that something must be done not only for the morale of the lonely
American soldiers but also to relieve the tremendous pressure on
the French system, which was handling the wounded of three nations.
Accordingly the Army went on a still hunt, not any the less urgent
because it was still, for hospitals already equipped and in action
that could be used for this new American sector. That sector, roughly
described, extended from Amiens on the north down to Château-Thierry,
and then eastward to Rheims, with Paris in a direct line to the rear.
Paris, then, became the logical point for base hospitals. The American
Army would depend, according to agreement, upon French evacuation
hospitals immediately behind the lines, but as soon as possible it
would convey its wounded back to Paris and thus relieve the congestion
in the front zone.
But how to get hold of any hospital? Fortunately the Red Cross, the
emergency department of the Army, had a nucleus of hospitals already to
hand. This nucleus was composed of some half dozen plants--some large,
some small, some militarized, some civilian, but all in excellent
running condition. In addition to this group it had in its warehouses
in complete readiness for just such a crisis whole hospital units,
complete in every detail, from tents down to the final safety-pin,
ready to put into the field at any point the Army should designate.
Moreover, it had the camions for transportation and the surgical teams
and nurses at hand for instant summons by telephone.
All this preparation had been done months before. Now this fine
intensive long-sightedness began to yield its excellent fruit. For the
Army gave orders to these hospitals to double, treble, quadruple their
bed capacity and to hold themselves free for instant action. This was
done. Just outside Paris another Red Cross tent hospital sprang into
being. It sprang up almost overnight, with more than a thousand beds,
its white tents dotting the field like mushrooms.
In Europe the Red Cross has achieved an almost fantastic reputation
for efficiency and speed--those two most commonplace factors of every
successful business concern in America--and in this particular crisis,
grave beyond all other crises so far as the welfare of our own fighting
forces was concerned, it was going to need every ounce it possessed of
both of those qualities. It was going to have the opportunity of saving
hundreds of American lives. It did not know it. The Army did not know
it. Nobody knew it. But so it was to be. A catastrophe was impending.
You have not read thus far, I hope, without realizing the supreme,
the vital importance of those evacuation hospitals crouching up
there close behind the fighting lines. They are the life savers. Upon
their nearness to the Front and the speed with which the wounded are
delivered depend the success of the entire hospital system. They are
the keystone of the arch. Let an army lose its string of evacuation
hospitals and it loses not merely its physical property--a mere
bagatelle--but also the power to save a large percentage of its
wounded. For delay causes infection; infection causes amputation, and
too often causes death.
To summarize briefly the elements of the situation: America, in common
with the other Allies, had her own hospital system behind the Lorraine
Sector, and when our troops moved up into the French sector it was
agreed that the wounded should be evacuated through French hospitals;
to relieve the tremendous pressure a nucleus of Red Cross hospitals in
Paris was constituted to drain this area.
And now perhaps, with these cards in your hands, and in your head the
general outlines of the May offensive, recalling especially the fact
that the Germans made an advance in that very sector of more kilometers
than I like to recall, you may have a glimmering of the nature of
the blow that fell. Yes, the French lost a certain number of their
front-line evacuation hospitals. They were in the area and they were
captured. That was the catastrophe.
It is the catastrophe that always happens when a considerable slice of
territory is lost. It is what happened in Italy. It is what happened
to the British in March. It is what had often happened to the French.
Now it was happening to the Americans. And that is why I am writing
about it. What made the situation more acute was that the French were
handling all of the wounded for that sector. Their remaining hospitals
were rapidly being swamped. Each day the combat raged with increasing
violence. What was to be done with our men? Transport them clear
back to Paris? There was no other course. It was bitter hard, but
inevitable. And the Army was mighty glad to have this port in the storm.
