In the Dominion he found that he was "up against something" in which an ornate classical education did not count. Down on his luck, he tried for a clerical post in a Wellington lawyer's office.
"Any qualifications?" enquired the lawyer.
"Er--well, I'm considered good at Greek Iambics and Latin Prose, don't you know."
"'Fraid you've come to the wrong shop," rejoined the man of law bluntly. "This is a live country, not a dead one. Good morning!"
So Fortescue drifted up-country and found employment on a farm. It was hard work. The polished 'Varsity man, who hardly knew how to use a saw or to drive a nail in straight, found it particularly so. He had grit. He got on well with his fellow farm hands, who promptly dubbed him "Fortyscrews", a name that was eventually cut down to "Screws". He accepted the nickname cheerfully, stuck to his job, and in five years saved enough to start sheep-farming on his own account.
Then came the war. Fortescue promptly "sold out" and enlisted. At Gallipoli he acquitted himself manfully, was mentioned for gallantry in an affair at Quinn's Post, and was brought back to Alexandria in a hospital ship, with a wound sufficiently dangerous to smash many a man up completely.
Given the chance of being sent either to England or to New Zealand, he chose the latter alternative. In six months he was himself again. Re-enlisting, he was offered a staff job at Featherston, but declined it, preferring to see more fun at the Front. For the second time Trevor Fortescue had marched over The Summit on the long trail that ended within sight and sound of hostile guns.
Dusty, tired, footsore, but in high spirits, the Thirty-somethingth marched into camp at Trentham. Their stay was but a short one, for three days later the reinforcement embarked at Wellington on Transport 99 for England--and France.