THE RED CROSS
In view of the immensity of the conflict and the number of guns
employed, it is not surprising that the surgeons at the outpost
and this particular Red Cross section had all the work they could
possibly attend to. Even as Don and Chase arrived the brancardiers
were bringing in the wounded from the firing-line on both stretchers
and little two-wheeled carts; so that all that Chase could learn about
his companion's movements was that he had passed through some very
thrilling times, and after reaching the outpost in safety had remained
there until the firing lessened sufficiently for the Red Cross men to
begin taking wounded to the hospital. He had already made several trips.
"Well, well!--of all things!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, addressing
Chase. "I cannot myself believe it possible that you have come."
Swiftly and silently, four stretchers on which unfortunate poilus had
been laid after being picked up on the battle-front were slipped into
the ambulance. Don Hale and Chase Manning sprang to their seats, and
the car was on the way again.
Down the hill it went at as fast a pace as Don could take it. It was
always the old question of saving minutes and perhaps thereby saving
lives. Very soon a string of three cars passed them returning to the
post.
With never a stop, the ambulance kept plunging over the hills and
across the valleys, and once on the broad military road, with a clear
track ahead, Don increased its speed until objects by the wayside
seemed to be fairly hurling themselves toward the car and flying past
with bewildering rapidity.
Now they were on the Chemin de Mort, and a few minutes later had gone
far beyond. A Red Cross car again flashed past; then, after a short
interval, another. The outlying houses of the village shot into view;
the ancient porte, in full sunlight, loomed up against the sky, and
the ambulance, without slackening speed, presently rolled under its
shadowed arch. The blurred outlines of the Hotel de la Palette soon
sprang into the range of vision. The car fairly leaped across the
intervening space, Don and Chase had an instantaneous view of the old
hostelry at close range, and then it too was sent spinning to the rear.
Almost like a flash, the rest of the village passed in review and the
Red Cross car was bowling along in the midst of an open country, past
encampments of soldiers and through little one-street hamlets crowded
with all the evidences of warfare, the toot, toot of its horn, the roar
and rumble of its wheels never failing to result in its being given the
right of way.
At length, after speeding for about six kilometers, Number Eight swept
around a curve and rolled down a rather steep slope at the base of
which they could see a cluster of red-roofed houses between the trees.
A typical little French village it was--full of charm--full of poetry;
and enveloped in the soft haze of the morning it suggested a place of
quietude and charm.
At the bottom of the hill there came an abrupt turn in the road.
The car rumbled across a little one-arch stone bridge, and almost
immediately they were in the midst of the low, stuccoed dwellings.
The tall poplars here and there sent a network of delicate shadows
across the road. Beyond, a church spire stood out clearly against the
glistening white of a mass of fleecy clouds, while the weather-vane,
reflecting the sun, gleamed like a spot of flame. Lazily floating near
the top of the steeple was that flag before which even the God of War
himself must pause--the flag which belongs to no country, to no race,
and yet belongs to all--the Red Cross flag; for this little village
church was no longer a place of worship but a field hospital where the
wounded received treatment before being sent further away from the
scene of hostilities. The vestry bad been turned into an operating
room, and over the floor of the main body of the church was laid a
thick carpet of straw upon which the injured soldiers lay in rows.
There were many poilus about this little village, and also a number
of blue-bloused peasants, who, in spite of the terrible conflict,
persisted in tilling their fields and pursuing as orderly an existence
as events would allow.
Only once was Number Eight obliged to halt before it reached its
destination, and that was when a farmer's cart drawn by a pair of
clumsy oxen rolled across its path.
Another turn, and the ambulance drew up before the church, which faced
a little square.
Scarcely had the car halted when brancardiers, followed by a surgeon
in white, put in an appearance, and with the same promptness that had
characterized the entire proceeding the wounded were lifted out and
carried into the hospital.
"A wonderfully quick trip, mes amis Americaines," declared the surgeon;
"and I fear that you will have many more to make."
"There's not much doubt about that, Monsieur le Médecin," exclaimed
Don. "Au revoir!"
The young driver took the Red Cross ambulance along the road on the
return trip as fast as he could possibly pilot it in safety. A very
brief stop was made at the Hotel de la Palette, where the car was given
an overhauling and the supply of gasoline replenished. The French cook,
too, ever solicitous about the welfare of the men of the section,
handed each a substantial lunch, reminding them that care for their
own requirements would enable them to better serve the requirements of
others.
"We'll certainly have to take it on the fly to-day," said Don, with a
grin, as he resumed his post.
