Part 13 (2/2)
”And then they'll shove you in them,” interjected Claud.
”What for?”
”Prime Australian beef, fresh tinned, straight from the Dardanelles.
That would look well on a label.”
”Yis couldn't do that with Bill,” said Paddy.
”Why?”
”He's a bit high----”
Bang! came a Turkish bomb at that moment, scattering the group into their shelters below the parapets.
”Ye dirty, mouldy-faced sons of dog-eatin', blue-nosed spalpeens--Oi'll bomb yis,” roared Paddy, gripping a jam tin and lighting the fuse.
Bang! it went. Bang! Bang! Bang! went more.
”_Some_ jam,” said Bill, as he watched through the periscope. And then they heard moaning, shrieks, and shouts of ”Allah, Allah.”
”More jam,” ordered Bill. And more jam they received. It wasn't sweet, and certainly unpalatable. And it didn't stick. Tins labelled ”Apricot,” ”Marmalade,” ”Black Currant,” and ”Raspberry,” went hurtling through the air, then burst in a very nasty way above the poor old Turks' trenches. This battle of jam bombs made the Turks much more respectful for a time. Indeed, one of the officers, who must have been a sportsman, flung over a note, on which was written:
”DEAR AUSTRALIANS,--We like jam--in fact, we could do with a tin of it, but not that dam--jam--jammy stuff you were putting over last night.--Yours fraternally,
”YUSSEF BEY.”
”By Jove! He's a sport--let's chuck him a tin,” said Claud. And over it went. The Turks scattered and waited, but there was no explosion.
With a smile the Turkish officer picked up the tin. Unfastening a note tied round it, he read:
”DEAR YUSSEF,--This is the _real_ stuff. By the way, you were at Rugby with me. Shall be sorry to kill you.--Yours, etc.,
”CLAUD DUFAIR.”
Plunk! came a stone into the Australian lines; round it was fixed a note:
”DEAR CLAUD,--Many thanks--it was a G.o.d-send. Fancy you being here. I thought you would have been guarding the Marys and Mauds of London from the Zepps. Congrats! Of course, I shall be sorry to kill _you_.--Yours, etc.,
”YUSSEF BEY.
”_P.S._--There will be no firing to-day--go to bed.”
And there was no firing. This Turkish officer, like every other Turkish soldier, was a gentleman.
It is remarkable how circ.u.mstances produce the inventor. At h.e.l.l-Fire Post the men found that the ordinary square periscope was almost useless. Every time one went up, bang went a Turk's rifle, and the periscope was blown to smithereens. Indeed, The Kangaroos lost nearly all their periscopes in the first few days. Now this was awkward.
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