ON DUTY
Early on the following morning, while the light of the coming day was
slowly spreading throughout the heavens and by degrees bringing into
view the landscape which for long hours the deep shades of night had
gathered to themselves, Don Hale and Dunstan Farrington clambered into
ambulance number eight and took their places on the driver's seat.
"Another forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost ahead of us!"
exclaimed Don.
"Yes; and I hope there won't be too much excitement!" said Dunstan. "I
reckon Chase Manning would agree to that sentiment."
"There's a chap whose acquaintance I am certainly going to cultivate,"
laughed the aviator's son.
The boy waved his hand to a couple of mechanicians tinkering over an
ambulance near by, threw in the clutch, and number eight, the center
of a very strong smell of gasoline, slowly trundled over the cobbled
paving, passed beneath the arching gateway and entered the street.
Even at that early hour soldiers billeted in the village were to be
seen on every hand, and as the Red Cross car swung along in an easterly
direction over the wide highway an occasional "Vive l'Amerique!" rose
clearly above the hum of smoothly-working pistons and rumble of wheels.
Traveling at a rapid rate of speed, the ambulance soon reached a bend,
and just beyond the road passed under the arch of an ancient porte,
or gateway, which marked the limits of the town. Very picturesque
and typical of other centuries it looked, looming up against the
slowly-lightening sky.
Beyond the porte the ambulance passed a succession of hills and
meadows. Everywhere the earth had been pitted, scarred and plowed up
by high-explosive shells, and at frequent intervals there were huge
yawning craters, meters in depth and width, some showing the earth
freshly disturbed, others where it was hard and dry.
The guns still boomed away, and spurting columns of smoke rising here
and there told where the shells from the German batteries were falling.
"I hope the Boche won't be tossing any of their property along the
Chemin de Mort as we pass," exclaimed Dunstan.
"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if they did," declared Don.
Dunstan glanced at his young companion curiously.
"By George, Don, your nerves are like your helmet--made of steel," he
said, admiringly. "Don't you ever get the quiver, the shiver and the
shakes like the rest of us?"
"You bet I do," laughed Don. "Hello!--Hear that!--seemed to be right in
the direction for which we're bound."
"Yes," said Dunstan, slowly--"not only seemed to be, but was."
Very shortly afterward the Red Cross car sped swiftly around a bend in
the road and into one of the most dangerous stretches of the entire
journey. This was the Chemin de Mort, or Road of Death, so named
because of the fact that for a distance of over a kilometer it lay
in full view of the German trenches and artillery and within easy
range of shell-fire. Eleven ambulances belonging to the section had
been almost put out of service along that kilometer of deadly danger
by bursting shrapnel shells, and at certain times it required all the
courage and nerve a driver possessed to stick to his car. Number eight,
one of the eleven damaged cars, still showed the marks made by the
leaden hail.
Probably no member of the unit ever arrived at the Chemin de Mort
or raced across its sinister length without experiencing decidedly
peculiar and uncomfortable sensations--sensations in which dread and
awe formed a prominent part.
"Let 'er rip, Don!" cried Dunstan, anxiously.
"First speed it is," said Don.
Number eight bowled swiftly ahead, sometimes jolting and bumping over
inequalities in the road, while the two on the front seat kept their
eyes fixed on a bend beyond. Only a few moments were required to reach
it, and when the car shot around into a safer zone both Don and Dunstan
gave a little sigh of relief.
"I always find myself wondering if something tragic isn't going to
happen along here one of these days," murmured Dunstan.
"It hasn't yet," said Don.
"I know; but----"
The art student paused and shrugged his shoulders.
"Hello! Here comes one of our cars!" cried Don.
His sharp eyes had just caught sight of a small object enveloped in a
cloud of dust swinging into view in the distance.
On and on it raced at terrific speed; larger and larger became the
vehicle and its accompanying cloud of flying particles. A shaft of the
early morning sunlight, shooting across the landscape, tinted it with a
rosy glow; sharp lights gleamed and flashed on the polished surfaces.
Then, with a rush--a clatter--a whirl of wheels--it bore down a gentle
incline immediately in front of them. Now the red cross, the emblem of
mercy, on the ambulance's side could be clearly discerned, and Don and
Dunstan had a confused and momentary impression of a grim-faced driver,
tense and alert, bending over the steering wheel and a companion by
his side. Then the road ahead was clear.
"An urgent case!" murmured Don.
"I thought some of those shells were landing near the post," said
Dunstan.
