DON HALE
OVER THERE
By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
_Author of_
"DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES," ETC.
Illustrated by H. A. BODINE
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1918
COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
Don Hale Over There
Introduction
"Don Hale in the War Zone" recounts the many adventures of Don on a
dangerous trip across the ocean, as well as in war-torn France, while
seeking his father, an aviator in the service of the Allies. His chum,
George Glenn, too, was an active participant in numerous exciting
events.
The present volume, the second of the series, tells about the thrilling
experiences that fell to the lot of Don, who, in common with numbers of
other young Americans, volunteered his services as an ambulance driver
in that great organization, the Red Cross, which has done so much for
the cause of humanity during the world war.
Don views the operations at close range, and, naturally, amid such
perilous surroundings, often finds himself in extremely serious
situations.
His life in the war zone, however, is not all danger, and besides his
work with the Red Cross he and some of his friends have an interesting
experience in connection with a mystery which hovers over the ancient
Château de Morancourt.
W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.
Contents
I. THE NEW ARRIVAL
II. A MYSTERY
III. ON DUTY
IV. UNDERGROUND
V. UNDER FIRE
VI. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
VII. THE CHÂTEAU
VIII. A MAN-HUNT
IX. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
X. THE BIG GUN
XI. THE OBSERVATION POST
XII. THE ATTACK
XIII. THE STORM
XIV. THE CHEMIN DE MORT
XV. A BLOCK ON THE ROAD
XVI. A FOOTSTEP ON THE STAIR
XVII. BARRAGE FIRE
XVIII. "DESERTER!"
XIX. THE RED CROSS
XX. IN THE TOWER
XXI. A DISCOVERY
XXII. THE TREASURE
XXIII. THE COUNT
Illustrations
"FIRE!" COMMANDED THE CORPORAL
"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH"
"TAKE A LOOK AT IT"
A HEARTY CHORUS RANG THROUGH THE ROOM
A RED CROSS CAR WAS COMING
Don Hale Over There
CHAPTER I
THE NEW ARRIVAL
"Yes, sir, it's been rather quiet along this sector for a week or two
past, Chase, but believe an old veteran in the ambulance service when
he says that it isn't going to remain so very long. An attack by one
side or the other is bound to happen; and then--whizz!--bang! You'll
hear more shells popping than you ever could have dreamed existed in
the world. This is no children's party--eh, fellows?"
A volley of assents came from nine hearty voices.
The "old veteran," who had spoken with a great deal of earnestness,
fixed his gaze quite searchingly, even sternly, upon Chase, a big,
husky chap sitting close by, who had made no answer.
"Say, mon ami, what made you join the Red Cross, anyway?" he asked.
Chase, disregarding his question, rose to his feet, stretched himself
and yawned. He wore the air of one who is entirely out of harmony with
his surroundings. Whereas all the rest, in spite of the hazardous
nature of their calling, appeared to be full of life and spirits, he
looked sullen and discontented.
"I declare, these nights are about the limit!" he exclaimed, in a
growling tone--"nothing to do but loaf around and----"
"One kicker in a crowd is one too many," remarked the "old veteran,"
or, rather, Dunstan Farrington, with a laugh which softened the
bluntness of his observation.
"Too bad he didn't remain in the states," added Hugh Wendell.
The observations of the two had only the effect of causing Chase to
shrug his shoulders and lapse into a silence which no one seemed
inclined to disturb.
On the table in the middle of a large, bare room occupied by the boys
stood an oil lamp which cast a yellowish glimmer over the surroundings
and threw upon the walls and floor huge, grotesquely-shaped shadows.
In the far corners the feeble light could not cope successfully with
the darkness, and there somber gloom and mystery lurked.
To a casual observer the gathering might have appeared to be a
social affair--a mere coming together of young chaps who had no very
serious object in view; in reality, however, it was something far
different--they belonged to a unit of Red Cross ambulance drivers,
stationed for the time being in an abandoned hotel at a little
shell-torn village not far from the now famous city of Verdun. The
eleven were within a zone of death and destruction--a zone where peril
was never absent for a single hour.
From the roadway outside came a ceaseless rumble. Motor lorries, huge
supply trucks, ammunition wagons, in fact practically every kind of
vehicle belonging to the transportation service of an army in the field
was making its way under cover of darkness toward the front. And in the
opposite direction a continuous line of "empties" flowed steadily past.
The constant growling and grumbling of the French batteries, from
their masked positions in the hills to the east and northeast, were
growing louder. The German artillery, too, located to the north and
northwest, kept booming away.
After a while Dunstan Farrington brought out a sketch book, and with
swift, sure strokes began to record some impressions he had received
during the day. Dunstan was not a collegian, but a former student of
the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris. During the early part of the great
war, like numerous other young men, he had felt the call to action and
had volunteered under the Red Cross.
More than once while under fire the boyish-looking young chap had
performed some valiant deed in conveying the wounded soldiers from the
battle-field, and had incidentally narrowly escaped death or serious
injury. Dunstan, with several other equally brave Americans, also
ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross,
which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.
During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young
men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount
of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of
refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as
an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which
sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.
The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette,
a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers
behind the lines.
During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been
caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris--an
inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the
hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to
work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly
water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread
around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were
reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.
The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of
some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a
second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this
modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls
and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and
peaceful indeed it looked--just the sort of a place where one might
expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door
and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.
A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the
courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the
neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well
as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the
enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or
to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.
The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in
inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section
was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant
Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual
commanders were two college men from the United States--Hugh Wendell,
Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks supplied the
meals, and the section also included several French mechanics, though
of course all the drivers were fully competent to overhaul and repair
their cars.
From four to ten men and a number of ambulances were always on duty
near the dressing stations, a few thousand yards from the front-line
trenches--a dangerous post indeed, where the men were very often
obliged to make a precipitous rush for their dugouts in order to escape
the rain of devastating shells.
Yes, there was plenty of action, plenty of thrill and excitement in the
life.
Chase, who had arrived but a short time before, during a lull in
the fighting on that part of the western front, had as yet seen no
dangerous service. The young chap was not very popular--persons of a
sullen or taciturn disposition seldom are--and though he must have
realized this he made no effort to turn the tide in his favor.
Bodkins, the musical member of the unit, had just brought forth his
banjo, ready to indulge in his favorite pastime, when a noise at the
door stopped him.
"Hello! Somebody's coming in," he exclaimed, looking up.
At that moment the door opened, and a dim, very vague form was seen
standing at the threshold about to enter.
"Hello, fellows! Bon soir, Messieurs!" cried a cheery, youthful voice.
Whereupon every one in the room except Chase gave utterance to a hearty
shout of welcome, Dunstan Farrington's voice rising high above the
others.
"Hello yourself, Don Hale!" he shouted. "Back from your ten days'
furlough, eh? You're a sight for sore eyes! Well, well, we're mighty
glad to see you!"