THE DESPATCH RIDER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XLIX, Issue 4862, 7 May 1918, Page 3

THE DESPATCH RIDER.

! IEFYAY?~WORKr

(By Lieutenant Victor MacClure.) This fallow always seems to wear bl-, cap at a slight .but completely rakish angle— which is tolerated in bin/, though not encouraged by the strictest disciplinarians. Goggles adorn the hand 1 of his cap hide the badge, which is tlie laurel-encircled roal cypher surmounted by a crown, the badge of the Royal Engineers. ‘His figure is ahvavs trim, if a trifle bulky by reason of tlie heavy “warm” •and the indispensable muffler, and he may be a hit oily. Neither of these Things can he help. He lias to wear heavy clothes on his cold journeys at fair speed, and he is oily from his perpetual acquaintance with internal combustion engines. Altogether, therp is about him an appearance of speed, an appearance which tells no lie' for he is speediest thing in khaki—if we except his comrades of the air.

How 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 attaches to a signal company, The of his usefulness, as iaid down in lid' books before the war, has been dispelled by practice. Theoretically, he was supposed to goanywhere where hjs motor-cycle would take him. and he did as much on the retreat from Mons, where his devotion to duty stamped him as a true dare-devil. Yet the casualties that resulted from his self-sacrificing work showed 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 few minutes, or even in a- few seconds. Shells, traffic wheels, feet of men and horse, will sever wires that have been carefully laid, and telegraphic communication will be suspended until the lines- can be made miod. Until that time mesages must be carried by man, either on foot, pushcycle, motor-cycle, or horseback. Where there is a reasonable chance for wheels propelled by petrol, use is made of the motor-cyclist. Take it that a line has been severed, 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 ruled off into sections. One section contains the “address to,” tlie other is a place for marking the time of receipt. Across the top is written the magic word, “Priority.” Tlie D.R. reads the direction, takes a glance at his map, perhaps, to refresh .his memory, walks down the road to where his machine is standing —for the machine is never brought to headquarters— /turns the petrol tap, kicks up the stand, takes a short run. and, at the moment ol explosion in the cylinders, leaps clean into the saddle. The explosions break into a qiretqr hum. Thirty seconds, and he is a fast-receding clot .on the straight road. In all Lis actions there has been speed, hu ; not a hint of hurry. Follow him, and watch him among the traffic of a muddy, puddly road. He darts round great lumbering mo-tor-lorries and G.S. wagons, and most deftly threads his way round the bumps 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 tlie eye l ist’ arm, a nod, perhaps, from the policeman, a wave of the gloved hand, and your D.R. sljoots past, and you hear hit. engines gather up the speed he lost momentarily at the crossing. Arrived at the Brigade Headquarters, he swings off his 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.” he turns and makes up a bundle of rhe,3sages thaf have been held up hv the break in the wire, ordinary messages. These he stuffs into an envelope, and gives it to the D.R. “Acknowledge by wire when through,” he says. “Very good l , sir,” says the D.R. . salutes neatly, and turns on his heel. A little way back on the road to the division he sees a sapper examining the wire by the roadside. He draws up.

- “Looking for the break Smithers?” “Yes.”

. “Hop oil the carrier—know where it is—shell further along the road,” says the D.R.

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. mo-rninor making some necessary adjustment in his engine. He may carry message after message, long ones to Army Corps Headquarters, that cannot bo 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 miraculous fashion. Rain, snow, sunshine, hail, make no difference to him. Nor does lie pay the slightest attention to shells or snipers—the D.R.