Our car ran so slowly that accidentally we killed the engine. I got out
to crank her up and meantime the forlorn mass surged by. Two soldiers
herded them over the slippery tracks to a shed beside the gare where
straggled some rough benches. We lined our car up behind the other
ambulances. Then we went to look at the refugees.
They had dropped onto the benches, except the children. The littlest
ones tugged fretfully at their mothers' skirts. The others ran
gleefully about, fascinated by the novelty of things. It was a holiday.
Several Red Cross women were feeding the crowd, passing about with big
hampers of bread and pots of coffee. Each person received also a tin
of dried meat; and a cheese was served to every four. We helped carry
the hampers.
Most of the refugees did not even look at us; they did not raise their
eyes from the mud. They reached out their hands and took what we gave
them. Then they held the food in their laps, listless; or staring out
across the yards into the wet dusk.
One or two of them talked. They had been hustled out at sunrise.
The French army thought they had occupied that dangerous place long
enough. There was no longer hope for any living thing remaining. So
they came away--bringing nothing with them, herded along the line by
soldiers. Where they were going they did not know. It did not matter
where. "_C'est la guerre!_ It is terrible--yes." They shrugged their
shoulders. It is war!
One old man, nearly blind and very lame, sat forlornly at one end of
the line. He pulled at an empty pipe. We gave him some tobacco--some
fresh English tobacco. He knew that it was not French when he rolled
it in his hand. So we explained the brand. We explained patiently, for
he was very deaf. He was delighted. He had heard of English tobacco,
but had never had any. He stuffed the pipe and eagerly lit it. He
leaned back against the cold stone wall and puffed in ecstasy. Ah! this
English tobacco _was_ good. He was fortunate.
We glanced back along the line. As we looked several of the women
shrank against the wall. One covered her eyes. Two French ambulances
passed, carrying a wounded Zouave on a stretcher. A yard engine went
shrieking across their path and the ambulanciers halted. The huddled
figure under the blankets groaned horribly. Then the procession
proceeded to our first ambulance. The men were on the seat, ready for
the race against time to the hospital.
After a few minutes the soldiers who had herded the refugees into the
shed came again to herd them out--back to the cattle cars. I asked one
of the soldiers where they were going. He waved his hand vaguely toward
the south. "_Là bas_," he muttered. He didn't know exactly. They were
going somewhere--that was all. There was no place for them here. This
station was for wounded. And would they ever return? He shrugged his
shoulders.
I looked at the forlorn procession sloshing across the yards. The rain
beat harder. It was almost dark; the yard lamps threw dismal, sickish
gleams across the tracks. The old man with the tobacco brought up the
rear, helped along by an old woman hobbling on a stick.
We heard the voice of the Medical Major bawling for "_les ambulances
Américaines_." We looked behind into the gloom of the gare; a
procession emerged--stretchers with huddled forms under blankets. As
far down the yards as we could see--just on the edge of the night,
those from Quesnoy-sur-Somme were climbing slowly into the cattle cars.