And now let us glance for a moment at Château-Thierry and see what was
taking place up there. On May thirtieth, upon this portion of the line
the French were retreating, and two American divisions were swung in
to stem, momentarily, the tide. All the world knows now which those
two divisions were, for their exploits received the congratulations
of General Pershing and of the French High Command. On June first, in
they came, the first lot, twenty-four trainloads--fresh, cool, gay,
hard-headed youngsters. They came with no organization behind them; not
an American Army hospital in the sector; not an ambulance; not even a
field dressing station. They came with nothing but the packs on their
backs and their rifles in their hands--and five hours later they were
holding the line.
On their way up, as they were being rushed through, their trains
stopped at a station which we shall designate as X----. Here lay
several hundred British wounded waiting for a train to the rear. For it
is one of the ugly necessities of war that, during an offensive, fresh
guns and men take precedence over those who have been knocked out. And
so these British wounded lay scattered about on litters in the station,
on the platforms, on the grounds.
First aid they had received, but nothing more. Their condition was
piteous. At the arrest of the trains the Americans clambered down
briskly from their places and began relieving the immediate wants of
these unfortunates.
“Maybe I’d best clear my poor chaps out of here,” said an anxious
British medical officer to an American captain. “The sight of them may
disturb your men.”
“On the contrary,” replied the American grimly, “it’s the best thing
that could happen. It’ll put the iron into their soul.”
And it did. Even the Hun was amazed at the sternness of that American
reception committee. For though the bombardment was heavier than that
during the height of the Verdun offensive, the shells falling like iron
hail less than five feet apart, with a low raking machine-gun fire that
moved with automatic precision up and down the field, and the hurricane
of high explosives and shrapnel and gas created an inferno compared to
which Gettysburg was as calm as the Elysian Fields--yet those American
troops did not falter.
Step by step they disputed every foot of advance, clinging close to the
ground, fighting for hours against an enemy six times their superior.
The Germans pushed, pushed again and kept on pushing. Assault succeeded
assault, wave followed wave, each one more formidable as the Germans
waxed wroth at the check. But the Americans held on; they dug in with
their spades; they remanned their guns as their gunners fell, wiping
out each successive enemy wave; they even reached out on either wing
and retrieved nests of batteries in the woods, and from these fresh
points of vantage they popped away at the astounded and bewildered
Hun, who could not believe that two divisions alone, and only parts of
these, were blocking his advance.
But as a matter of fact those two divisions were not alone. The whole
United States of America stood solidly behind them, shoulder to
shoulder, a vast shadowy host, warming their hearts and strengthening
their blows.
Now these troops had been planted at that particular point in the
line merely to plug for the moment the passage while the French took
up new defensive positions in the rear. But these aggressive, mordant
young allies did not conceive that merely to stem the boche tide was
the whole of their duty. They dreamed better than that. So after
surprising the enemy by their tenacity and cheek they proceeded to sail
in on a lively counter-attack of their own and drive the intruder back.
And drive him back they did, with a nerve, a grit, a kind of brisk keen
joyousness, intrinsically western, that brought down the applause of
the world. It was in fact a superb bit of fighting. And the best part
of it all was that the men did not consider they had done anything fine
or out of the way. That was on June first, second and third.
A wounded machine gunner, with a hole through his chest, gave me his
explanation of their valor.
“It was like this,” he said: “In those training camps back in the
States they taught us a lot of things about war. And when we came over
on this side they taught us a whole lot more. Seems like we learned
about everything there was to know. But one thing they didn’t teach us.”
He paused, matter-of-factly, to cough up some blood.
“What was it they didn’t teach you?” I asked.
“They didn’t teach us how to quit. And so we didn’t. We just kept on
going!” He added reflectively: “It’s their artillery that counts. Get
those Dutchmen up close and there’s nothing to them. We fought them off
their feet.”
It was the veritable truth.
But it is not to be conceived that this was a bloodless victory. The
first day of June a thin stream of crimson began to trickle to the
rear from the wounded American Army. And those first days that thin
crimson stream trickled all the way from Château-Thierry to Paris, a
distance of fifty-one miles, without intervention or hospital care. One
Red Cross hospital there was, indeed, but soon this was swamped. Men
with nothing beyond first-aid bandages began pouring into the Paris
hospitals. It was one of those inevitable conditions of war that are
bound to occur when evacuation hospitals are lost.
