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Sailing Day.

Morning was stealing over the Trentham hills—the morning of sailing-day. Reveille had sounded at 4 o'clock; and soon after that hour the hoarse whistles of locomotives at work, shunting the troop trains in the railway sidings, began to sound through the clear, warm air. The senior draft in Camp had finished its sixteen weeks of training. It had been on an active service footing for a week, and now it was due to sail. But, ere the men composing it could step from training conditions into active service, there had been formalities to observe, routine to be followed; and these were connected, chiefly, with the same departments that had dealt with the troops when they came in as raw soldiers. The Camp Quartermaster's Stores was one of these departments. About two weeks before sailing-day each man had received a further issue—his sea kit—of clothing. This included a jacket, a pair of trousers, a pair of braces, a pair of shoes for use on shipboard, one cholera belt, one hold-all, and the sea kit. The identification discs would be given out on the transport. But even this issue was not the final business with the Quartermaster's Stores, for, a few days before embarking, the troops returned to the stores their rifles and web equipment. Then they had to parcel up their civilian clothing, which had been kept in Camp in case of any men being discharged. The procedure of despatching these parcels was interesting and showed careful planning. Each man, with his parcel properly addressed, filed up to a table where an n.c.o. sat, and handed over the parcel. The n.c.o. gave the sender a receipt, and the parcel was weighed and placed with many others, to be collected by a carrying company and despatched to their destinations, scattered throughout New Zealand, at the expense of the Defence Department. The receipt given to the soldier would be sent by him to his people, and if the parcel did not arrive promptly they could write to the Camp Quartermaster and ask him about it.

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With the handing-in of their rifles the men felt, perhaps more than at any other time previously, that they really were going away. The lack of rifles gave them a sense of restlessness, even more than had the review by the Governor-General—which always precedes the departure of troops—or the words of soldierly advice, addressed to them by the Chief of the General Staff, for their guidance when on the transports, at ports of call, and when fighting shoulder to shoulder with troops from other countries. These things had impressed the troops—had made them realise that the great adventure was at band. And when their rifles were called in, these impressions crystallised.

After that, with the peculiar reaction from grave to gay which is the Anglo-Saxon's characteristic, a spirit of levity ran through the senior draft. They laughed at little things, sang strange songs, and were fond of horse-play. One of their recreations was to crop one another's hair with clippers, till there was very little hair left. Here and there the amateur barbers showed skill in leaving portions of a man's hair longer than the rest. Sometimes one long lock would wave from the crown of the head, or a man might have the number of his platoon left in high relief. Occasionally there would be a man who refused to have his hair cut until the day after he had said "good-bye" to his girl. Then there would be a running fight in which good-nature never gave way to any other feelings.

Men had made their wills and written and telegraphed to their homes to tell of the time of departure. Those were busy days for the Camp post office. Mothers and sisters, wives and sweethearts, had visited them on the days on which the Camp was open to soldiers' relatives. The officers commanding companies and the Camp Quartermaster had balanced up their little accounts concerning breakages and lost articles to be paid for; the Pay Office had handed out the last pay the troops would receive in Trentham; the medical staff had inoculated every man; the Records Office was still working late and early to have their personal files ready to be sent to the transports. And now it was sailing-day!

Although the morning was dark when Reveille awakened the departing troops, very soon a red glare began to light the gloom in the vicinity of the incinerators. The departing troops were burning the straw of their bedding and the empty palliasses were being collected, to be returned to the Camp Quartermaster's Stores. From there they would be sent out to be thoroughly washed before being issued again. While the straw flared high from the open incinerators, the soldiers sang. Every song they had heard in Camp was sung. "Tired of Marching" was the name of one of them, "New Zealand" was another, "Three Lance Jacks," and many more.

page 186

After breakfast, the men for the first train began to muster outside their huts. Each wore his overcoat and had his kit with him. Its canvas sides were painted, in stripes, with certain colours. Artists, more or less proficient, had been at work painting these stripes on all the kits of the draft. A Company's stripe was red; B Company's was green; C Company, brown; D Company, blue; E Company, red and green; F Company, red and black; G Company, khaki and yellow; H Company, khaki and blue; J Company, French grey; and the Engineers, yellow and black.

