Roadways are the mainsprings of an army. They are more precious than jewels. When captured they have to be jealously guarded. For this purpose the drill-book says you must have examination posts. These posts are simply clearing-houses for the liars and laggards of war. It is an important job, and usually given to important men. As the Glesca Mileeshy were the most important gentlemen in the Mixed Division, it fell to them to guard the main highway which led through their lines right into the heart of General Von Burstem's camp. Captain Coronet's company, on this occasion, supplied the guard, consisting of Sergeant Killem, Privates Tamson, Muldoon, and Cameron. This observant detachment was posted in a little hut at the cross-roads. The point commanded [pg 246] communication and regulated the flow of spies, patrols, and supplies. Every waggon, motor, officer, and man had to be halted, examined, and passed by the man on sentry-go. The job suited the temperament of Spud Tamson, for he had all the craving for novelty and sensation. He swaggered up and down the beaten path with the air of a new-born subaltern. Nothing escaped him, and as night came he grew still more alert.

"Halt—who goes there?" he challenged out.

"A Gordon!" was the reply.

"Pass, Gordon—all's well."

"Halt—who goes there?" he shouted again.

"Black Watch Picket."

"Pass, Black Watch—all's well."

"Halt—who goes there?" went his challenge once more.

"Wot the 'ell's it got to do with you?" piped some one in the dark.

"Pass, Canadian—all's well," was the apt retort, which in itself reflects the unruly but otherwise splendid man from the Golden West.

For a time there was silence, during which [pg 247] Tamson puffed the smoke out of his dirty old cutty-pipe. Between puffs he mused on the mud and hunger of war, and occasionally switched his fancy back to where his own Mary Ann would be sitting in anxious dread. During this sort of meandering he was roused by the flashing lights of a powerful motor-car. On it came, right up to the barbed wire gate which Spud was guarding. Gripping his rifle in no uncertain fashion, he came down to the charge and bellowed out, "Halt—who goes there?"

"Staff officer, you fool—open the gate," said a muffled voice from the front of the car.

"Step oot and gie the countersign," ordered Spud.

"—— you—open the gate. I'll report you to your colonel."

"Report yer granny—gae me the countersign," persisted Spud, his whole cunning roused by the well-muffled face of this staff officer.

The officer jumped from the car. As he did so the alert sentry noted his hand behind his back. Something was wrong.

"Stand and gie the countersign."

The officer whipped the hidden hand round. [pg 248] A revolver banged in the stilly air. The aim, however, had been turned by a cunning parry, followed by a dexterous thrust by the nimble Spud. He had pinned his aggressor right through the breast. The man fell with a groan. As he tumbled, Sergeant Killem and the guard dashed out. One glance, and the sergeant staggered a little. "God! Tamson—it's a staff officer. You've kill't him."

"A spy, ye mean," said the cool sentry, putting his foot on the dying man's chest, and with a jerk withdrawing his bayonet.

"A spy!"

"Ay—see the revolver! He tried tae shoot me."

"That's queer, man," ejaculated Sergeant Killem, bending down. Lifting the red-banded cap off the wounded man's head and unwinding the muffler, he was startled to see a face clearly German, with the usual student scar. Opening a British warm jacket, the sergeant also found a close-fitting tunic worn by the German officers.

"You're richt, Tamson. By Heaven! he's got a cheek," muttered Killem, as he extracted a large six-inch map, a note-book, a woman's photo, and other things from the [pg 249] dying man's pocket. When this search had been completed they lifted the almost dead German into the guardroom. Spud now tore out his own field dressing and tried to stanch the mortal wound, while the sergeant rang the telephone bell in the Divisional Headquarters.

"Well?" replied an aide-de-camp.

"I'm the sergint on the examination post. A sentry has jist shot a spy in a motor-caur. He's dying in the hut."

"Let him die," was the blunt reply. "And I say, sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Search the man and his car. Keep everything till the Intelligence Officer arrives."

