During their leisure hours there was plenty to amuse the men in camp. A battalion picture-theatre, billiard rooms, voluntary swimming parades, boxing, and a variety of other indoor and outdoor games contributed to the men's enjoyment; and, although discipline was well enforced, there was a total absence of irritating petty restrictions that form a constant source of annoyance to the men of the New Armies of the Motherland.
At last came the welcome news of a parade at midnight in full marching order. Every man of the Thirty-somethingth reinforcements knew what that meant: a move to Trentham--the final camp before embarkation. It was a point of honour that no man should fall out during the arduous fourteen-hours' march over The Summit. Malcolm would never forget that midnight trek. It was a perfectly still evening. The Southern Cross was blazing in the sky. The air was warm but bracing.
Out of the lines of tin huts the two thousand five hundred men comprising the draft poured forth like bees. They made plenty of noise, "barracking" each other like boys out of school. The utmost enthusiasm prevailed, yet despite the turmoil the sense of discipline made itself felt.
In full marching order the men set out briskly to the strains of the band that was to play them for the first few miles of the route. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, crowds of civilian friends of the departing troops accompanied them--in motor-cars, horsed vehicles, mounted, and on foot. New Zealand knew how to bid her sons a fitting farewell.
Once clear of the camp (the band having carried out its part of the business) the men burst into song. It was an unwritten law that each draft should attempt to sing all the way to The Summit, and the Thirty-somethingth was not going to be outdone.
Mile after mile of the steep ascent the men toiled gamely. Backs began to ache under the drag of the packs; entrenching tools began to make their presence aggressively known as they chafed the men's legs; rifles were being constantly shifted from shoulder to shoulder or carried at the trail, as the weapons seemingly increased in weight at each step. Yet not a man fell out, nor did the singing cease until the order was given to halt at The Summit.
"A smart bit of work. The boys are in fine fettle," remarked Platoon-sergeant Fortescue to Malcolm. "I had my doubts about Tosher Phillips. He is the weak link in the chain, so to speak."
"As a matter of fact," rejoined Malcolm, "the man has galls on his heels to the size of half-crowns, and one boot is almost full of blood. He wouldn't take advantage of a lift in one of the wagons--said he'd rather stick it."
"By Jove!" ejaculated Fortescue. "Is that so? Then I think I must call back all I said concerning Tosher. All the same, I'll speak to the Company Officer and get him to order the man to fall out. The boy's shown his grit; that's the main thing."
Sergeant Fortescue was a man of about thirty years of age, and a seasoned veteran. English born and bred, he had gained a degree at Cambridge, and, failing to turn it to any good account, had been sent to New Zealand by his disappointed father.