“RUM JARS"

New Zealand Times, Volume XLII, Issue 9720, 24 July 1917, Page 8

“RUM JARS"

THE BOMBING POST AN INCIDENT OF THE WESTERN FRONT. In company headquarters dug-out sat two subalterns smoking cigarettes. Ever and anon a pair of eyes fell on a huge hamper that lay at their feet, arrived that morning from “Blighty.” On their oilcloth-covered table was spread a letter, the handwriting Urge and round'. One sentence was thickly underlined, and ran: “And don’t, forget this time to tell mo exactly what ‘rum jars’ arc. I want to tell Mary James all about them, because she says they aren’t really rum jars. So mind, don’t forget.”

Concealed in tho shadows at the back of the dug-out crouched the signaller over his gurgling instrument, tho receiver to his oar and a pencil in bis disengaged hand, ready to transcribe tho message that was coming over tho wire. He wrote dowm some words on a message-pad, paused, and shook th© instrument impatiently, ■shouting at tho same time to some invisible listener to “shake up.” Ho tore the sheet off and handed it to tllio 0.0. with the laconic intimation, “From 8.H.Q., sir.,” The O.C. read and his face fell. Ho handed the chit to the Boy. His fresh colour slightly faded ag.he read. “I suppose 1 must go,” he drawled with assumed carelessness, knowing the mandate to b© inexorable; “and to-night of all nights.” “And Agony Point, of all places,” sighed the sympathetic 0.0. . . He slung a gas-bag . over his shoulder, pulled his, gum-boots on, struggled into a sheepskin jacket, adjusted his belt, and put on. has steel helmet, then glanced at the sumptuously. spread table.

“Don’t wait for Brown, old boy,” he said. “May as well tuck in.” Long ago, in the bad old days when isolated rifle pits were all the fashion and the system of a continuous front line had not been established, Agony Point used amply to justify its name. So much so, indeed, thatgradually it had come to lose any likeness to a point. Incessant pounding with “heavies” had reduced it piecemeal to a chaos of yawning craters. Access there from the front line necessitated walking across a hundred yards of “No Man’s Land.” It was held as an advanced bombing post, and forty yards beyond lay the Boehe line. At dusk it was the practice each evening to man “Agpny” with a score of men and a subaltern, who remained there until dawn of the next day. By dint of crafty crawling, the enemy had contrived frequently to nip in before tho party arrived, and, planting a machine-gun to cover the entrance, had worked like fury to convert .the apology for a parados into a parapet for himself. This the Boy well knew. With his fair young face firmly set, his grey eyes fired with heroic purpose, he drew up his party of twenty at the point where they would " go over, the top to “Agony.” According to custom, he sent ahead the sergeant and six men to reconnoitre. Standing on the fire-step he watched the dim.' forms of the men stumble forward through the darkness till presently they dropped to their hands arid knees and were lost to sight. Tens© and alert, the Boy waited for the messenger who should come arid report all dear. Along the lines Verey lights rose and sank and rifles cracked in desultory fashion. From the south came an omtoons sound, the steady, sustained roar of big guns' furiously firing. A loom of dusky flam© filled the horizon. The Boy appraised with experienced eye and ear th© savage intensity of the “strafe.” The men cowered beneath it, stunned and dazed, while parapets and traverses flew violently sky-high in sheets of flame.

(Suddenly the Boy felt, hie heart tighten ag a loud, guttural shouting fell on his ears. Catching instinctively the deadly import of those cries, he scrambled over the, parapet, shouting to his staring men to follow. The shouting ceased suddenly,, giving place to the crash" and thump of exploding bombs and a short burst of rifle fire. Boon came the stretcher-bearers, groping their way from body to body, while Verey, lights : went steadily up and down. The Boy - ' looked dully on. His own men. . . Again ho started with sudden alertness and a smothered cry. A hundred feet up, barely visible in the starlight, he distinguished two dim objects that trailed red sparks, travelling towards them > with a soft purring sound. “Rum jarsl” ho shrieked. “Quick men.” . . . He fell into the shell-hole, covering his face instinctively, tensely waiting. Fourteen pairs of startled eyes saw the devil approaching in new guise. He came trailing red sparks, _ sailing leisurely along, apparently straight in their direction. Fourteen men crouched with swift-beating hearts beneath the parapets, each with a prayer on his lips. But this devil in the . zenith of his flight swerved and fell to the left. It plunged into the firebay of a neighbouring platoon, leaving as a memento an enormous gap and the memory of two sentries who wore never seen again.

“JR'uin jars.” They came in swaras, from all directions, sparkling, purring, wiping out trenches like so many toys. Huge timbers, earth by the ton violently propelled sky-high; mud cast up in gigantic geysers, descending again in heavy splashes on the white faces of sentries. The dread visitors always left their mark. Sometimes a life passed unannounced into the presence of its Maker, sometimes a life grimly remained, imprisoned in a. shattered trunk, whose owner screamed wildly, or moaned weakly for a bullet. Tile “strafe” was at an end. For the first time the Boy felt unutterably weary. He wandered from post to post. For the hundredth time he examined the luminous face of his watch, and came near hating it. Another half-hour to four o’clock. . . . The garrison, filed out. The Boy entered his stuffy hole. On the oilcloth lay the remains of the feast. A huge rat, like a kitten, sat at ease enjoying a tongue. Its red eyes challenged the Boy lazily. A green-and-gold box of cigarettes attracted his tired eye, and he stretched out eagerly for one. The rat watched him appraisingly. Near the guttering candle lay his sister’s letter. He tore a piece off .to Tight his cigarette, and there caught his eye: ‘‘And don’t forget this time to tell mo exactly what ‘rum jars’ arc. I want to tell Mary James all about them. ...” The Boy smiled qucerly as ho lit his cigarette. A little later entered the o!c. He stopped short. The Bov was fast asleep, his head on the table, his face like a tired child’s. Hark stains that were not mud bespattered his tunic. —R. P. Hughes in “Manchester Guardian.”