TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Small caps in the text is denoted by UPPERCASE.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
AMBULANCING ON THE
FRENCH FRONT
[Illustration: ON THE JOB, DAY AND NIGHT.
A picture of the author, one of the first Americans to serve as an
ambulance man on the French front.]
AMBULANCING ON
THE FRENCH FRONT
BY
EDWARD R. COYLE
_Illustrated_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1918
BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
Made in U. S. A. All rights reserved.
TO MY MOTHER
Whose parting gift was a miniature photograph of her own dear self upon
which she had inscribed these words:
My only child who is given to the Cause of Liberty and Freedom. May God
guide him safely so that he may help those who are unfortunate.
HIS MOTHER’S PRAYER.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
When I went to France there was no thought in my mind that I should
ever write a book on the subject of my experiences over there. On my
return, however, many friends besieged me for details of the great war,
which had come under my observation while serving in the Ambulance
Corps on the French front. It was easy to infer from the eagerness
of all that real news was in demand, none seeming to tire of asking
questions and listening to what I had to say in reply. From these
impromptu conversations occurring day after day, I began to realize
how much I had really experienced during my stay abroad. Consequently,
when urged to write a book for the benefit of the general public, I
consented on the theory that the more we Americans know about true
conditions in the War Zone the surer we are to win victory from the
most ruthless enemy ever known to mankind. I make no pretense of being
a writer, but I know what I saw and I hope to make myself understood
on the subject of war as it is to-day on the firing line. Much in the
way of rumor has passed for fact in America. Propaganda has confused
the public mind. The more fact that leaks through, not calculated to
send aid and comfort to the foe, the better for all of us. In this, my
first attempt at writing, and possibly my last, I intend to give facts.
Matters that should not be disclosed for military reasons will, of
course, be reserved for historians of another day.
EDWARD R. COYLE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I HOW I CAME TO GO 15
II AMBULANCE WORK 24
III SANDRICOURT 31
IV MEDICAL CARE 43
V A LESSON I LEARNED 49
VI A VISIT TO PARIS 54
VII “THE FRONT” 61
VIII MASSING BEFORE VERDUN 67
IX THE SIEGE OF VERDUN 77
X A VISIT TO BACCARAT 104
XI HOMELESS CHILDREN 109
XII AFTERNOON TEA 115
XIII “PETIT POST” 122
XIV BADONVILLER THE MARTYR 126
XV “SNIPERS” AT WORK 135
XVI “KAMERAD!” 141
XVII THE ART OF CAMOUFLAGE 151
XVIII SPIES AND THEIR WORK 159
XIX LETTERS FROM THE FRONT 174
XX EYES OF THE ARMY 190
XXI ANTI-AIRCRAFT BATTERIES 199
XXII HAND GRENADE WORK 205
XXIII THE AMERICAN Y. M. C. A. 215
XXIV REAR-LINE DIVERSIONS 225
XXV “FOOD WILL WIN THE WAR” 229
XXVI HOMEWARD BOUND 235
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Picture of Author—_Frontispiece_
The Wagon of Mercy Loading Up
A Camouflage Road Made to Order
A Natural Camouflage Road
A “Load-Up and Getaway”—Wounded for the Hospital
The Bivouac of the Dead
Where the Souls of Men Are Calling
A French Gun Much Respected by Fritz
German Sacrilege—Christ’s Figure Decapitated
Ruins of the Church Containing the Figures
Sacked and Burned
Badonviller Destroyed by the Germans
Sixty Feet from a German Front-Line Trench
Trying on the Gas Masks
Badonviller Barricaded for Street Fighting
Awaiting Orders Behind the Front
Bombing the Hun
French Infantry En Route to the Trenches
A Small “Persuader” at Verdun
Field Telephone Station Controlling the Shell Fire
Ruins Along the Lorraine Front
A Quick Lunch at the Front
First Aid Dug-Out—Waiting for a Call
AMBULANCING ON THE
FRENCH FRONT
Ambulancing on the French Front
CHAPTER I
HOW I CAME TO GO
If you like excitement I’d say take a steamer for France—and join the
Ambulance Corps on the French front overlooking Verdun. A few steps
forward to the front-line trenches and you’re in the zone of what the
lamented Charles Frohman described as “The Great Adventure.”
I was there and I bless my lucky stars that I’m home again for a while
with a whole skin and a large and growing appetite that I brought back
with me. I served as an ambulance man, a sort of scene-shifter in the
wings of the greatest tragedy ever staged. Now, as I write, it is
running in its fourth year. My duties required me to bring back from
the battlefield the maimed and dying, and deposit them in places of
comparative safety. Also to the sheltered huts, further back, where
first aid could be given.
If anyone had told me, on January 1, 1917, that in less than sixty days
I would be over there on the French front, taking a minor part in the
biggest show on earth, I probably would have slammed back at him, “Quit
your kidding.” Nevertheless, it all happened—I went, and of my own
volition, joined the Ambulance section of the French Army, and stayed
in the game until my own country took over that service. Then I came
home for a visit, having served practically nine months, but I am going
back soon, this time with Uncle Sam—I have already enlisted.
