A BLOCK ON THE ROAD
Ambulance Number Eight came to an abrupt halt. Although almost
stunned--almost overwhelmed by the shock--Don Hale had managed to
prevent it from crashing into a camion close ahead. He knew what had
happened--a shell had landed on an ammunition wagon and fairly blown
it to atoms. The lightning showed a huge, towering column of smoke
spreading across the road; it also revealed horses lying prostrate in
the mud, struggling desperately to rise, and other horses, wild and
panic-stricken, kicking, plunging and endeavoring to break away from
their restraining traces.
It took some moments before Don Hale could recover the use of his
faculties sufficiently to stir from his inaction. His head was aching;
his pulse throbbed and jumped; he felt as if he had been almost
deafened by the explosion. A frightened horse which had managed to
tear itself loose from the wreckage came running madly--furiously
along, dragging a part of the traces and barely missing the ambulance
as it clattered by.
"Come on, Chase!" yelled Don, springing to the ground.
The road was blocked, and drivers of all the vehicles in the immediate
vicinity were hurrying as fast as they could through the mud and water
toward the wreck ahead.
Without waiting to see whether Chase intended to join him or not, the
boy started off. But he had only gone a dozen yards or so when another
tremendous concussion caused him to stagger toward the nearest wagon.
And in the grip of a fear he had never known before--a fear that robbed
him of his strength--he leaned heavily against it. Half stunned and
gasping, Don felt as though the end of all earthly things had come.
And now additional shells began bursting close to the road. Don had a
vague, confused impression of seeing men dashing this way and that,
but he himself, his faculties for the moment almost paralyzed, was
held fast to the spot. And while he stood there in that helpless
condition, his form shaking violently, the whole air seemed filled
with pandemonium--a hideous whirring, screeching, screaming series of
sounds, mingling in with terrific, thunderous blasts that sent violent
tremors through the earth and made the huge camions rock and lurch as
though they were about to topple into the roadway. Flashing jets of
flame from the exploding shells cast a weird, unnatural light over the
surroundings, and as if some mighty convulsion of nature was upheaving
them, giant geysers of earth, mud and débris shot high in the air,
while streams of iron and steel created havoc and destruction on every
hand.
The terrified Don Hale heard the thud of bullets and fragments of
shells all about him. He seemed to be no longer living in the world but
in the midst of some awful inferno from which there was no possibility
of escape. But though it was unbelievably, fearfully appalling,
he managed to keep his wits about him. Faint, weak, every instant
expecting utter annihilation, the boy made an effort to walk forward
and just then there came a bright, wicked-looking flash, accompanied by
a detonation that seemed fairly to crack his ear-drums. The concussion
was great enough to hurl him backward; and while his senses were still
reeling from the shock, a veritable stream of earth, thrown up as if
from the crater of a volcano in eruption, descended upon him and in a
moment he was almost buried beneath a mass of mud.
For a time he remained in a state that was neither consciousness
nor yet a lack of consciousness--a state wherein the terror of the
situation seemed to be softened to such a degree as to make it easy
to bear. When the dull, dazed sensations did finally depart, however,
leaving him with a clear understanding of the realities, he gave a gasp
of wonderment--of almost stupefaction.
A strange calmness had come into the world--of course only a relative
calmness, for the batteries had not ceased to fire; yet the contrast
between the present and the immediate past was so remarkable as to make
it appear as though such a thing could not be. Was it possible that the
bombardment was over? Was it possible that he had gone through such
peril and remained unscathed?
With a cry expressive of gladness--of the thankfulness he felt, Don
Hale endeavored to regain his feet. But a heavy weight was pinning him
down to the earth. He kicked and struggled to free himself from the
soft, though tenacious grip of the mud. Now, after a valiant effort,
he sat up and jerked one leg out of the mire. It was hard work in his
weakened condition. The mud was in his eyes--in his hair. The boy
happened to recall the officer's description of life in the trenches
during rainy weather, and for the first time since leaving headquarters
Don smiled, though the smile was grim and set. At any rate, it served
to still further relieve his pent-up, overwrought feelings.
Again he exerted all the strength he possessed and presently the other
leg slipped out of the mud. And as he struggled up, unstable on his
feet, a great throbbing was in his temple. Like a man on the point of
swooning, he clutched the nearest object for support.
Then Don suddenly thought of Chase. A terrible fear that his companion
had not been so fortunate as himself took possession of him.
A thick pall of smoke hung over the road; and when the lightning came
again he caught a faint, shadowy image, a mere silhouette, of Number
Eight standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, but he could see
no signs of Chase Manning, indeed, no human beings were in view. The
road was deserted--he was alone.
What was to be done? Should he, too, seek some abri by the roadside?
"No--no!" he muttered--"no!"
Though almost choking with the smoke and fumes, he nevertheless raised
his voice in a loud cry of:
"Chase--Chase!"
No answer.
Again and again he shouted, and then, as still no response came to his
keenly-attuned ears, the boy was filled with dreadful forebodings, and
in his anxiety he seemed to momentarily forget all else.
Shells were coming that way again. At any instant the road might be
swept by another deadly stream. But Don Hale, whose mental faculties
and strength began to return, paying not the slightest heed, started
toward the ambulance, often splashing through great pools and puddles.
The thunder still rolled and boomed overhead. There were longer
intervals, however, between the flashes of lightning and it was not
until he arrived quite abreast of the car that the landscape once more
sprang into view.
Chase Manning was not in the driver's seat nor was he anywhere to be
seen.
"Hello, Chase! Hello!" yelled Don.