The first company to go moved off behind the band—the band that was to lead them out of Camp as it had led them in. As soon as the band struck up and the troops moved, cheers came from the men in every hut in the street. And as the company passed along other streets, the cheering followed them like a breaking wave of sound. But the band could not lead every company out; and so these companies and platoons sang, as they marched, songs that sounded like dirges, till the words were recognised. Hymn tunes were wedded to words of lighter moment. One platoon chanted these words, their happy faces belying the sadness of the air—

"Are we downhearted?—No-o, No, No!
Are we downhearted ?—No-o, No, No!
Are we downhearted ?—No, No, No!
Are we downhearted ?—No-o, No, No!"

Outbursts of cheers occasionally smothered the dismal song, but when the cheering weakened the dirge still went on, probably in the form of other words and another tune, such as "Bill Massey's Army," to the air of another well-known hymn—

"We are Bill Massey's Army,
The ragtime cavalry:
We won't salute, we cannot shoot,
What—"

Here the rolling cheers swept the words to the winds and the company passed on.

The first train was filled; the wheels began to move, and then from every window and every platform voices shouted,

"So-long, Trentham, so-long!"

Down the valley, with gathering speed, the train rattled, and from windows and doorways of cottages handkerchiefs waved to the departing troops. And so, down to Wellington's waterside and the transports that towered above the wharves, the troops were carried.

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Still carrying their kits, they were sent on board in companies and told to place their kits and other gear on their appointed bunks, the number and position of which they were expected to remember. Then they were given leave to go ashore and see their relatives and friends, who were waiting near the barriers of the wharf. Curly's mother was among them.

"The funny thing about this game," Curly found himself telling her, "is that it is like going back to your school-days. You find yourself collecting all sorts of odd things—old nails, pieces of string, pencils—any old thing that might be useful some day—just as we did when we were kiddies at home."

That is how she thought of him as she watched him cheering from the rigging as the big steamer backed away—as a "kiddie at home"—and that is how most mothers regard their soldier sons who go out to help sway the destinies of the world.

Light-heartedly, they go.

They cheer us from the rigging high,
They cheer us from the rail—
There are none there who want to die,
Yet none of them will fail.
There is not one but knows the odds
In war's grim enterprise....
Above the roll of engine-rods
Their cheering shakes the skies.

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This book was set up and printed in New Zealand by the Wellington Publishing Company, Ltd. (Proprietors of "The Dominion"), from whose office in Dominion Avenue, Wellington, It is published.

The blocks for the illustrations and decorations were made by Messrs. Wilson and Horton, of Auckland, with the exception of the chapter headings "A Study in Targets" and "Trench Warfare," which were made by Mr. C. Moore, of Wellington. The printing of the cover was also executed by Messrs. Wilson and Horton, whom it is desired to specially thank for permission to use a number of early views of the Camp. At the same time appreciation is expressed of the work of Mr. E. Gilling, photographer to the "Auckland Weekly News," who supplied a large proportion of the photographs reproduced in the book. Thanks for use of photographs are also tendered to Major F. Waite, D.S.O., Captain G. H. Wooley, Lieutenant W. Bale, and to Messrs. Allen, Arnold, Bickerton, Daroux, Oliver, and Varley, Camp photographers, the "Weekly Press," also to any others whose names may not have appeared on post-card views taken by them which have been used, in the effort to make the record of the Camp of Trentham as complete as possible. For the collection of Reinforcements' badges, thanks are tendered to Mr. Elden S. Neill.

This book is copyright and the contents must not be reproduced, except as short extracts, without the author's permission.