Close up behind the Front the French evacuation hospitals, diminished
in number, crippled in resources, were already glutted with British,
French and American wounded and gassed. They lay on litters in the
corridors, the doorways, the verandas, and overflowed into the yards
and along the roadsides. Several American women canteeners came to help
the French in this dire emergency. They found most of the personnel of
one hospital already flown, the town being under direct shell fire.
And for several days in that swamped hospital, together with a few
brave French doctors and nurses, these American volunteers toiled like
impassioned fiends day and night; ran the kitchen, cooked the meals,
served out hot coffee, bathed the wounded, bandaged fresh amputations,
held up dying heads, wrote letters, injected morphine, assisted at
operations, and continued their labors tirelessly hour after hour, in
an atmosphere of indescribable filth, impregnated with the odors of
gas gangrene.
Twice, two nights in succession, the Red Cross representative in that
sector tore at full speed down to Paris, returning with a camion load
of surgical supplies, ether and bandages. And when they arrived such
was the pressure of the hour that the surgeons themselves ran out from
their operating tables, dived their hands down into the precious box,
caught up an armload and ran back, shouting directions over their
shoulders.
It was during this period of stress that a noble idea occurred to the
Red Cross representative, which he proceeded to act upon at once.
A short distance away was an abandoned French hospital, empty, its beds
scarce cold. He drove over and asked to rent it.
“What for?” demanded the French authorities.
“To use for our American wounded. To relieve the pressure. To take them
off your hands.”
And he struck a bargain then and there. That accomplished, once more
he scorched the road to Paris. This time he loaded up fifteen tons of
stuff--one of those complete hospital units the Red Cross had stored in
its warehouses against just such a crisis as this. That unit contained
tents, beds, bandages, nitro-oxide plants, ether, instruments, and the
entire equipment for three surgical teams. By telephone, surgeons and
nurses were summoned to hurry out by automobile. The representative
himself hastened back to the other end. But while he was still on the
way, by one of those swift military changes the hospital he had rented
became untenable by reason of a shift of the American troops into
another army zone.
So now he had an outfit, but no plant. Nothing daunted, for in his
automobile he was still a lap or so ahead of his slower convoy, he
started to comb the countryside for another hospital. And so successful
were his efforts that by the time his material caught up with him he
was able to direct it to a new location. Then came the installation of
the plant. A château had been taken over for headquarters, operating
and X-ray rooms. Behind the house in a fair open field back by cool
pine woods were ranged the hospital tents, each with a capacity of
about fifty beds.
And now began a piece of spectacular teamwork. A detachment of soldiers
began policing--cleaning up--the grounds; the nurses in the operating
room commenced to boil their instruments; the sergeant began tacking
up on the valuable tapestried walls lengths of white oilcloth; in the
kitchen, the deep-seated heart of it all, the dietitian had already
started the fire and marshaled her minions; the night teams of surgeons
donned caps and aprons--and when a gray dust-covered army limousine
raced up and the chief surgeon of that sector crisply demanded “How
soon do you figure you can handle some wounded?” the commanding
officer of the new evacuation hospital responded: “As soon as you like.
Shoot ’em right along!”
And inside of an hour the army ambulances began to roll in and the
stretcher bearers began to lift out the litters with the recumbent
immobile figures, wrapped in blankets and many of them caked with mud
and blood.
On June first the Americans began to attack. By June fourth this new
Red Cross evacuation hospital had been installed behind Château-Thierry
and was operating day and night on Americans only. And thus the
thin stream of crimson, which for three days had trickled from the
front lines practically without interruption clear back to Paris,
was abruptly tourniqueted. It was a fine piece of emergency work and
an excellent example of the complete collaboration between the Army
and the Red Cross. The preparedness of this latter organization, its
warehouses stacked to the roof with extra supplies so that it could
multiply its entire hospital bed capacity by six without a strain;
its camion service ready to transport these goods to any designated
point in the advance zone; and these two facilities, materials and
transportation put absolutely at the command of the Army in a vital and
trying hour went far to avert what might have been a tragedy.