Many times he repeated the cry, and if Chase had been uninjured and
anywhere near he must have heard the strained, anxious voice of his
comrade.
Had a tragedy occurred?
As Don Hale stood there in the middle of the road, with the wind and
rain still sweeping against him, he shivered at the thought and at
the recollection of the awful moments through which he had passed. It
seemed to him a most marvelous thing that any one in that vicinity
could have escaped alive.
Putting all the force of his lungs in a final effort, he shouted:
"Chase!--Chase!"
And then, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he made a despairing
gesture and hurried away--not in search of an abri, however, but
toward the scene of destruction ahead. He felt shocked, depressed and
disheartened.
But, all at once, he recalled the words of Doctor Savoye--"Tres
pressé." His paramount duty was to take the car to the outpost, if such
a thing was possible. He must get there. He would get there. And with
this thought, which for the time being drove all doubts, perplexities
and worries from his mind, he broke into a run.
Then, very soon, he began hearing voices and footsteps--the drivers of
the convoys were returning.
Presently the aviator's son almost stumbled over the prostrate form of
a horse. Its body quivered; its iron-shod hoofs flew in all directions.
Recovering his balance, the boy, with a startled gasp, leaped aside
and continued on, in another moment finding himself close upon a scene
of extraordinary confusion. A flash of lightning revealed wagons
wrecked and débris strewn along the road. A number of horses were lying
about, those which still remained alive, as a result of their furious
struggles, having become completely entangled in the harness. Several
on their feet immediately started to rear and plunge anew as the men
arrived among them.
"Great Julius Cæsar! This is another dangerous game," murmured the
aviator's son.
The wild and fear-stricken animals had to be set free, and unless
extraordinary care and precautions were used they might stampede along
that narrow passageway and perhaps cause either serious injury or death.
The adventurous Don Hale had no intention of standing idly by. He
watched his chance, and, taking advantage of a succession of brilliant
flashes of lightning, groped his way cautiously past several of the
prostrate horses--a very dangerous proceeding. Hoofs were continually
on the move and every now and again one or another of the animals
managed to struggle to its knees, remain in that awkward position for
an instant or two, and then fall back with a dull and heavy thud.
It was a strange, awe-inspiring situation for a boy to be placed
in--close to the battle-front, with the storm-clouds overhead, in the
midst of wreckage and frantic horses, and facing the possibility of
a tragic end. Yet, though all these things were vaguely impressed on
Don Hale's mind, his thoughts were not upon them. The words "Tres
pressé--tres pressé" continually sounded in his ears.
He advanced boldly, right into the midst of the prancing, pawing
animals. Hoofs were thudding down hard all about him; streams of liquid
mud often splashed against his figure. The movements of the ponderous
bodies made Don forcibly realize that one false step, one moment's
lack of thought, might cause the most disastrous results. Again the
lightning proved a friendly aid. A horse stood directly in front of
him. Its mate lay stretched in the mud. Originally the team had been
one of eight horses, but how many were still on their feet Don could
not tell. He did know, however, that the drivers, in the darkness,
in the slippery road, were having a mighty hard time to control the
fractious beasts.
A man brushed roughly past him and seized the bridle of the fallen
horse.
"Quick!--if you've got a knife, comrade, cut the traces!" he yelled.
"Fast now! We've got to get them out of this. And watch yourself, or
it's good-night!"
"I know it," muttered Don.
He took out his knife. A sharp, quick slash, and one of the leather
traces was cut in two. Then the keen-bladed instrument ripped its way
through another. And from that moment the aviator's son was constantly
in the midst of the greatest excitement and danger.
Now he was cutting the traces; now helping to urge the horses to one
side; now tugging hard at a bridle, jerked this way and that, or lifted
bodily off his feet, perhaps to get a fleeting glimpse by means of a
bluish glare of lightning of a great head with foaming mouth, distended
nostrils and glaring eyes rearing high above him and to feel the hot
breath of the animal upon his cheek. More than once he was violently
bumped and almost sent to his knees.
The constant shuffling of feet, the pounding of hoofs, the loud rough
voices of men raised in harsh yells and commands and the accompaniment
of rolling, booming thunder and bursting shells seemed in Don Hale's
mind to form a part of some strange, wild fantasy rather than of actual
reality.
At last, however, the war in the roadway was at an end; one by one the
horses capitulated to superior intelligence and skill and were led
aside. Only those which lay helpless where they had fallen remained to
be attended to.
The aviator's son, quite exhausted, his head still throbbing violently,
felt compelled to rest. Every joint and muscle in his body seemed to be
aching. A dull pain caused by the repeated concussions was in his ears.
And then:
"Tres pressé! Tres pressé!"
The words, shaping themselves in his mind again, fell from his lips.
Their appeal could not be disregarded. With an energy born of an
earnest desire to fulfil his duties to the uttermost, he resolutely
cast aside every thought of physical discomfort or of fatigue and once
more lent his efforts to the work of clearing the road.
Never had he toiled harder than he did during the next three-quarters
of an hour, and by that time the last uninjured horse was up and the
wreckage and débris sufficiently cleared away to permit the passage of
Ambulance Number Eight.
It was a joyful moment to the weary Don Hale when he climbed aboard
the car, yet, withal, a very sad one. Where was Chase? How lonely--how
depressing it seemed without him!
"Hello, Chase--hello!" he called.
He heaved a great sigh, as no answering hail was received, and,
murmuring, "Well, such is war!" put the vehicle into motion. There was
no help for it--he must continue on to the outpost alone.