AN AUSTRALIAN GUNNER.*' THE most poignant interest will always be
attached to these letters of the war, with their record of daily hardships cheer-
fully endured, of sudden desperate moments, of gay anticipa- tions of leave, of resigned return to the weariness and danger of the trenches, of jests and messages and longings—the whole suddenly ended by the broken line followed by the brief and tragic War Office telegram : "Killed in action" on such-and-such a date. There is a double interest in these Letters and Diary of Lieutenant Adrian Consett Stephen, for not only are they the record of a brave, modest soldier, but they also enable us to understand something of the outlook of the overseas fighting man. Mr. Consett Stephen was an Australian, and all through the book is to be found evidence of his devotion to his country. There is no country so free and great, no soldier so grand a man. He longed to be sent to the Dardanelles. " It is good to be an Australian these days, no one ever expresses anything but admiration for them. They are regarded as strange men who are hardly human, and who can do things that other men could not do." " This war has made me feel how grand it is to be an Australian," were among his last words. " I only hope that the little part I play in this big affair may make me not unworthy to be classed (in all but name) as a real Anzac." He had a great respect for the German as a fighting man and never underrated the enemy. He had a high admiration for the bravery of the British " Tommy," but deplored in him, and our Array generally, a lack of originality and foresight. In the former quality particularly " Tommy " is far below the Australians, he asserts with pardonable native pride.
Mr. Consett Stephen enlisted in 1915, later joined the R.F.A. as a Second Lieutenant, and rose to be full Lieutenant and acting Major in command of his battery. For the " little part " he played he was mentioned in despatches, awarded the Croix de Guerre avec palme and the Military Cross, and while under his command the battery gained the distinction of having its achievements placed on the Records of the Royal Regiment of Artillery. He was killed in March, 1918, three days after his return from leave. Mr. Consett Stephen had an instinct for gunnery. " My Lord the Gun," as he delights to call it, had a fascination for a man of his imagination :-
" He lives in a lair that takes a month to build. Six men slave for him day and night. He has his whims and his humours. In a good temper he shoots like a dream, when hot and sulky and steaming he jams sometimes or jibs, and then men pet him, bathe him down, stroke him with cloths, and fuss around with oil cans, till with a roar he leaps into action again. His snout tilts upwards sniffing the air, his lips slobber with smoke and flame. All night men sleep around him, and further behind the line an army of men toil to feed him with long rows of glistening shells. Mon and gun are one and indivisible. My Lord the Gun has come into his own, and his kingdom to-day is large—it is the world."
The major portion of the book is a most interesting and often vivid and dramatic description of life with the guns—the mighty howitzers, the 15-inch " Granny," "twisting up a village " and " tossing trees about like matches " ; a visit to a French battery where " the officer showed us his beloved 75-
a crude, cheap, tin-looking affair like a large toy, and sleepy in appearance, but once he touched a wheel here and a wheel there the gun sprang into life, its muzzle nosing round it ; it was like stirring a snake with a stick " ; wonderful days at O.P.—that danger-point of which all of us who have had friends in the Artillery have heard so much, but which can never have been described better than by this intrepid and gifted Australian officer :-
" Hour after hour we fired at slow rates till my eyes were like cannon balls. It was a fascinating game, sitting there perched up on a high stool, gazing through a slit in a bank and watching the stretch of country below, and following and correcting each round. The maze of trendies as far as the eye could see were emitting puffs of smoke and were torn and mangled beneath a slow, steady rain of shells.. . . One has no time to think of responsibilities or the chance of making mistakes— fortunately."
When a shot reached it " the whole O.P. was swayed about
• An Australian in the R.P.A. By Adrian Consett Stephen, KC. London: The Australian Book Company, ld rarringdon Avenue, B.C.4.
like a giant shaking a baby." Down in the depths of the dug- out " one felt all the vibrations. Sleeping berths were around the walls, and one felt as if it were a ship's cabin in a storm swaying to the pulsation and swish outside." Work in the gun- pits was " a nervy business. . . . The roar and flare of the guns, the smoke, the misty figures moving quietly yet swiftly, subdued orders, the thin metallic noise down the 'phone, and all around the pounding of other guns. There is no place where a mistake is more fatarand where hysteria is more likely to run riot."
Over and over again Mr. Consett Stephen is struck by the drama of the telephone. Daily almost such tragi-comedies
as the following incident in " the day's shoot " must have occurred :-
" hullo, that you, Australia ? Yes, Canada.'—
'Row's things ? Oh, we're winning.'—' Winning what '— ' There's a war on, you know,'—' Really, that's funny. I thought I heard a noise somewhere about here.'—' Let's fire 40 rounds and and the war.'—' Right, let her go.'—' I say.'
Hullo.'—' How about it Just a small one.'—' &earn I'- Cheero "
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