It was a brilliant sunshiny day when I arrived at this Red Cross
evacuation hospital behind Château-Thierry. At the moment there was
a lull on the Front. Twice during the month of June the Germans had
sought by means of smoke barrages and pontoons to cross the Marne, that
river of ill omen to Prussian hopes, and twice the Americans had held
them. And so aggressively had these gay yet austere youngsters fought
that it was a common jest along that sector that the Kaiser was seeking
peace terms.
There were now other units there, and they divided the honors with the
veteran poilus who flanked them on either side.
The hospital itself, situated in a splendid grove of pines and purple
beeches, was by this time operating as smoothly as if it had been
established months instead of days. The entire bed capacity of that
plant I may not give, but an idea of its elasticity may be obtained
from the fact that upon one night, after an evacuation, the patients
numbered three, and upon a subsequent night, during a rush, the kitchen
fed more than nine hundred persons and showed no signs of pegging out.
Upon the afternoon of my arrival patients were scattered throughout
many of the wards, bringing up the total to quite a considerable
figure. In company with the commanding officer. Major M----, I had
gone the rounds of the tents. Suddenly in the midst of a remark he was
called to the telephone.
It was long distance--that is to say, it was some headquarters up
behind the lines. The major returned with a sober face.
“It’s an order,” said he, “to clean out everybody, make a clean sweep,
get ready the beds. I suppose you can guess what that means.”
“An attack?”
“Well, I dare say the boche will try to pull off something. They’ve
been massing up behind Château-Thierry now for days. But they’re not
the only ones that have been massing, and don’t you forget it. Our men
on this side the Marne are lying in wait, a cordial little reception
party, and if some of their scoundrels do cross the river they’ll
never live to tell the tale!” He laughed--the cheerful buoyant laugh
of utter confidence which prevails upon the Front. “But this order
means that we’ll evacuate this evening. It’s better for the men, even
the serious cases, to be sent back to a quiet base where they can have
constant attention; they must have it, and we can’t possibly give it
to them here. In the midst of a big fight our hands are full with the
fresh influx. Moreover, it stands to reason that the sooner we can get
a patient in fit shape to travel out of this cyclone belt the better
it is for all concerned. And yet it’s the hardest thing in the world
to let some of these men go. Some are special cases where we’ve fought
for their lives. We’d like to guard them through the critical stage. As
for the nurses, they cry like babies when they have to surrender some
of their pets. You’ll see to-night. Just watch my staff; see if they
don’t try to hang on to some of the men.”
This was about five in the afternoon. He disappeared into the château
to have a conference with his head nurse upon supplies. A few minutes
later, Colonel X----, chief surgeon of all the American forces in that
center, stepped down from his limousine, and the first words with which
he greeted the major were these: “How many beds have you filled?”
The major gave the budget of the day.
“Well, clean them right out. If you’ve not sufficient ambulances, send
down the line to X----. But get the men out of here to-night. Get your
beds free. What about supplies--enough to stand a pretty big racket?
How are you on ether?”
Major M---- gave the account of his plant. Everything was in perfect
readiness for the storm.
“Fine!” pronounced the colonel. “Well, I’ve got to beat it. This is my
busy day.”
“Just when and where do you think the Germans are going to attack?” I
ventured to put in my oar.
The colonel looked me up and down with a whimsical smile. Women are
rare phenomena in the landscape of the Front. When they do arrive so
far from their natural habitat, the safe and sober rear, it is taken
for granted they are there with just and sufficient cause, and they are
treated with a deference, a consideration and a fine camaraderie that
are good to experience.
“If I knew the exact reply to your very pertinent question,” laughed
he, “I’d not be standing here; I’d be burning the road to G. H. Q.;
and we’d put something over on the boche to remember us by. As it is,
we can only say things seem mighty imminent. They’re massing guns and
effectives. So are we. Just where the point of the thrust will come no
man can say. Your guess is as good as mine. But we’ve got to be ready.