[Illustration: A Quick Lunch at the Front]
[Illustration: First Aid Dug-Out—Waiting for a Call]
Just how I made up my mind to go in the first place is yet something
of a mystery. Here I was in New York, holding down a good position at
generous pay. New York is always entertaining, and at intervals my
work took me out over the country to other cities, under first-class
conditions. Therefore, it was not from lack of novelty or interest in
my own affairs that I went forth in search of trouble.
As I think back upon it I presume I must have talked myself into going.
Notwithstanding that we, over here, were seemingly out of the war,
everybody I knew, at home or on my travels, talked war, and I did also.
While dining with a friend one evening in a New York restaurant we got
into the war talk game rather earnestly. He was sure he would go over
were it not that he couldn’t possibly pass the test.
“If it was Uncle Sam that was fighting I might try to go anyway,” said
he.
It was at this point in our conversation that I heard myself say:
“Well, I think I’ll go and help France; she was always good to us.”
My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I said this, and the next
instant our eyes met. Bing! I realized that I had started something
down deep within me. Also that a hand reached forth across the table
which I took into my own. It was the hand of James A. Gilmore,
“Fighting Jim,” as he is affectionately known to millions of baseball
fans all over the world.
“Bully for you!” he shouted. “What part of the service will you go in
for? Army—Navy—Red Cross?” There was a wistful look in his eyes.
“Red Cross, I think.”
I heard myself say this, but, as a matter of fact, I had no thought
whatever of what I would do. To tell the honest truth, I felt as if I
had jumped off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Not that the idea frightened me.
Nothing like that. If I had made a real decision, and I began to feel
that I had, it didn’t seem to disturb me unduly. There was no reason
why I shouldn’t go. If there was a reluctant feeling it was on account
of my Mother—but I knew her too well to believe that she would hold me
back from such a righteous cause. As to my Father, why he’d boost the
game. I was sure of that. Anyhow the conviction grew that I had cast
the die, and by the look on the face of my friend I knew that I had
committed myself.
For the next half hour I sat quietly munching my food and listening
the while to my good friend opposite. It was during this time that he
showed his loyalty to the great cause. I was told to outfit myself
and spare no expense—he would help foot the bill. A few days later,
when I was all but on the point of sailing away toward the great
whirlpool of disaster, he and other good friends presented me with an
auto-ambulance, fully equipped.
Proud! grateful! I thought I’d drop dead with joy before the day came
to walk the gangway of the big ship that was to bear me away from
peace to war.
Recalling my sudden decision to enter the war, on many occasions I have
asked other Americans why they volunteered. In no instance did any of
them give a solid reason right off the reel. I believe the answer
given by a young Philadelphian, who was a member of our party on board
ship, fairly sums up most cases of volunteer enlistment.
“Damifino,” said he, with a shrug of his well-set shoulders and a merry
twinkle in his eyes.
Same here—his answer is mine. I don’t know why I went, but I am glad I
did. I’ve seen things that horrified me—that terrified me. I have been
within arm’s length of the Grim Reaper many times, but I got used to it
all. It became a part of the day’s work, but never to the point where I
failed to shoot the gas into my motor in order to get out of reach of
the “big ones” that flew my way.
But I’m getting ahead of my story. After making my decision to go I
did as everyone else had to do—saw Eliot Norton, a New York lawyer
who contributed his time in passing upon the qualifications of the men
desiring to enter this branch of service in connection with the Red
Cross. He seemed glad to have me go; therefore, I soon found myself
busily engaged in purchasing supplies and equipment generally. I also
started to “pulling the strings” for my passport. In fact, I went to
Washington in order to get quick action, so that I could sail on a
French liner, along with forty other volunteers. My auto was to follow
on another boat.
On shipboard all hands fraternized at once. It was a gay party
withal, and democratic in spirit. Big family names didn’t count
for a cent, much to the relief of the fine fellows who bore them.
There was a general realization that we were bound on a serious
mission and that there was no better time possible in which to get
acquainted. Therefore, the time passed quickly enough on our way to
the port of Bordeaux, our gateway to Paris. A surprise awaited us
there—third-class coaches, instead of luxurious Pullmans, to which
we all were accustomed. Bare wooden seats for an all-night ride were
not so soft as a feather-bed, but at that we were lucky, for we were
told that this long ride was usually made in freight cars. It was a
mighty rocky ride, though. There was compensation in the fact, however,
that we journeyed through the celebrated Jardin de France, the most
beautiful landscape in all that beautiful land. But our legs and bodies
ached, almost unbearably, as we came to the end of the journey.
Arriving in Paris we went straight to headquarters, No. 7 Rue
Francois Premier, French Headquarters of the American Red Cross in
Paris. There we signed up for voluntary service with the French Army,
and then started out to complete our equipment and obtain uniforms.
Four glorious days followed, for Paris is great, even in war times, and
we realized that we would not get back there for at least six months.
Then came preliminary training at Sandricourt. This took ten days, and
from thence we were hurried forward to our Division assignment for
training near the Eastern front. No use to go into detail concerning
the red tape necessary to enlistment. It is enough to say that there
is plenty of it. After every little thing had been attended to I found
myself tagged for identification as follows:
VIII Army
9th Corp
17th Division
French Army
Edward R. Coyle.