THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 307, 28 December 1929, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER.

(By Sheila Quinn, Tennyson Street, Mount Eden, age 16.) It was in Toulouse, in France, in the year 1916, that memorable time when the nations of the world were combating for power; when day after day hundreds of men and boys were gallantly giving their lives for the glorious cause of their country; when all nations were in tumult, and the whole world rang with the dreaded cry—war! For the last week the German, troops had been relentlessly gaining possession, of the big ..towns. Toulouse, however, had withheld all the enemy's advances &nd was well protected by a French and British army. But the position was growing critical. The" German troops surrounding Toulouse greatly outnumbered the Allies. Furthermore they had been in the background in the last two days, and this fact worried everybody. Why should the enemy be so unnaturally quiet? Surely for no other reason than that they were preparing a surprise attack. Micky Saunders, out from far-away New Zealand to do "hi 6 bit/' propped hie pad upon his knees before him, and added the finishing lines to the letter that was to go far across the seas to those at home. "We have not had any lighting for several days now, but I think we shall soon be in it again. However, when my chance comes I shall do my best and be a credit to dad's medal, never fear.—Au revoir, mum, Micky." The letter finished, Mick stood up, stretched himself, and wandered out to the town. During the day a wild notion had been slowly forming in his mind. He knew how his commanders wanted to get, some idea of the enemy's plans—knew how so far the spies had failed to discover anything. He could understand German. Why should he not have a try? Micky thrilled at the thought. To save Toulouse! What a victory! What an honour! The more he thought over his plan the more it appealed to him. He glanced down at his uniform, saw the medal of his dead father, and that decided him. i "I'll do itj" he murmured to himself. It was ono thing to say he would do it. It was quite another thing to carry out the resolve. There were innumerable difficulties in the way, but an hour later found Micky striding along the road, with the lights of Toulouse far behind. He was to all intents and purposes, a rather young German soldier. No definite plan had yet entered his head. He only knew he must get into the enemy's camp somehow and learn their plans. For another mile he tramped on, and then sounds ahead told him that the camp was not fir off. Simultaneously German voices sounded near at hand. For a second Micky was afraid. Then all the courage he inherited from his soldier father, returned to him; he fell to the ground and lay moaning and groaning there. "Wer Bar? Halt!" came a voice through the darkness. Figures bent over him. There was a low murmur of German voices. Then an order rang out for a stretcher bearer, and while they waited beside him the voices continued in low conversation. "It is good," said one speaking rapidly in German. "Our attack to-night will be a surprise without a doubt. At 10 most of them will be in bed, and—" But here they wandered off leaving a young German soldier to look after Micky. > There was not a moment to waste. With a spring he was up, landing the young chap a blow that knocked him senseless to the ground. Then he was off through the darkness, running and panting, bearing his message of life and death to Toulouse. But he was designed never to reach there. About an hour after, a small band of enemy soldiers left him as dead on the • roadway, where he was found later by an English spy. To him Micky gasped out the information, and then fell back, a still and lifeless form on the ground. "Poor beggar," murmured the soldier, as lie spurred his horse on, and galloped through the darkness towards the lights of Toulouse. When the first streaks of a grey dawn appeared, all was over, and only the fields, crimson with blood told of the night's battle. \ But Toulouse was saved, and in the streets the thankful people honoured the unknown soldier who had given his life for hie country. On the battle-field out of Toulouse, a young lad lay, and the silver medal pinned to his breast, was stained a deep crimson. Micky Saunders had done "his bit."