UNDERGROUND
The abri was quite a pretentious-looking little place. Over the
arching entrance was layer upon layer of sand-bags, and on top
of these the earth had been packed into a hard, solid mass, thus
affording a good protection from the enemy's fire. The shelter, which
was situated only a few hundred yards from the front, also served as
a poste de secours,[4] three French army surgeons always being in
attendance. Still nearer to No Man's Land, in fact almost directly on
the battle-line, and, of course, shielded as well as possible, was a
"Refuge des blessés," or dressing station, where the brancardiers, or
stretcher bearers, conveyed the wounded for first aid treatment.
[Footnote 4: Poste de secours: surgical first aid station.]
The duties of the brancardiers were of the most perilous nature.
Frequently the men were obliged to crawl out of the trenches after
the fallen soldiers, and then, once burdened with the victims of the
great war, their movements were so restricted that it became all the
more difficult for them to protect themselves. The soldier may have his
reward in fame and glory and wear the hero's crown; the brancardier has
little but that which comes from his own conscience.
The wounded were brought in from the first-line trenches through
connecting trenches, called in French boyaux, to the poste de secours
and the waiting Red Cross cars. The brancards--stretchers--are all of
the same size, so that they may be used in any ambulance or railway
car. It sometimes happens that a "couchée," which means a lying-down
case, generally one of a serious nature, reaches a base hospital on
the same stretcher on which he was placed after being picked up on the
battle-field.
During the early part of the war the wounded were often obliged to
wait a long time before being removed, and it was generally in a
slowly-moving horse-drawn vehicle. The advent of the Red Cross and the
American Field Ambulance was the means of bringing about a wonderful
change. The light cars of the sections could travel fast, and whenever
haste was the chief and perhaps deciding factor between life and
death the patients could be taken to the field hospitals in from ten
to twenty minutes. These hospitals were situated about six or seven
kilometers from the front. Usually the base hospitals were placed much
further away.
During the fierce fighting which had occurred a short time before,
the ambulance section to which Don Hale belonged had carried over two
thousand wounded inside of a week.
Over the brow of the hill, about a hundred paces from the poste de
secours, the main road began to descend, leading in a rather zigzag
fashion to a little one-street village which we shall designate as
Montaurennes. Montaurennes, with its air of quiet, rustic beauty,
well set off by age-mellowed stuccoed walls enclosing gardens, had,
at one time, when viewed between the trees from the hilltop, made a
charming picture. Not so now, however. Scarcely a whole house was left
standing--the majority had been reduced to disordered heaps of bricks
and stones, and of the little spired church which once graced its
center only a few pieces of jagged walls remained.
Three times the little village had changed hands, and its streets and
lanes had witnessed some of the most terrible hand-to-hand conflicts,
when steel met steel, and bayonets--not guns--became the deciding
factor.
The Germans, however, were finally dislodged, and now the French
trenches cut squarely across the eastern end of the highway. Beyond,
though not so very far beyond, running in an irregular fashion
across the ridges of the opposite hills, stretched another line of
trenches--those held by the Germans.
So the eight who had just entered the abri were very close indeed to
the scene of actual warfare.
The underground shelter, the air of which was faintly impregnated with
the odor of antiseptics, in the glare of the electric light became
revealed as a roomy and comfortable retreat. The principal object which
struck the eye on entering was an operating table in the center. There
were also several stools, a couple of benches ranged alongside the
walls and cots for the surgeons.
The ambulanciers who, during their forty-eight hours of duty at the
outpost, always remained fully dressed, were content to get what rest
they could on the stretchers. Pictures clipped from newspapers and
magazines adorned the walls, and Dunstan had also contributed his
talent toward making the place pleasant and cheerful by hanging several
of his paintings in conspicuous positions.
The drivers stationed at the outpost questioned Don Hale as eagerly
concerning his experiences in Paris as the boys at the Hotel de la
Palette had done. Any news was welcome to the ambulanciers, who were
compelled to pass so much of their time away from the general haunts of
men.