"Very good, sir," said Sergeant Killem, hanging up the 'phone. A further search revealed many things. Papers showed the amazing daring and skill of this spy. The strength, guns, morale, and distribution of the Allied Arms was almost perfect. In the garb of a staff officer he had been everywhere—an easy thing when one remembers the mighty salaams and reverential awe which the "Brass Hats" receive from the respectful Tommy Atkins.

[pg 250] "This is his last trip, onywiy," said the sergeant, casually picking up the woman's photo which the spy had carried in his pocket. Spud came forward to view it.

"That's an actress," remarked Tamson.

"Ay. English at that."

"It's the Principal Boy in that big London panto," exclaimed Spud, who knew the name of every actress, boxer, and racehorse.

"Man, you're richt; but listen——"

"A motor-caur! That'll be the officer," said Spud.

A few minutes afterwards the car stopped at the door, and a major of the Intelligence Staff came in.

"Here he is, sir," said the sergeant, showing him the wounded German in the corner of the hut.

"Good Lord! it's Von Darem!" muttered the startled officer.

"Wha, sir?" inquired Killem.

"Oh, the late Military AttachÉ in London," was the off-hand reply of the officer.

"Here's his papers."

"Thanks," said the major, walking to the lamp. Opening out the note-book, he quickly read the contents. He was as fascinated as he was surprised.

[pg 251] "Well, sergeant, this is a good night's work. Who caught him?"

"Me, sir," chirped Spud, clicking his heels and giving a smart salute.

"You know your job. I'll see the General about you. You ought to be a sergeant. Good-night all."

"Good-night, sir."

Next morning Private Spud Tamson had a paragraph of praise in Divisional Orders, and at night the colonel of the Glesca Mileeshy informed him that he was pleased to promote him to sergeant. The examining guard had brought Spud Tamson fame. A few days later the newly-promoted sergeant was also given the job of taking out a standing night patrol towards the enemy's lines. For this purpose he was allowed to select his men. Muldoon and Micky Cameron were, of course, in the band. It was a dangerous job, yet Spud was not alarmed. It suited his nature and whetted his ardour for the all-precious D.C.M.

'The Field Training Manual' has it that patrols are primarily intended for reconnaissance, not fighting,—in other words, to see without being seen. Spud remembered this. [pg 252] He was also aware that the German commissariat was badly managed. Perhaps that accounted for his stuffing of bread and meat into the haversacks of his party. The men were also ordered to keep their tongues and rifles from barking, and when the enemy was spotted—to lie down. Having duly impressed his little band with these instructions, he gave the order to march. Away they went, Spud at the head. Like cats, they stalked on the metalled roadway for almost a mile.

"Halt!" whispered Spud on nearing a long line of trees which he knew were occupied by the outposts of the enemy. Then all lay down. For a time they could see nothing in the darkness, but gradually their eyes grew accustomed to things. A crunching of feet told its own tale of sentry-go, and a few minutes later the patrol discerned two men at the edge of the wood.

"Micky, you come wi' me," said Spud to his old friend Cameron. "You others stiy here. If you think we're gettin' done in, come owre an' len' a haund. But mind, nae shootin'—the bayonet, every time."

"Right ho, Spud," was the willing response as the sergeant and Micky crawled away on [pg 253] their hands and knees. For twenty minutes they wriggled like snakes. Luck and the shadows favoured them. They finished up fifty yards from the German sentries.

"Here, Spud," whispered Micky, "this is sudden daith for us."

"Are ye feart, ye puddin heid."

"Na, I'm no' feart, but are we no' daft?"

"Blethers! Noo, look here, Micky, get yer haversack haundy, an' mind the breid."

"What's that for?"

"Catchin' them."

"Catchin' them?" queried Micky.

"Ay, jist like catchin' canaries. But, listen, when thae chaps turn their backs, mak' a jump for it. Nae killin', though. Haunds up, and then gie them a lump o' breid."

"Breid?"

