SOWING GLORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVIII, Issue 21049, 7 December 1931, Page 15

SOWING GLORY.

A MOST ENTERTAINING AND INTERESTING SERIAL.

CHAPTER Xl.—(Continued.) That night I took time from my muchneeded hours of sleep to discover my muleteer friend, Valago, and tho excellent I'ere Cocteau paid another visit to the little Pigou. *" It is done. The Pigou breathes again, my child," he said, 011 his return, and, giving his broad chest a thump, added: " Always turn to your ' bon papa ' Cocteau when in trouble." I endeavoured to thank Pero Cocteau. " Enough, enough, my cabbage. Say 110 more," he begged. " Except that I feel I owe you twenty francs," I added. " You really feel you owe mc twenty francs, my child ?" smiled Pere Cocteau. " Ah, well . . ." ****** I was positively thankful to feel the full weight of my entire kit on my back as we marched next day, although it weighed more than seventy pounds.

CHAPTER XH. A few days later we made another attack at Bou Kharnonaj. Our battalion was right-flank guard again, but we had our share of the fighting, and, for half an hour, had a really hot time of it. We had deployed, and were advancing in open order, my company being on the extreme right, when a sudden burst of rifle-fire broke out from a perfectly invisible enemy 011 the hillside in front of us. We got tho signal to lie down, and a section, widely extended, skirmished forward, scouting ahead of us. There was soon a brisk exchange of fire. Tho scouts had evidently run into a body of the enemy and located them. We got tho order to rise and advance, and a minute later we were ordered to close on the centre and rush a kind of hollow plateau or crater, straight ahead of us. Up we went, and as we appeared over the nearer lip of the prater, a horde of grey-clad Arabs swarmed over the opposite one and fled. By the time we had crossed the crater and liner], tho opposite side, these men had absolutely disappeared, gone to ground behind rocks and in tho gullies, dry stream-beds or wadis in which this country is so rich. While wo halted, peering through the shimmering heat-haze that danced over tho stony ground before us, thero was 'again a sudden outburst of rifle-fire from our front and right flank. It was evidently a crude form of trap, and the enemy had, at any rate for the moment, got us where they wanted us, and probably with tho range carefully paced out by each man, from where we were to tho rock of the " nullah whence he was shooting. Tho bullets came thick and fast, knocking up sand all round us and among 113, ricocheting off rocks and stones, sometimes striking a rock with a vicious smack and occasionally a man, with a dull thud, a horrid sound to me —ono of tho beastliest that one can hear. I was moro than glad to find that I was not in the least afraid, but, 011 tho other hand, was ashamed to discover that I was trembling violently. This was certainly not due to fear because I felt no fear, nor was it " nerves," using the word to express a state of being nervous. It was, I honestly think, pure excitement and a condition ono may describe as " keyed-up-ness." At first it was so bad that I couldn't hold my rifle still, and, though I have won a good many pots at shooting—and onco entertained idiotic and conceited dreams of having a try for tho King's Prize at Bisley—l certainly couldn't have hit anything then. However, everybody was much too busy attending to their own affairs to take any notice of me. At the end of what seemed to me an eternity, but which I discovered to be about an hour, the enemy's fire slackened, and presently stopped as they drew off from their position across the narrow valley. Presumably our rapid and heavy lire had decided them not- to assault tho plateau or crater place that we were holding. At first we had fire orders, from Captain Z—:

