THE DESPATCH RIDER.

Greymouth Evening Star, 10 April 1918, Page 8

THE DESPATCH RIDER.

HIS DAY'S WORK. (By Lieutenant Victor MacClure.) This fellow always seenigi to wear his cap fit a. slight, but completely raJdsii angle—which is tolerated in him, though not encouraged by the strictest disciplinarians, * Goggles adorn the band of his cap and hide the badge, which is the laurel-encirc-led royal cypher surmounted by a crown, the badge of the Royal Engineers. His figure is always trim, if a trifle bulky by reason of the heavy ‘■warm’’ and the indispensable muffler, and he may be a bit oily. IS!either of these things can he help. He has, to wear heavy clothes oh his cold journeys at. fair speed, and he isi oily from his perpetual acquaintance Avith internal combustion engines.: Altogether, there is about him an appearance of speed, an appearance Avhich tens no lie, for he is about the speediest thing in khaki—if Ave except his comrades of the air. Hoav does he spend his day at the front? Like that of all other Sappers, the day’s work varies, yet it is possible to give a. sort of average. He is probably attached to a, Signal Company. The theory of his usefulness, as laid doAvn in the books before the Avar, has been dispelled by practice. Theoretically, he Avas supposed to go anyAvhere that bis motor-cycle Avould take him, and he did as much on the retreat from Mans, Avhere his devotion to duty stamped him' as a true dare-devil. Yet the casualties that resulted from his self-sacrificing work shoAved those in command that it would not do to keep on wasting his kind at such a rapid rate. He is much too skilled a. man. Telegraphic communication is a very delicate thing. It is liable to complete destruction as a, system in a feAV minutes, or even in a few seconds. Shells, traffic Avheels, feet of men and horses Avill sever Avires that have been carefully laid, and telegraphic communication Avill be suspended until the

lines can be made good. Until tlial time, messages must be carrier b} man, either on foot, push-cycle, motor-cycle, or horseback. A\hert there is a. reasonable chance foi wheels propelled by petrol, use i< made of the motor-cyclist. Take it that a fine has been sever- ' ed, or that at some point the electric current is leaking to earth. The D.R. is called up to the Signal Office. “Message for the X Brigade,” is said to him. He takes the message, which is enclosed in a. little envelope ruled off into sections. One section contains) the “address, to,” the other is a place for marking the time of receipt. Across the top is written the magic word, “Priority.” The D.R. reads the direction, takes a. glance at. Ida map, perhaps, to refresh his memory, walks down the road to where his machine is standing—for the machine is never brought right to headquarters—turns the petrol tap, kicks up the stand, takes a short run, and, at the moment of explosion in the cylinders l , leaps clean into' the saddle. The explosions break into a quieter hum. Thirty seconds, and he is a fast-receding dot on the straight road. In all his actions there has been speed, but not a hint of hurry. Follow him, and watch him along the traffic of a muddy, puddly road. He darts round great lumbering motor lorries and G.S. waggons, and most deftly threads his way round the humps and concavities of the road's surface. By and by he comes to a. crossing where a. military policeman controls the traffic with great skill and extreme imperturbability. A quick glance at the band on the cyclist’s arm, a nod, perhaps, from the policeman, a wave of a gloved band, and your D.R. shoots past, and you hear his engines gather up too speed he lost momentarily at the crossing. Arrived at the Brigade Headquarters, he swings off hia machine, and in a moment is standing by the officer in charge of brigade signals. “Priority from the division, sir,” he says, and brings out his message. The officer, almost automatically, slits open the envelope takes a glance at his watch, scribbles the time of receipt and his name on the envelope, and hands, it to the D.R. “Anything to go. back, sir?” the motor cyclist, asks. “Just a minute,” says the officer, and hands the message to an orderly, to whom he. remarks “Priority, the brigade—one time.” Then he turns and makes up a bundle of messages that have been held up by the break in the wire, ordinary messages. These he stuff’s into an envelope, and gives it to the D.R. “Acknowledge by wire when

through,” he says. “Veiy good sir,” says the D.R-, salutes neatly, and turns on his: heel. A little way back along the road to> the division he sees a. sapper evamining the wire by the roadside. He draws up. ‘‘Lookiho- for the break, Smithersi?’ “Yes.” ° ‘‘Hop 01P the carrier—know where it is—shell further along the road,’ says the I). 11. The sapper jumps on the carrier, and the pair go speeding along the road. The break is the sooner mended on this account. Your D.R. may spend the rest of the morning in making some necessary adjustment in his engine. He

may carry message after message, long ones to Army Corps Headquarters, that cannot be sent over the wire on account of their length, “returns” in a. hurry. He may work far into the night, speeding about unlit roads', avoiding traps in the way of holes and humps in miraculousfashion. Rain, snow, sunshine, hail, make no difference to him. Nor does he pay the slightest attention to shells or snipers—the H R.