page 15

A Study On Wheels.

A noise like a machine gun, stampeding horses and mules, cursing drivers, a cloud of dust, and it has passed; then the exclamation, "What the Dickens was that?"

That, now only a speck of dust on the skyline, is a dare-devil, death-defying, desperado Don. R., otherwise known as a motor cycle despatch rider, bound for—who knows where? with despatches which may mean life or death, or something like this: "O.C. Humptieth Corps. How many flypapers required by you? Urgent." No matter what the message, he always travels at the same break-neck speed, to the utter discomfort and confusion of all peace-loving users of the road.

He is prepared, at a moment's notice, to start on a journey of 100 yds., or as many miles. See him ready to start on a stunt. Everything he possesses he carries on his iron steed: blankets, tucker, water—every part of his machine has some piece of gear strapped or wired to it, until it looks more like a motor lorry than a motor bike.

"Division will move off" comes the order, and away goes the cyclists' detachment, perhaps sixteen strong, making enough noise to frighten all the beetles for miles around. Away they go, these acrobats, swaying and bumping over the uneven ground, through dust, sand, mud and water. Nothing seems to stop them, short of a brick wall. Their motto is, "Get there, even if in an ambulance."

Watch this fellow. In passing some horses one kicks out, missing him by a hair's breadth; he swerves off the beaten track, then "bang!" He has hit a submerged rock; the machine stops, but he goes on, and eventually alights on all fours. Is he hurt? No! Up he bounces like an indiarubber ball, picks up his machine, mutters something to himself, and then he's off again after the others. Another fellow is getting along beautifully when "bang!" goes his back tyre. His mate yells "Areyeralright?" as he flashes past. The answer is, "Yes. I'll catch you up." Then he starts repairs. Soon he'll be flying past after the others.

The straps holding one poor chap's gear on have worked loose, allowing the gear to distribute itself along the road. All unconscious of the fact, he sails serenely along until a horseman calls his attention to the existing state of affairs. His face is a study, his language, too, as he goes back to collect as much of his kit as he can find. By this time the others are well ahead and have now stopped on the bank of a good-sized stream, about three feet deep, which crosses the track. Of course, the horseman crosses without any trouble, chaffing the cyclists the while. Undaunted, six men to each, they carry the machines bodily across. The laggers having arrived and been helped over, away they go again. Just to cheer things up, down comes the rain Before many moments the dust is turned into lovely, sticky, slushy mud. Then the fun commences.

In front is a pretty stiff hill to be scaled. Away the cyclists go at it, like bulls at a barbed-wire-fence, What a Keystone! Slipping sliding, now nearly up, then down, they slither to the bottom again. One fellow's engine is doing about 50,000 revolutions per second, but all in vain, for the rain has caused his belt to slip. Another machine refuses to budge an inch, it has managed to get into some very sticky clay and the wheels are clogged with it. It's a case of all hands to the pump, and each machine is pushed and pulled to the top of the hill. They are sitting taking a spell, listening to the

beautiful music of trickling rain, and night begins to fall. Suddenly a horseman appears and a voice calls, "Eh! choom, are you the Camels?" What a question! Back goes the quick retort, "No, mate; we're the blessed tractors, forming fours".

On they go again, in the dark now, through the rain and mud, up hill and down dale until, just at dawn, they catch up with the main body. Then, just think of it! they are told the road is unpassable for bikes! They must return at once; fools for having attempted the journey! etc., etc. The beginning of a Perfect Day. Passing rude remarks about the war, the weather in general, and silly asses in particular, they start on the weary way back again, and the fain comes pit-a-patter down.

Tired, hungry, wet through and mud-stained, willing to sell out for anything, the weary petrol-lancers return to camp. Someone boils the billy, then, with tea, bully beef and biscuits they regale themselves. With the hot tea and mun-garee their spirits revive. They recount their experiences with many a joke and laugh, and later, tired but cheerful, they creep between their wet blankets to sleep and perhaps to dream of home. They are ready, if needs be, to go through it all again on the morrow.

Palestine. "Sparkplug."