"Dae whit yer tell't. I'm fed up wi' yer questions. If yer feart, awa' hame." This sharp retort ended Micky's fears. For the next ten minutes they lay watching their prey. Then came their chance. The two sentries met and turned their backs to have a chat. With a light bounding step, Spud and Micky reached their men. The startled [pg 254] sentries turned and then jumped for their rifles, which were leaning against a tree. Too late, though. A glistening bayonet and a low command, "Haunds up," ended their service in the German Army. Both held their hands up in terror, expecting a sudden despatch to the heavenly land, at the same time tearfully muttering, "Don't hurt me—Don't hurt me," for, like nearly all Germans, they spoke English well.

"Here," said Spud to his man, handing a lump of bread and a sausage. The man grabbed it like a hungry wolf. His comrade did the same with Micky's peace-offering. This bait reduced them to a state of friendliness and civility. Indeed, the attitude of Spud and Micky amazed them. They had been told that the British Army were murderers and barbarians. When they had finished their simple repast, Spud casually inquired—

"Whaur's yer picket?"

"Back there," said one, pointing to the end of the wood.

"Hoo strong?"

"About a hundred."

"Any Maxims?"

"Two."

[pg 255] "Whaur are they?"

"At that end," said the German, showing Spud a sort of earthwork at their end of the wood, about six hundred yards away.

"Many men there?"

"Plenty."

"All right, come wi' me."

The Germans hesitated.

"Step oot," said Spud, fingering his trigger in a determined way.

"Well, don't kill us."

"Na, we'll no' kill ye. But mind, keep quiet as ye go," he ordered, pushing his prisoners ahead. The victors followed, carrying the rifles of the enemy. But they were not to get off scot-free. The clumsy Germans made a fearful din, rousing their compatriots some distance away. This and the rising moon told the now vigilant Teutons that something was wrong. A searchlight was flashed across the danger zone. Spud and his men were spotted.

"Double," he roared, giving the Germans a prick with his bayonet, but the crash of rifles and then the patter of feet told the daring sergeant that he was pursued.

Zip! went a bullet past his ear. Zip! went another, striking Micky in the leg [pg 256] and smashing a bone. He tumbled with a groan.

"Here, you German waiters—lift him," ordered Spud. The prisoners hesitated, but the stern look in the sergeant's face, as well as the danger of death from the rifles of their own friends, made them grab the wounded man and carry him on. A five minutes' run brought them to the spot where Spud's reserves were handy.

"Halt!" challenged Muldoon, jumping out of a hole.

"It's me, Pat—haud on here. Stop these scallywags that's chasing us up. Gie them a dose o' Rapid. They'll think they're up against a hunner men."

"Roight, sargint," replied Muldoon, assuming command of the reserves.

Spud with his unwilling bearers ran on, glad to be out of the danger zone. A few minutes afterwards, the German patrol, which had followed them, came panting and stumbling towards Muldoon's little army.

Z-r-r-p! crashed a volley. Cries of amazement and shrieks of pain rent the air.

Z-r-r-p! rattled another, and still another. The enemy fled in disorder towards their startled friends. Muldoon sent more volleys [pg 257] into the retreating host, and then retired about a hundred yards. Crash went his rifles again. The Germans were thoroughly checked and their whole line surprised.

"Back, bhoys, for the love of Saint Patrick," ordered Muldoon, leading his three men at a trot down the long winding road. They quickly pulled up on Spud and his burdened prisoners, and in half an hour were marching in triumph through their own lines.

"Two prisoners, sir," said Spud, jumping into Colonel Corkleg's dug-out.

"Oh! How did you get them, Tamson?"

"Wi' a bit o' breid, sir."

"Bread!"

"Ay, sir. Ye could catch a regiment wi' a twa-pun' loaf."

"Well, that's the limit. Where did you learn that?"

"The Gallowgate, sir."

"Ah! Tell me how you did it."

Spud quickly told of his adventure, and also imparted the useful information he had received.

"That's good, sergeant. Do you think we could capture the redoubt and the guns?"

"Ay, sir—easy."

[pg 258] "How?"

"A night attack, sir."

"Sound, very sound, sergeant. I'll put your captain on to it. Thank you, Tamson."

Spud saluted and jumped out. His company gave him a warm welcome on entering their dug-outs; indeed, Captain Coronet called him in for a tot of service rum. After this warm beverage had been devoured, Spud elaborated his own ideas about the capturing of the enemy's Maxims. The captain listened attentively and then dismissed him to have a rest preparatory to the projected assault.