And we are! Wait. I’ll show you something. But you mustn’t put it in
the POST!”
Whereupon he sat himself down, hauled out his secret map and his secret
notebook--a small black, leather-bound affair, in which were jotted
cryptic figures representing positions and numbers of American forces
which a German spy would have bartered his worthless soul to possess;
and with these two, the map and the notebook, he outlined his plan of
campaign in the event of a German drive. Here and there were troops,
American troops. Here and there behind them were American hospitals,
each one capable of caring for so many wounded each day. All together
they represented an ample bed capacity. Those first unorganized days
of June were well over; by now the Army had arranged a hospital system
that effectively drained the sector. And not only that--alternative
positions had been located in case the evacuation hospitals had to
clear out and reinstall farther to the rear. Every emergency had been
planned for. All was indicated on that secret map.
“By the way, major,” concluded the colonel, snapping to his little
black notebook as he rose, “how soon could you up-stakes and move?”
The major stated the exact number of hours, and when I say that that
number amounted to less than three hundred minutes you may realize how
simple and supple are the component parts of such a plant. “I’ll have
the sergeant get out the tent bags,” he added, “and stack them outside
the tents.”
“May as well be ready,” agreed the colonel, stepping into his car. “Not
that there’s the slightest chance in the world that the boche will
break through, but it would be criminal not to be prepared.”
“We’ll be prepared, sir,” promised the major quietly.
“Good. They may start something about two in the morning. So long!”
“That’s two warnings,” said the major amusedly as the colonel’s car
rolled away.
Later, at mess out in the château grounds in a tent, with the westering
sun over behind the dark pine woods, a great globe of fire drowning the
fields and the tents in a fine golden light, we received a third. This
time it came in the form of a note from the French headquarters hard
by. It was in French and it read:
“We have the honor to announce to you that an important German attack
is hourly expected in our sector. It will be advisable for you to
evacuate instantly as many patients as you possibly can, in order to
have the greatest number of beds free for the emergency.”
“Looks as if the boche really meant business,” commented the major. “Do
you care to watch the evacuation? If so I recommend the rear steps of
the château as a good reviewing stand.”
I took my place as directed, well removed from the traffic. Upon the
road beneath just in front of the hospital tents were lined up a long
string of ambulances. A sergeant was in charge of the affair. Inside
the tents, orderlies and nurses had their hands full preparing the
men for transportation. Some of the patients were up, superintending
their own moving; some, in vivid pink-striped Red Cross pajamas--the
gift of some gay soul--were sitting on their cots, swinging bare legs
and shouting for footgear; some, disdaining such effete trappings of
civilization, had wrapped the drapery of their couches about them,
squaw-wise, and were standing barefoot on the grass outside enjoying
the festal scene. It was like a great gipsy encampment.
Still farther down the road one man had boldly snatched another’s
sole garment of attire, a dressing robe, and the owner, reduced to
his birthday suit, started a chase. Ensued a picturesque race. This,
however, was but a brief kaleidoscopic film, which danced across the
road for a minute like a Greek frieze, and was abruptly censored by the
sergeant. A nurse appeared at the flap of the tent, an anxious look in
her eye. She caught sight of the tall statuesque Indian who, with his
blanket hunched well round his head and his pyjamas swelling gently in
the evening breeze, stood rubbing one big bare foot luxuriously over
the other big bare foot and discoursing to another young Indian buck
thus:
“Yes, sir, I’m telling you, friend, I sure thought the end had come.
There I was, sitting under a little short tree by the road writing home
to my mother. I’d just finished writing ‘Well, mamma, I’ve come through
lucky so far,’ and looked up. There was a whole wagonload of grenades
passing, and at that minute a shell burst in the road right ahead. And
I’m telling you, friend, suddenly it seemed like all the world rose up
in the air but me----”
“You, Fred Murphy,” interrupted the nurse severely. “Where are those
slippers I gave you? Don’t you know you can’t travel in bare feet? It
isn’t done in France!”