" Prepare for salvo-fire at five hundred metres. . .Fire!" . . . Time after time, and we had fired our wonderfully crisp clean volleys as one man, and so far as I could see, at one man, a remarkably courageous person who stood on a rock, " hurling defiance," and encouraging his followers. After that, we got the order " a volontiers " for independent fire, which nearly always seems to 1110 infinitely more sensible than the other. In the " salvo " or volley-firing, everybody is thinking far more of the volley than of its effect; much more concerned to press the trigger at the exact moment than to hit the object.' Moreover, if the word-of-command is withheld too long, one's riflo inevitably begins to sway or wobble as one breathes; whereas, with tho "a volontiers " fire, you can get down to it in comfort, rest your rifle, wait till there's something to shoot at, and then shoot at it. When tlie " cease fire " whistle was blown, we lay in an irregular line along the edge of tho plateau behind whatever head-cover heaven had vouchsafed to us, and awaited events. Personally, I lay perfectly Hat for awhile, with my head on my arms, feeling more tired after that hour's firing than I should have done after a twentymile march. Captain Z— suddenly appeared from somowhero, and walked up and down behind lis, occasionally scanning the opposite hill-side through his field-glasses. After ho had passed, T heard Digger ask Abraham the Sailor if he'd noticed tho position whence the Captain gave his orders. " Too right, I did," replied Digger, and Terenoo Hogan irreverently imitated the captain's voice and bravo words: " ' And over I shall bo at your head.' " In point of fact, ho had promptly got behind a largo rock tho moment we came under fire, and, with an occasional peep to left and right of it, but novel over tho top, had exercised fire-control for but a brief space. " If it had been old Papa B—, he d have been walking about smoking his cigarette, glancing at everybody's rifle siphts, and bestowing a friendly kick in tho ribs on anyone idling and not paying strict attention to duty," observed Coctean. " Poor chap looks ill to me, I said. Ho certainly looks very white." " I think discretion is tho better part of pallor, in his case," said Terence Hogan. , . T " Sort.'of thing you would think, 1 replied. For Terence Hogan's epigrams and jests aro sometimes more witty than kindly. " lie surely has gone pale in the features," agreed Abraham tho Sailor. " Heap Big Chief Paleface. He's certainly sick.". " Sick of being shot at, anyhow, growled Terence Hogan, in whom I think the regular officer felt ashamed, both for, and of, Captain Z—. Suddenly orders arrived by flag, helio, or field-teiephone, for us to advance. We

(COPYRIGHT.)

By P. C. WREN. Author of " The Young Stager." " Dew and Mildew," " Father Gregory," " The Wages of Virtue." " Beau Ideal," etc., etc.

(To be continued daily.)