The night affair was arranged by the colonel during the day. Captain Coronet was to make the attack, supported by another company. The whole thing was to be led by the now famous sergeant. It was a daring adventure; but if successful it was worth the risk. Machine guns are annoying at all times. These would be better out of the way. The position, too, was desirable. Its capture would allow the Mixed Division an opportunity to clear the wood of objectionable snipers.

At dusk Coronet and his men sallied out. Spud headed the column, and from front to [pg 259] rear all were guided by a great, long rope held by each man so as to ensure direction and avoid straggling. At first they marched, but on nearing the enemy's line all fell on their knees and commenced to crawl. This was continued for half an hour, when a whispered "Halt!" made them lie low.

"It's owre there, sir," said Spud, pointing in the direction of the redoubt.

"Not much to be seen, Tamson," remarked the captain, placing his monocle in his eye.

"Listen, sir."

Both lay still, and eventually analysed the many sounds. Some men were coughing, others appeared to be singing, while here and there "All's well" rang out in German. During this wait for the light of dawn the company was surprised by the tramp of a small patrol. On they came straight towards Coronet's men. It was an anxious moment for all. To fire would have been madness, revealing the whole plan. The captain held his breath, uncertain how to act. It was one of those awkward incidents for which no remedy can be found in infantry training, new or revised. Captain Coronet could handle a division in a war [pg 260] game and win many a brilliant battle on regimental staff rides, but this situation was beyond him, and like a simple British gentleman he whipped out his sword.

"Na, sir, no' that," whispered Tamson. The flush which suffused Coronet's cheek could not be seen in the dark. Spud Tamson had presumed to override the officer class. For a second the captain almost lost his temper. Another second's reflection, however, told him that this sergeant from the slums was right.

"Let them come right up, sir, then grab their legs, drap them, and choke them."

"Very sound—tell the men what's on," commanded the captain, well pleased to have found a solution to the problem. A few more minutes brought three figures within view of the attackers' eyes. They tramped and stumbled forward right into the waiting men. The captain, Tamson, and Sergeant Killem grabbed the legs of the Germans, and with a jerk heaved the surprised men to the ground. Only one shout was heard, for, like a flash, strong hands pounced on to their throats. A spluttering and low choking broke the stillness of the night.

[pg 261] "Don't kill them—tie them up," whispered the commander. Some mufflers were quickly produced, and with the aid of rifle-slings, rope, and spare equipment straps, the German patrol was bound and gagged.

"I wonder if they heard that beggar shout?" whispered the captain.

"Na, sir. Ye wid hae soon heard the bullets if they had."

"I'm glad—it's getting light," said the captain, looking up to the sky.

"Ay, sir,—yonder's the gun pits," said Tamson, pointing to a redoubt about two hundred and fifty yards away.

"Pretty tough job, Tamson," mused the captain, studying closely the flanking trenches and some objectionable barbed wire.

"The barbed wire's no' very high, sir."

"High enough for trouble."

"If they tak' aff their coats an' fling them owre the wire it'll no hurt them sae much."

"Good idea,—tell them to carry their coats in their hands, and get ready."

Tamson turned and whispered the order. In a few minutes the whole company was eager for the fray.

"Prepare to charge," whispered the captain, putting his monocle into his eye. [pg 262] Leaving his sword on the ground he picked up one of the German rifles and jumped to his feet. The company followed suit, and with a thundering cheer charged forward towards the German lines.

A sentry outside the barbed wire dropped his rifle and ran towards a little gateway in the entanglements. Unhooking some loose strands he dashed through, followed by Coronet, who pinned him with his bayonet in the back. About twenty more squeezed through this gap. The remainder flung their coats across the wires and floundered over into the German trenches. Then the butchery began. Half-sleeping Germans found themselves face to face with cursing, yelling scions of the Glesca Mileeshy. These old toughs from the "Model" plugged, stabbed, jabbed, hacked, and butted the life out of the defenders in the flanking trenches. Those who tried to escape by jumping out were clubbed to death. Coronet and Spud were everywhere, and, like others, quickly covered themselves with German blood. Things went well till a Maxim gun started its nonsense. A clever gunner opened a traversing fire on the daring band.

