homes. For, oh, the pity, as one's vision roams From there to here, and back on wings again; A rush of feeling and emotion comes, Whilst hearing this contorted piece of pain, The stirring times of all their troubled lives explain.

For she to whom Fate seemed at first unkind, Now lives an angel in a higher sphere. This pained and twisted cripple seemed to find Pleasure in living for her kinsfolk dear. Hard work an honour, in her duty clear To wives of brothers in the fighting line; Women and children gather round her here; For round their hearts her nature did entwine, Her beaming face proclaimed 'See, Anglaise, they are mine.'

And all around these chubby children play, Dirty, but happy, fed and cared for well, With ne'er a troubled thought the live-long day, For they know little of adjacent hell. The hunchback warns us we are not to tell About the 'Allemagne' whilst they are nigh, Since all have known him in the past too well. 'Let them forget it as we often try. C'est la guerre,' she said, and quickly brushed her eye.

And then she whispers, as we loiter near, The story of their young lives years ago, When, snatched from cradles, with a frenzied fear, Their mothers hurried on before the foe; Their men defend and screen them as they go, And fight a rearguard action with the brute, Who cares not for their agony or woe, But only for the blood-streams and the loot. And now she sees us watching one poor little mute: 'Ah! this one?' and she pointed to the dot Who sat alone, and smiled to vacant space, 'Waits for her mother; very hard her lot; For years now has she waited in her place. "Where is her mother?" I can never trace Somewhere beyond across "the no man's way." Some day, perhaps,' she cried, with yearning face. The tiny mite, tho' happy, could not play, Except with little restless hands all day.

'Sometimes the shell come here right by,' she said. 'The other day, when I what you call wash, A big boom quickly pass above my head, And fall out in the field with a big crash. But, oh, those children, they so very rash, They know so little of the dreadful doom. I come in time to save a fearful crash, And catch them with the nose-cap in this room-- The nose-cap, unexhausted, from the boom.'

And then we start, inclined to say farewell. We try to brighten up the little maid Who sits alone, perhaps in faerie dell; For she doth seem not in the least afraid. She, smiling, takes the pennies which we lay Within her hands, tho' distant is her smile; And for a space she seemed with them to play, But drops them ere we're scarcely gone, awhile We wander back, half dumb, hard, thinking for a mile.

G.P. CUTTRISS and J.W. HOOD.