Lively Bit of the Front

F. Westerman Percy

Description

Are you ready for a thrilling wartime adventure? Readers young and old alike will appreciate this classic from a master of battlefield action-adventure, Percy F. Westerman. Will this intrepid crew of crack marksmen be able to come through at a crucial juncture in the Great War? A Lively Bit of the Front certainly lives up to its title.

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 août 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776528509
• Langue: English

Extrait

A LIVELY BIT OF THE FRONT
A TALE OF THE NEW ZEALAND RIFLES ON THE WESTERN FRONT
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PERCY F. WESTERMAN
 
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A Lively Bit of the Front A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front First published in 1918 ISBN 978-1-77652-850-9 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Malcolm Carr's Decision Chapter II - No. 99,109, R/m Carr Chapter III - The First Trek Chapter IV - The Interrupted Concert Chapter V - Broken Down in Mid-Ocean Chapter VI - Man Overboard Chapter VII - Quits! Chapter VIII - Left Behind Chapter IX - In the Ring Chapter X - Volunteers for the Stokehold Chapter XI - Cornered Chapter XII - Running the Gauntlet Chapter XIII - News of Peter Chapter XIV - The Anzacs' Hoax Chapter XV - The Eve of Messines Chapter XVI - Konrad Von Feldoffer Chapter XVII - Over the Top Chapter XVIII - The Captured Trench Chapter XIX - Trapped in a Dug-Out Chapter XX - The Way Out Chapter XXI - Out of Touch Chapter XXII - A Prisoner of War Chapter XXIII - At Düren Camp Chapter XXIV - Escape Chapter XXV - On the Barge Chapter XXVI - At the Frontier Chapter XXVII - The End of a Spy Chapter XXVIII - In the Firing-Line Again Chapter XXIX - The Battle in the Mud Chapter XXX - The Last Stand Endnotes
Chapter I - Malcolm Carr's Decision
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"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the opendoorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.
"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get yourletters before we start. Expecting anything important?"
Malcolm Carr was a typical specimen of the youthful New Zealander.Although only seventeen years of age, he was a full inch over sixfeet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, wassparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut andslightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. Hisdeep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness ofvision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.
He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskinriding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latterprovided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leathercase that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather.Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to hisup-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt acanvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.
His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearanceand attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm—theyraise tall youths in New Zealand—of greater girth, and slightlyheavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrastto the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr pridedhimself.
Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of theDominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in thesurvey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about tobe commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.
It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. Themonth was November—late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen,yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away tothe west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps,some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To theeastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly countrymerged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores ofPegasus Bay.
Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents therewere no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and farbetween in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent roadseparated the camp from the nearest village, while another fortymiles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch—Malcolm'shome—was reached.
"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as heturned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour offrying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding."Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be ajolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of theBoss yet?"
Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table forbreakfast—the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interiorof the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairsoccupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against thewalls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled withplans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagresupply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was adoor leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple ofsporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning oneof those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization—a motor tyre.
It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxiousfor the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube waswanted—badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernautmaking the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the comingSaturday.
Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under arick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient andcomposite design—partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with asuspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the tout ensemble —thewondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given to Peter and MalcolmCarr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, thetwo brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of serviletractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare inChristchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanentrecord of Juggernaut's frailties.
Peter Carr—big, easy-going, generous Peter—had gone two yearspreviously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part inthe repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroicyet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as ascratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From GallipoliPeter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. Butbefore going on active service Peter had disposed of his share ofjuggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping tomitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older,and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, andvicissitudes of fighting the Boche.
"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.
"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into thehut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu'staken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in hisoffice at nine."
Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to athorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.
"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as abuggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down thedusty road.
Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited thepostman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While therepresentative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the ladcould obtain his mails without having to go down to the worksoffice.
"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handedhim a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll beable to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! Moreof them? A regular budget, Mike!"
Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over fournewspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignmentshowed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.
The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brotherPeter—"Somewhere in France".
"DEAR MALCOLM (it ran),
"U-boats and other noxious German insects permitting, I hope this will reach you. I cannot say much beyond that we are very busy on our sector of the Front. I'm afraid you'll be too late to join me out here, unless the war goes on for another two or three years. Our chaps are of the opinion that it won't. We are having a thundering good time, with plenty of excitement. I have a Hun helmet for you. I gained it properly, after a tough scrap in a mine gallery, but cannot give details. It's no more risky out here than it is driving juggernaut through the market-square on a Saturday night. By the by, how goes the old chariot? Must knock off now, as I have to write to the guv'nor. It is now a quarter to five, and we parade at half-past for ( words deleted with blue pencil ). "Your loving brother, "PETER S. CARR."
The next letter was from Malcolm's father, above referred to as the"guv'nor".
"DEAR MALCOLM,
"Just received a cablegram: 'No. 04452, Sergeant P. Carr, reported wounded and missing.' There are no further details, but as several of our Christchurch friends have received similar news, it is evident that the Nth reinforcements have been in the thick of it. Just what Peter wanted, dear lad! Cannot write more, as I can hardly realize the import of the cablegram. Hope to see you on Saturday. "Your loving father, "FRANK CARR."
Malcolm deliberately folded the letter and replaced it in itsenvelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Woundedand missing"—he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds weregreatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in themud of Flanders—what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in NewZealand seemed—somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brotherhad fal