"Lie down, men," roared Coronet. They [pg 263] obeyed, but not before twenty men had been killed or wounded. It was an anxious moment for the company commander. The check was serious, and, like a true British officer, he looked round for his sergeant. He saw Tamson at the far end of a trench coolly aiming at the German gunner.

Bang! went Spud's rifle. He missed. Muttering an oath, he quickly fired again. The man dropped back dead. Another sprang to his seat, but before he could touch the handles Spud despatched him to the Happy Land. This was good, but not altogether useful, for a host of Germans were sallying out of their dug-outs and rushing to avenge their dead.

"Rapid fire!" roared the captain.

Click! click! went the bolts, and next a fearful crash, but our musketry cannot always stem a wild German rush. Remembering he had a company in support, Coronet signalled them up. Recollecting, too, that he had read somewhere in Haking's text-book on company training that an assault should be met by a counter-assault, he ordered his men to charge.

"I'll see tae the guns, sir," shouted Spud to his captain above the din.

[pg 264] "Right, sergeant," answered Coronet, looking back.

"This way for the Gallowgate, lads," was Tamson's order to a few of his cronies. They followed at his heels, and dashed towards the first gun. A young German officer met Tamson with his sword. The Teuton made a furious swipe at his red-coloured head.

"Missed it, young fellow me lad," shouted Tamson, parrying. Still the point hooked an ounce of good flesh out of the sergeant's arm.

"Got ye," yelled Spud, lunging forward with his bayonet. The officer writhed in a horrible way at the other end of his rifle. With difficulty he disengaged, but rather late, for a powerful Teuton made a terrible blow with his butt. Tamson was struck on the side of the head and stunned. He fell to the ground. Pat Muldoon saw it all and jumped forward to guard him from further injury. Standing astride over his prostrate form this great Irishman faced all odds. He wielded his rifle in the same easy manner as he had formerly handled his pick. An Irishman in a fight is a sight for the gods. He is a mixture of the dervish and the devil. [pg 265] And a strange charm hung over the life of this son of Erin. Man after man he felled like a woodman cutting pine. As the neighbouring gun team had no desire to earn such a hurried despatch, they bolted to a more safe and pleasant region in the dim beyond.

Meantime, Captain Coronet had been getting on with his job. His counter-attack crushed the first impact of the German host, but at a terrible cost. Seventy men had bitten the dust, while he himself had been prodded like a prize pig with German bayonets. Fortunately none of his gashes were serious. Still, he and his men were about worn out when a thundering cheer told them that the supporting company had arrived. Into the fray dashed the eager avengers. Their enthusiasm turned the tide. Away ran the Germans; the position was won.

Out of the shambles rose Spud Tamson, somewhat dazed with the blow.

"Cheer up, ould pal,—are yis better?" queried Muldoon.

"What wis it?" asked Tamson.

"Begorra, it's the stars ye've been seein'."

"Three star brandy wisnae in it, Pat. It's worse than the D.T.'s."

[pg 266] "Never mind, me bhoy, we've got their ould bullet engines," said Pat, pointing to the machine guns with the gun team lying round. "But I say, Spud, have a nip."

"Sure, Pat, whaur is it?"

"Here," he said, drawing a beautiful silver brandy-flask out of his pocket.

"Whaur did ye get this?"

"In that German officer's pocket."

"Man, it's the rale thing. Did ye get onything else?"

"I did that,—a purse of gould German quids."

"I get hauf o' that. It wis me that kill't him."

"Roight, we'll share it out by-and-by."

"Nae fear. Hauf it the noo."

"Why?"

"A bird in the haun's worth twa in the bush."

"That's what the ould judge said when he gave me thirty days for stealin' Mike Docherty's pigs," concluded Pat, as he ruefully parted with half of his bag of gold.

Spud also got his D.C.M.

[pg 267]