MEMORIES AND PICTURES

Hokitika Guardian, 11 October 1924, Page 4

MEMORIES AND PICTURES

O.C. BUIMAI.S.

(By J. K. Chamberlain.) An extract rfum the counterfoils of Army Hook 152 (Correspondence): “ From O.C. Detachment. Map Kef; 1/10,000 I\.I!T a 9.1 Arrived dusk. Vigorous shelling. Four casualties, all too shattered for removal. llation lorry ditched. Search parties report ground fairly clear. Shall move to 1.1 b7.T nightfall tomorrow.”

And so it went day hy day—icy grim appointment with the dead; tin* dead who never kept one waiting at the rendezvous! How often as night 101 l have 1 made my bivouac in the midst of them: these stark and pililul bodies lily only sentinels! • And then, from dawn onwards, the gruesome tasks of burial in impiotised cemeteries with the tier of l lie guns as requiem; and our padre’s voice, sometimes pleading, sometimes triumphant: " Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. . . for they rest from their labours.” On the fringe of the great Mormal forest at twilight. I had just moved into the remnants of a cottage lacing the high road. Outside, near what was once a dour, was illy sign-hoard : ‘•Burials Officer.” There came a ” tramp, tramp, tramp” along the road—reliefs moving towards the front, line. As I watched them marching past 1 was jesting against the sign-hoard. And suddenly there came ripples of laughter and hursts of subdued hut merry cheering as scores of outstretched arms pointed towards me. Those wonderful hoys! As they disappeared they were laughing still, though full well they knew that in hut a few hours 1 should he among them with lilv task beginning again—and their task finished for evermore. A CLEAN SWEEP. By James Dunn.) It was in the dark days of the .March retreat in 1918. Suddenly in the early forenoon a German lighter swooped down from the clouds and pounced upon the semicircle of helpless balloons. One, two, three, four, live “Sausage” balloons were swiftly struck by the llerv tracery bullets and came down like burning rags, their occupants following on the twirling parachutes. Three of our machines dashed at the daring raider, whose engine was out of action, and he came nose down plump into the thatched roof yf a liny cottage. I was in charge of a signalling party several hundred yards away, and, arriving at the double, we saw a weedy youth with a scorbutic complexion and huge goggles cringing before a whitehaired, apple-cheeked freiichwoman who was driving him before her with a broom.

" Go away," she shouted, nourishing the broom. “ Mow dare you bring your war here and damage my house? I’ll make you pay for it.” Catching sight of us, the German airmail, looking like a whipped schoolboy, ran to us with obvious relief exclaiming, “ Mein Colt, take me away from this terrible woman.” The little Frenchwoman followed up the chase, and, dropping her broom, shooed us away with her apron as though we wore so many raiding fowl. And we went ! I/ioking over my shoulder I rom a sale distance. [ saw her picking op fragments of the ruined aeroplane for firewood! It was the triumph ol woman over war.

(HASHED. (By Paul Bewsher.)

Gradually we glide downwards through tln> darkness in the "lent night bombing machine. It is one o'clock in the morning and are i’UT the :ea :oliie mile- I'rnih the I•':!•• I. l it I ,1. ..I.led h\ ei.;.|i..lailnre alter bombing the limy cauldroll nl Zcolirugge Alole lor an hour. I stand up and anxiously peer downwards, looking lor some landmark. I ('tin see nothing. It is a dark night of no moon, and helow us mist wipes out anythin''. Slowly the relentless linger of the height indicator creeps hack', and I cannot even see the line of the coast, visible Usually mi the worst night. At •J.-'.ir.lft I crawl info the interior ol the machine and drop a parachute Hare. It hursts into light henealh us and shows us (lie sea gleaming helow. at 2,o<loft-ngain at 'l/,Olll't—other Hares show us still the cold, wail inn; sea. We are in a land machine and I have no lifebelt. I am dreadfully helpless and dreadfully afraid. In Ihe li.'.thl of the flares we see a large ship, and the pilot beside me decides to land near it. There is a violent crash as we strike the water. I am shot through the air, and (lame leaps through my brain as I strike the sea.

I find myself being dragged helow the surface by m.v sodden lead-heavy flying clothes, IniL I ding myself with superhuman efforts to the floating machine and cling to the wing—just my face above the water—and scream for help. A Ih'itish motor-launch picks me up, hut the pilot is drowned henealh me—still at his wheel. \VI LDKHXKSS. (By Moore Hitchic). An hour before dawn on a February morning in l!)!(h I was standing in an African desert, ffOO miles from civilisation’s nearest outpost, wondering if f should see that day’s fiery sun or lie food for the vultures and a casually report before it rose. A little company of three white officers and 100 native soldiers with two Lewis guns, we had surrounded a rebel .Mohammedan who was preaching an

anti-British Holy War and who, with his followers, all starving for water, was making a sudden overnight push for a river drinking place, which we strove to reach first. In this we had to take one supreme risk. Should the enemy win the race for the water-hole, we should he cut off and surrounded in thick hush by 2000 dervishes armed with rifles and 2ft stabbing spears. AYhon wilhin a few hundred yards of the clearing, therefore, we halted for our scouts to bring the vital news —were we in time? Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed on lily wrist watch’s glowing dial. The hush, wall-like, imprisoned us in on our 10-foot path. Not a star pierced the close darkness under the clouded moon. The wind’s whisper in the nearby river palms beyond was the only sound to l>e heard in that desolation. One shot ripped the stillness like a scream and a man stumbled from the hush at my feet.

“Iloi-hoi-hoi! Hun for it!” he shouted in Somali. “That’s their advance guard who hit me —they are a quarter of a mile behind. We vneed of the water and with hacks to it opened a shattering ma-chine-gun lire.