sprang up, and, in open order and irregular line, descended into the valley, Captain Z— well in our rear. Up the lull-side, whence heavy fire had so recently been directed at us, we climbed, very much on the alert, not knowing at what moment a brawny wildcat fanatic might spring, slashing wildly, from behind a rock; or u sudden heavy volley from above mow us down. But nothing happened. We gained the top unopposed, and found it to be another plateau or crater, somewhat similar to the one we had left, and considerably larger. Across this we advanced at the double, and reached the opposite side, some three or four hundred yards away, just in time to see a few scattered grey-clad objects dash from the base of the mountain into a " nulla " or " wadi," and disappear round a bend of it before more than a few snap-shots could be fired at them. Away on the left Hank we could still bear (lie heavy firing that had been going on, more or less, since the action began. This now died down and, shortly after, orders came for us to consolidate our position—in other words, form an entrenched camp and hold on. Once again began that back-breaking, nail-tearing, hand-scratching labour of carrying great stones, of tho right size, shape and flatness, to build the wall. I found this ■ work a much greater strain than marching. It's awful, carrying these great stones in both hands as a washerwoman would carry a basketful of wet clothes; and worse still, I think, carrying them 011 the shoulder as a butcher-boy does his tray of meat. Corporal Minaud, a person of whom I was not inordinately fond, had .1 vile (and to bis superiors, valuable) trick of turning the business into a heavy-weight-lifting competition; offering a litre of wine to the man who could lift and move the biggest and heaviest stone. Egged on by the competitive spirit, in the hope of winning the wine, some of these poor fellows of the stronger sort would perform absolutely superhuman feats of strength, achieving the almost impossible. Behind the hack of such a man—staggering along by inches, bent more than double, with cracking sinews and breaking blood-vessels—Corporal Minaud would nudge :i brother non-commissioned officer and laugh at the poor fool shortening his life that Corporal Minaud's duty might the sooner he done. I never heard of any of these Atlases getting their litre of wine. I think the competition always ended in a dead heat, with the prize reserved for next time. That night the troops had their first glimpse of a different aspect of " savage " warfare. Savage indeed. On our right lay a battalion of " Tirailleurs." The left' of this battalion again lay at the edge of our flat-topped mountain, one of the Bou Khamouaj range. From this edge, the mountain fell away sheer, in what was practically a precipice; and was either unpatrolled that night, or else was in charge of weary sentries who saw no point in staring into the Beyond from which only a winged enemy could approach. Doubtless they patrolled their part of the front of the plateau—from which the ground sloped gradually—as vigilantly as we did. Anyhow, at the base of that precipice, on the " Tirailleurs' " flank, was a big Arab " ksar," called Ait Maklonf, and, during the night, the "simple villagers" became tho wild fierce mountaineers that they really are; left their guns and ammunition safely hidden in the roof; and, each clad in oil and a long, sharp knife, sallied forth, and, in perfect silence scaled the " unscaleablo " precipice—up which they had no doubt a well-known and wellworn path. Arrived at the summit', the first man stabbed the—probably sleeping—sentry dead and cut his throat; and then the whole band, incredible as it may seem, crawled, silently as phantoms, among the sleeping " Tirailleurs." Each one slabbed to the heart the first man he saw, cut his throat, took his rifle and ammunition and vanished. All this without a sound; without an alarm of any sort being raised. In the morning, twenty-nine dead men were lying there, each in a pool of blood, his head half-severed from his shoulders. Almost as soon as we heard the news, the order came for the " Tirailleurs " to move elsewhere, and for us to take up their position. As it happened, our section took over this position that had been the flank of the line of the " Tirailleurs," and I saw some sights that made me feel almost sick —hardened as I was by my experiences in tho Croat War. Everybody was filled with unbounded indignation, and called the Arabs all sorts of evil names, of which treacherous assassin was about the mildest. Having seen what I had, I was moved to agree with the most indignant, until Terenco Hogan damped my fine, frenzy with his quiet drawl. " Did you ever hear of any merry lads in France called Ghurkas ? They used to go out and collect heads for breakfast, or, at any rate, before breakfast. It was called trench-raiding, as you may have heard. TJiey used to bring back tho heads because they were given to understand that tho raids were made for indentificatory purposes. They didn't seem to understand when they were told that shoulderstraps and caps were better for the purpose of identifying German battalions. However, always wishful to oblige, they left tho heads behind thereafter, and brought tho caps." " It's a beastly way of fighting," I said. " Oh, don't be silly," replied Terence Hogan. " Wouldn't you rather have your head neatly and artistically sliced off by a competent Churka than be gassed by a German chemist, until your lungs bubbled out in green foam?" " War is foul and beastly, anyhow," 1 said. " You've said it all. Bo," agreed Abraham tho Sailor. "Let's go home." " These Arabs are sacred assassins, pigs, species of camels, matricides who eat their own children, owls, animals, politicians ." slated (Joelcan. " I know them in all their filthy manifestations, Toureg, Bedouin, Riffian, Senoussi, Berber, Dervish and what, not. . . . All alike. " Well if you ask 111 c," observe* Digger, as ho cleaned his rifle, " I think they're diukum sportsmen. Would a bunch of us daro walk into an Arab camp one night, odds a hundred to one, and bayonet twenty-nine of them and get away with it?" "Sure. What's hit in* you all?" agreed Abraham tho Sailor. "This is a war, isn t it ? . . . I always thought all holds were allowed in war—butt, kick, bite, throttle, and gouge. Do you guys want' the poor heatlloll to do i't with a band and banners and torchlight, procession, or what I. ou make me tired." " You'd have been more tired if it had been us posted there last night, and You'd got your throat slit, by an A nib," remarked Matthieu le Marquereau. " Sure I should, " replied Abraham the Sailor, " and servo mo right, too. What were that outfit of ' Tirailleurs' and their sentries up to that such a thing could happen ? You don't suppose they're going to get us that way. And if they do, I hand it to 'em for better men than we are." And of course he was right. Wo were making war 011 "these people, invading their country, and killing them when and where they resisted. If wo could kill them in tho light of day with our superior weapons—grenades, machine-guns, aero-plane-bombs, and high-explosive shells, why shouldn't they kill us by night with their inferior weapons ?