"Why in thunder didn't you bring us a stack of prints?" demanded
Ravenstock.
"Look in the car," laughed Don.
"Good old scout!" cried the driver, making a rush outside.
In a moment or two, returning with a bundle of Parisian dailies, he was
immediately besieged by the others and left in possession of a single
copy. Thereupon all, including the three French surgeons, Docteurs
Benoist, Savoye and Vianey, deciding that it would be more pleasant
outside, left the shelter and made themselves comfortable by the
entrance.
The sun, rising higher in the heavens, sent shafts of light over the
ground and spotted the boughs and tree trunks with its radiance. Birds
flitting among the branches kept up a constant and noisy chattering.
Dunstan, true to his artistic impulses, began making a sketch
of Docteur Benoist, and after more than a half hour of studious
application, paused long enough to hold it up for inspection.
"Capital--capital!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, who possessed some
knowledge of English. "What certainty of touch!--worthy of Sargent
himself, Monsieur Farrington."
"Sargent! Who's Sargent?" demanded Vincent.
"Great Cæsar, man! Do you mean to stand there and tell me you've never
heard of Sargent?" cried Dunstan.
"I'm not standing; I'm sitting," corrected Vincent, with a chuckle.
"Oh, well!" The art student shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "One
can't expect too much from the man in the street."
[Illustration: "ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."]
"Wrong again," laughed the other. "I'm not in the street."
A short time later Ferd Blane and Jim Roland returned from their trip
to the field hospital, and they too gave Don Hale a hearty greeting. In
answer to his inquiry concerning the blessés Roland spoke up in a tone
of conscious pride:
"The medicine chef said that our quick run may have been the means
of saving a life. That's the kind of thing which makes a chap feel
satisfied to stick to the job no matter how fast the shells are
falling."
"You bet!" agreed Don, heartily.
As they talked the sullen, angry roar of the guns came over the
air, and every little while, rising sharply above it, the éclat, or
explosion, of a shell landing somewhere among the trees.
At length the surgeons and ambulanciers sought shady spots close to the
abri, for the day was growing hot, and only an occasional breath of air
stirred the leaves and grasses.
Between twelve and two a curious lull came in the cannonading, an
almost daily occurrence, which every one attributed to the fact that
even the grim business of war must wait on appetite. The batteries
of both sides started up briskly again, but the long hours of the
afternoon wore on and drew to a close without the brancardiers bringing
in any blessés.
A beautiful sunset sky tinged the tree tops with an echo of its
brilliant colors, and as the daylight gradually faded, the moon in the
east, shining resplendently, gained in strength until at length the
forest became a fairylike place--a place of ghostly, silvery lights and
grayish shadows.
Owing to the clearness of the night no traffic was moving close to the
front; so the German batteries threw but few shells in the direction of
the road.
"I guess I'll get a little rest," declared Rice, as midnight approached.
"So shall I," said Jim Roland. "I'm going to take mine in the car."
"Have a care, mon ami," advised Docteur Vianey.
"That's the trouble; we have too many already," chuckled the
ambulancier.
Don and Dunstan, electing to follow Roland's example, a short time
later climbed into number eight and made themselves comfortable on the
brancards, or stretchers, using a rolled up blanket as a pillow. And
while they lay there waiting--still waiting for the call of duty, the
whistle of the "arrivés," as the shells which came from the German
guns were called, and the "departs"--those hurled by the French
batteries--frequently sounded over the air.
But the night passed without any especial incident.
The next day was almost a repetition of the first, and when Don and
Dunstan, at the expiration of their forty-eight hour stretch, returned
to headquarters they had made only one trip to the field hospital. Each
knew, however, that it was only a question of time when the nature of
their occupation would necessarily carry them into a great deal more
excitement and danger than they cared about.