A Lively Bit of the Front

Malcolm Carr's Decision

"Post in yet, Dick?" enquired Malcolm Carr, as he stood in the open doorway of a "tin" hut that formed part of the Wairakato Camp.

"Give the man a chance, Malcolm," was the reply. "You'll get your letters 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 six feet in height, and, although broad across the shoulders, was sparely built yet supple of frame. His features were clear-cut and slightly elongated. A massive chin betokened force of character. His deep-set, grey eyes gave promise of an alertness and keenness of vision that are the attributes of a healthy, open-air life.

He was dressed in a soft flannel shirt open at the neck, buckskin riding-breeches, leggings, and strong laced boots, the latter provided with spurs. On his left wrist he wore a watch in a leather case that bore signs of hard usage and exposure to the weather. Attached to his belt was a sheath-knife, while in contrast to his up-country appearance he carried in the breast-pocket of his shirt a canvas-covered notebook, a couple of pencils, and a fountain-pen.

His companion, Dick Selwyn, differed little from him in appearance and attire. He was barely half an inch shorter than Malcolm--they raise tall youths in New Zealand--of greater girth, and slightly heavier. His large, muscular hands, however, were a marked contrast to the slim, supple, well-kept pair on which young Carr prided himself.

Both lads were pupils under the State Railways Department of the Dominion. Their college course completed, they were assisting in the survey of the Wairakato valley, where a projected line was about to be commenced to link up the east and west coasts of South Island.

It was an ideal existence, under perfect climatic conditions. The month was November--late spring. For three weeks no rain had fallen, yet on the breezy uplands the ground was green with verdure. Away to the west could be discerned the lofty ridges of the Southern Alps, some of the loftier peaks still retaining their garb of snow. To the eastward the ground sloped irregularly until the hilly country merged into the fertile plains that terminated upon the shores of Pegasus Bay.

Beyond the small collection of corrugated-iron huts and tents there were no signs of other human habitation. Farmsteads were few and far between in the Wairakato valley. Thirty miles of indifferent road separated the camp from the nearest village, while another forty miles had to be covered before the town of Christchurch--Malcolm's home--was reached.

"Hope the post will arrive before we start," remarked Carr as he turned to enter the hut, from which wafted the appetizing odour of frying eggs and bacon, the fumes of cheap kerosene notwithstanding. "Tell Kaitiu to take the large theodolite down to No. 4, and to be a jolly sight more careful than he was yesterday. Any signs of the Boss yet?"

Receiving a negative reply, Malcolm set to work to lay the table for breakfast--the two lads shared the same hut and meals. The interior of the hut was plainly yet substantially furnished. Table and chairs occupied a considerable portion of the floor space. Against the walls were cupboards and lockers, the latter mostly filled with plans and drawings. At one end was an oil stove, with a meagre supply of crockery and ironware above. Immediately opposite was a door leading into the sleeping-room. In one corner were a couple of sporting rifles and some fishing-rods, against which was leaning one of those ubiquitous objects of modern civilization--a motor tyre.

It was mainly on account of that motor tyre that Malcolm was anxious for the arrival of the camp postman. A new inner tube was wanted--badly. Without it there were long odds against juggernaut making the seventy-odd-mile run into Christchurch on the coming Saturday.

Juggernaut, minus one tyre, stood without, sheltering under a rick-cloth that did duty for a garage. A car of ancient and composite design--partly Daimler, partly Darracq, and with a suspicion of half a dozen makers' parts in the tout ensemble--the wondrous, once-discarded vehicle had been given to Peter and Malcolm Carr by a cousin of theirs. Being of a mechanical turn of mind, the two brothers soon reduced the motor to a state of servile tractability, although there was hardly a thoroughfare in Christchurch whose buildings did not bear a more or less permanent record of Juggernaut's frailties.

Peter Carr--big, easy-going, generous Peter--had gone two years previously. Enlisting in the first contingent, he had taken part in the repulse of the first Turkish invasion of Egypt and the heroic yet ill-starred Gallipoli campaign without receiving as much as a scratch, and having hardly spent a day in hospital. From Gallipoli Peter went to France, and up to the present his luck still held. But before going on active service Peter had disposed of his share of juggernaut to his young brother, thus, in a manner, helping to mitigate Malcolm's regret that he was not at least two years older, and thus able to share with his brother the honour, glory, and vicissitudes of fighting the Boche.

"Grub!" announced Malcolm laconically.

"Right-o!" was the muffled response as Dick "barracked" into the hut, still scrubbing his face vigorously with a towel. "Kaitiu's taken the gear down to No. 4, and the Boss wants to see you in his office at nine."

Breakfast over, and the empty cups and plates subjected to a thorough washing and drying, Malcolm prepared for his day's work.

"Post!" shouted Dick, as a dust-smothered vehicle known as a buggy, driven by an equally dusty man, appeared in sight down the dusty road.

Malcolm Carr knew his man. A large pannikin of tea awaited the postman, for the jaded animal a bucketful of water. While the representative of the Dominion State Post was refreshing, the lad could obtain his mails without having to go down to the works office.

"Now we're all right, Dick," remarked Malcolm as the postman handed him a parcel containing the anxiously-awaited inner tube. "I'll be able to give you a lift down to Springfield on Saturday. What! More of them? A regular budget, Mike!"

Mike the postman grinned approvingly as he handed over four newspaper packets and half a dozen letters, while Dick's consignment showed that that worthy was by no means forgotten.

The first letter Malcolm opened was from his brother Peter--"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 its envelope. The rest of the correspondence remained unopened. "Wounded and missing"--he knew pretty well what that meant. The odds were greatly against the chance of seeing Peter again. Somewhere in the mud of Flanders--what a mockery that bright sunlit morning in New Zealand seemed--somewhere in that hideous No-Man's-Land his brother had fallen. A raid in the hostile trenches; Peter wounded and left behind unnoticed by his comrades. A man in that predicament stood less than a dog's chance. He must have been too badly hit to be able to crawl in--and the boys back from the front told grim tales of Hun brutality to the wounded who were unfortunate enough to fall into the enemy's hands. So far the Carrs had been lucky. Peter was the only member of the family of military age. Several of their intimate friends and scores of mere acquaintances had made the great sacrifice, but for the first time Malcolm realized the closeness of the Great War. Its ravages had touched him through his elder brother----

"By Jove!" exclaimed Dick Selwyn, deep in a newspaper, "there are two of my cousins, Jim and Laurence Selwyn--you know, they had a farm just out of Ashburton--done in; and Tom Selwyn of Oamaru dangerously wounded. That looks as if----Hallo! What's up, old man?"

"Peter's wounded and missing," replied Malcolm briefly.

For some minutes silence fell upon the pair. The postman, gulping his tea outside the hut, was shouting unheeded witticisms to the lads within.

Presently Malcolm glanced at the clock.

"Ten to eight," he remarked calmly. "I'll fix up that tyre. There's plenty of time before I see the Boss. I'm going to chuck my hand in and join up."