Number Eight had not traveled very far beyond the ancient gate when it
passed a pathetic procession of wounded poilus. Nearly all were swathed
in bandages, and, as though their terrifying experiences on the firing
line had dulled their senses, they seemed to be marching along in a
weary, listless manner, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and paying not
the slightest attention to their surroundings. On the faces of many
still rested traces of the horror--of the awful fear which must have
been theirs. The strong were assisting the weak; those who could see
guided the steps of those who could not; and the speed of the whole
straggling group was regulated by the halting, limping gait of men
scarcely able to drag themselves along. A strange, melancholy sight
indeed were these silent, mud-covered soldiers of France, who had
fought and suffered and given all but their lives to their country and
who were now almost physical wrecks.
"It's terrible--terrible!" reflected Don Hale. "But c'est la guerre--it
is war."
Some distance further on another peculiar procession was encountered,
though of an entirely different character. This was a long line of
captured Germans, guarded by officers on horseback. Strong, sturdy
specimens most of them appeared to be, and only a very few wore
bandages of any sort. Their attitude was that of men who felt immensely
relieved, and scarcely a downcast or sullen face could be seen among
the lot. Fritz, although a reliable fighter while engaged in the
business of fighting, is evidently a very philosophical and docile
prisoner.
The ambulance reached the outpost without any further incident to
mark the journey. And as soon as the wounded could be placed on board
another trip to the hospital began.
And thus for the whole day the work continued without intermission.
During the greater part of the time both the French and German
artillery kept up a heavy cannonade, and on several of their trips Don
and Chase ran into sufficient excitement and danger to show that the
latter had bravely pulled himself together.
In all, the section carried about three hundred and seventy-five
wounded to the hospital, and it was not until after seven o'clock that
the car, splashed all over with mud, rolled into the cobbled courtyard
of the Hotel de la Palette and the two weary ambulanciers jumped out.
"It's been a wonderful seventeen hours," commented Don.
"I should say it has," agreed Chase. "It seems like an age. But it's me
for a nice wash, some supper, and then----"
"A whole lot of conversation," laughed Don. "Just think, during all
this time we haven't had a single chance to listen to one another's
stories."
At the supper table that evening every one heartily agreed that the
aviator's son deserved the Croix de Guerre. Every one heartily agreed,
too, that Chase had proved himself a man.
"Honestly, Chase, I never could have believed it of you!" exclaimed
Wendell. "You know we--we--that is----"
And here the chef paused.
"Don't get confused, old chap," laughed the other. "To tell the truth,
fellows, the horror and tragedy of the war affected my nerves to a much
greater extent than I ever expected. I knew every one here thought I
had a yellow streak, and I even began to suspect you were right. The
whole thing made me feel mighty grouchy and uncomfortable. Sometimes
it requires a great crisis to bring a chap to his senses. I didn't
think much of myself for running away from the road, and something else
occurred which also helped to bring about a wonderful change in my
state of mind."
"Pipe us about the something else," exclaimed "Peewee."
Thereupon Chase gave an account of his experience at the Château de
Morancourt and his meeting with the soldier.
"The intimation that I was a deserter--actually a deserter--aroused
me as nothing else in my life ever did," he continued emphatically.
"And the hardest part of it all was the fact that I realized that I
actually had been considerably at fault. You can just bet I determined
to wipe out the stain--if there was any." Chase's eyes began to
sparkle. "In fact I got into such a mood that I actually felt like
courting danger instead of avoiding it," he cried. "So I hope no one
will ever again be able to justly accuse me of having a yellow streak!"
"Bravo--bravo!" cried Bodkins.
Warm expressions of approval came from all the others.
Following this a general discussion in regard to the poilu started.
"It's really too bad that duelling has gone out of fashion," declared
"Peewee," reflectively. "Really, a nice little set-to with either
swords or pistols would come as a pleasant change."
"Thinking it over," remarked Bodkins, "I shouldn't mind a bit acting as
a second. I'm pining for some excitement. Couldn't the old custom be
revived?"
"At any rate, joking aside, I intend to get satisfaction," grinned
Chase. "And I shan't be satisfied until I do."
"Let's catch that mysterious poilu and make him listen to some of
Bodkins' music," suggested "Peewee."
"No inhuman revenge for me!" laughed Chase. "At the very first
opportunity I'll run over to the Cheval Noir and have that third
meeting. Boys, I think you'd better chip in and hire a man with a
motion picture outfit to film the interview."
"It ought to be a scream," grinned Ravenstock.
"The whole affair is really quite extraordinary," put in Dunstan,
thoughtfully.
"It's still much--too much--like one of those confounded
'to-be-continued' yarns," complained "Peewee." "Only, they come to an
end some time and this one never will."
"''Tis true, 'tis pity; and pity 'tis 'tis true,'" quoted Bodkins, with
his usual giggle.
Dunstan nodded, while Don exclaimed, shrugging his shoulder:
"But, after all, who can tell?"