The following morning Norton and I, not having been assigned to cars,
were set to work changing a tire. Down on our hands and knees we began
to struggle――a few of the men were standing about. Norton laughed
softly and whispered to me:
“Have you ever changed a tire before?”
“No,” I said; “have you?”
“No,” chuckled Norton, but we quickly finished the job and felt very
proud of our first effort.
A little later I was taken out for a trial ride to prove whether or
not I could really drive a Ford car. William Pearl, our volunteer
mechanician, went with me on the run. Pearl had been a Rhodes scholar
and had joined the Section some time before. A couple of months after
that trial drive he and I were destined to have a thrilling and trying
experience, in which he was the principal actor.
[Illustration: Cars Waiting for a Run]
The trial ride took us along a road for about seven miles, where we
came to the brow of a hill. Here we stopped the car and walked out
into an open field and there I obtained my first glimpse of the war,
spread out before us in a panorama. In the distance, to the left, I
could see the city of Rheims, the towers of its desecrated cathedral
looming up distinctly. I could see the shells falling and bursting in
the city. Pearl informed me, as we stood there, that an average of two
thousand shells a day were being dropped on the city. In front of us I
could see the hills laid barren by shell fire and scarred by the lines
of trenches. Overhead a German aeroplane had crossed the French
lines――the anti-aircraft guns had opened fire――little puffs of
cloudlike smoke appeared in the sky underneath the plane as it rose to
higher altitudes. French planes arose in pursuit and finally the
German plane disappeared from sight over its own lines. Directly
overhead a bird was singing in a tree just as cheerfully as if there
was no such thing as trouble in the world. Looking back in the
opposite direction I could see women and young girls working in the
vineyards.
As we started to leave the spot Pearl pointed to a town nearby on our
left.
“That is the town of Ludes,” he said. “Notice where it is, because you
will have to go there when on duty.”
I looked in the direction that he pointed, little realizing that the
town of Ludes would be forever associated in my mind with the most
tragic incident of my service in France.
Then we turned and drove back to Louvois. That was the full extent of
my training for front line work. I was informed that I had qualified
as an ambulance driver.
V
“Car No. 13”
Having been duly declared a qualified driver, I was assigned to a car
which happened to be number 13, but as I am not particularly
superstitious this did not make me nervous.
Then I was sent to post for duty out at the town of Ludes. Here we had
our headquarters in a little Swiss chalet hidden behind a clump of
trees; though within sight and sound of the war, it was peaceful
enough, at least for those on war duty. Everything is comparative.
Before many days had passed I was to see that peaceful little chalet
stained with blood. The place was equipped with a telephone bell,
which would signal when a car was needed at a front line post. Those
on duty here answered the calls in rotation.
About noon of my first day on duty a call came in for two cars. One of
the cars was to carry wounded men back to the town of Epernay, the
other car was to go to the extreme front line post. One of the calls
was for Joe Patterson of Pittsburgh, the other call was for me. Out of
politeness to a new man “Pat” gave me the choice of runs.
It seemed to be much easier to get right into the serious work than to
have the suspense of waiting, so I chose the run to the front line
post. I started off over the hills, through the ancient town of
Verzeney, famous for its wines――through the winding streets, turning
sharply at a corner――down a long steep hill hidden from view of the
enemy by camouflage――past what was known as the Esperance farm till
finally I reached the post. Here I stopped my car and waited. Here
there was a canal, the waters of which had been let out, and into the
canal banks had been built little dug-outs. In the one where I was to
wait and sleep until needed were two rough cots, a shelf on which
there were some rather dirty eating utensils and a loaf of dry bread.
During the afternoon there was intermittent firing but no great
activity on either side of the lines. Occasionally an aeroplane would
fly overhead. Once during the afternoon a German plane flew over in an
effort to attack an observation balloon, but was successfully driven
off by the French.
The afternoon passed quickly enough without having my services called
for and at supper time I had my first meal of trench fare with French
poilus for company, a cup of hot soup, a chunk of meat, a slice of
bread and a cup of coffee. The cook who served us was a big fellow
with a black beard. He was killed a short time after and his body lay
all day in a nearby dug-out.
After supper I clambered over the canal bank and walked along the
empty canal bed observing the marks of German shells. Then there was a
sudden volley of shots from a French battery near at hand, the guns of
which were so carefully concealed that I had not observed it. I
quickly clambered back over the “safe” side of the canal bank and
waited.
I began to feel restless and to wonder when I would be called to get
out into the battle of the night.
In the meantime the firing had increased on both sides of the lines.