Number eight now turned another bend and began ascending a hill, with
woods on either side of the road. The highway at this point became
rather narrow and winding, and was in the midst of a neighborhood
almost as much dreaded as the Chemin de Mort. At night, with the road
shrouded in deep black shadows and barely room for vehicles to pass and
the likelihood that careless driving might at almost any moment cause a
car to topple into a shell-hole, the combination was one calculated to
test the skill of the most expert drivers.
The forest was filled with guns of many calibers. And before the war it
must have been a very beautiful forest; for pines, cedars, hemlocks,
oaks and horse chestnuts, ages old, were growing in great profusion.
But the German batteries on the opposite hills had sent veritable
hurricanes of screaming shells into its midst. The withering blasts
had stripped countless trees of their foliage--so shattered and
blasted others that forlorn, ugly-looking stumps alone remained.
Yet the French batteries had withstood the bombardment, and many a time
the ambulanciers driving along that narrow road in the forest had been
almost deafened by the terrific concussions of the guns.
And as cannon must have ammunition numerous supply posts were situated
near the winding road. Cleverly hidden from the eyes of German airmen
stretched row after row of shells suitable for every gun, and enormous
quantities of boxes containing cartridges and hand-grenades.
As the Red Cross car climbed the hills and descended into the valleys,
with the sun's rays ever strengthening and sending slender shafts of
pearly light between the trees and spotting their boughs and branches,
the two Americans caught occasional glimpses of figures in the depth of
the forest--artillerymen, ready for the day's work.
Shells were bursting not far away; detonations came one after another.
But the French batteries now remained silent.
"Hit it up again, Don," advised Dunstan, as the car approached a high
hill. "If there is any one spot the Boche seem to have the exact range
of it's right along here."
"Gideon Watts knows all about that," rejoined the youthful driver,
grimly. "Narrow shake he had, eh?--car almost put out of commission and
Gideon sent shooting into the road!"
"That day's work was responsible for Gideon getting the Croix de
Guerre," said Dunstan. "He stuck to his post with 'arrivés' dropping
all about him like hail. I can't imagine Chase Manning doing that, Don."
Farrington began to chuckle softly, though a strained look appeared in
his eyes as he glanced up at the sky.
"Don't know enough about him yet to offer any opinion," returned Don.
Then a silence between the two ensued--a silence which continued while
the ambulance was chug-chugging its way up the steep incline. Very soon
the summit was reached and the dangerous hill and a crossroad near the
top left behind.
Don remarked, reflectively:
"I've been thinking about that trip to the Château de Morancourt,
Dunstan."
"I haven't," said the other, very frankly. "My mind, just now, was on
high-explosive shells."
Don laughed.
"The same here up to a minute or so ago," he confessed. "But honestly,
Dunny, somehow, my curiosity has been excited a whole lot by your story
about the château."
"I'm glad to hear it," chuckled the art student.
The road in places was deeply rutted and worn by the passage of
countless vehicles, but the driver, skilled in the art of avoiding the
bad portions, took his car down a gentle slope at quite a lively pace.
At length number eight once more began making an ascent, and it was not
very long before the summit of the hill was reached. Turning sharply
off on a little spur lying at right angles to the main road, the
ambulanciers suddenly came in sight of two cars parked close together.
"Here we are at the outpost!" cried Dunstan, quite gaily. "Hello,
fellows! What's been going on?"
The door of an abri, or underground shelter near the cars opened,
revealing a glare of electric light inside. Four young Americans
hastily emerged, and there was a lively series of salutations. Right
behind the boys came three French army surgeons dressed in white.
"Ferd Blane and Jim Roland had a couple of blessés,"[2] called one of
the Red Cross drivers. "Meet them?"
[Footnote 2: Blessé: a wounded man.]
"You bet--tooting it along at the dickens of a pace, too."
"What happened?"
"A marmite[3] dropped into the door of a dugout in the first-line
trenches."
[Footnote 3: Marmite: a large shell.]
"Hard luck for some poor poilus!" murmured Don.
With a bit of clever maneuvering he brought his car alongside of the
other two, then both he and Dunstan sprang to the ground.
"The Boches have been presenting us with some pretty heavy salutes this
morning." The same young chap as before, speaking very cheerfully,
imparted the information. "And if you don't believe it"--he smiled--"I
can make you acquainted with the sight of several new and jolly big
shell-holes."
"I told Don that something was happening in this direction,
Ravenstock," replied Dunstan. "The worst for a long time, eh?"
"Well, rather. Enough, too, to make the abri look pretty good to
us--n'est-ce pas, Messieurs Rice, Batten and Vincent?"
The Americans appealed to agreed, though all seemed to regard the
matter as of little importance. Constant association with danger and
thrills had long before accustomed them to the strain.
In another moment Don and Dunstan were following the others into the
shelter.