And it was a night worthy of attention. The moon--large, lustrous, flat
as an ancient golden plate of Babylon, chased with strange designs--was
just appearing over the somber pine woods and drowning the fields and
the hospital tents in a glimmering silver mist. But it was not the
beauty that the private remarked.
“Fine night for a Hun raid!” he observed grimly; and raising himself
with effort on one elbow he stared about him at the hospital tents and
the château crowded with helpless men. But if this evacuation hospital
was to be bombed--which at the moment I did not believe--it would be an
act of sheer wanton brutality, of inhuman reprisal because our troops
were winning at Château-Thierry. For on a night of brilliant moonshine
like this those blanched tents and the huge white cross on the
grass--insigne of mercy--were visible at a height of ten thousand feet.
No, certainly the Germans would not bomb this hospital. They had bombed
other hospitals before, it was true, but they would not bomb this one.
Why, they had flown over it dozens of times! Thus we all argued.
The early hours of night passed, to the wounded mortally slow, each
second packed to its full weight of agony. Down in the wards the cases
already operated on were being settled into their cots and, according
to how the ether took them, they were laughing, sobbing or reliving the
grotesque scenes of the battlefield. No lights here, save the blanched
moon rays which filtered in or the occasional gleam of an electric
torch directing the movements of the brancardiers. On the beaten grassy
sod of the tent floor their heavy tread fell noiselessly; their voices
were hushed; and one sensed rather than saw many presences in that dark
place. Some of the men were asleep; some, too ill to sleep, racked
by anguish, by thirst or a mortal restlessness, called feebly for a
drink. One there was, lying high on his pillows, passing in pain, who
punctuated each gasping respiration with a long-drawn “O-o-o! O-o-o!”
By his side another, obviously coming out of ether, babbled, babbled
ceaselessly, in dull drugged tones. A nurse sat by him.
“Say,” his voice, weak, dragging, half submerged in unconsciousness,
came out of the dark, “are--are you--my mother?”
“No, boy. Go to sleep.”
Again the submerged, dragging voice: “Don’t seem--to have no
appetite--for sleeping.... Fine appetite--for fighting.... No
appetite--for sleep.... Haven’t slept--I don’t know when.... Shelling.
Say, they murdered us--in that wood----”
“Sh!” whispered the nurse. “There’s a man in the next bed that’s pretty
bad who’s trying to sleep. You wouldn’t like to wake him, would you?”
“Sure not!” He caught hold of the soothing hand and held it fast with
the instinctive tenacious grip of a drowsy baby. “Worse off than me, is
he?... I’ve not got much the matter with---- Oh, God!”--this in a high
wrenched voice of clear agony--“what have you done to me? I can’t--I
can’t move!”
“Sh! It’s all right. But you mustn’t try to move, boy! Lie right still.”
“Awright!... Say, did you say you was my mother?”
“No.”
“I knew you wasn’t my mother! But you kind of sound--like her.... But
she’s far away from here--I know that.... Can’t fool me!... I’m in a
hospital. Say, are you my sister?”
“No. I’m the nurse. Try to sleep, old top.”
“Awright--anything to please a lady.... Say, my mother’d hate to see me
like this, wouldn’t she? ... Say, the folks at home don’t know a damn
thing about this war--what goes on up here.... I’m not going to write
to my mother about being here.... What’s the use?... Did you say that
guy in the next bed was worse off than me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that him making that noise in his throat?”
“Yes. Does it bother you?”
“Hell, no! Say, ask him what his outfit is.... Maybe he got his in
that wood along with me.” Suddenly, before the nurse could thwart him,
he sprang to a sitting position and shouted in a strong, clear voice:
“Say, are they any fellows here from my outfit?”
“What’s your outfit?” came a husky voice from across the aisle.
“Blank machine guns. Battery C.”
No reply.
“Wait until morning,” soothed the nurse as she eased him gently back
again. “Then you can look up your comrades. And don’t move quick like
that again, sonny. It’s bad for you. It might start you to bleeding.
Lie still. Try to sleep.”
“Don’t want to sleep.... Any fool can sleep.... Say, do you know why
they didn’t answer when I called out to see if any of my outfit was
here?... It’s because there ain’t any of the outfit left but me!... The
whole blank division’s gone--wiped out--shot to hell. They murdered us
in that wood----”
“Sh! Sh! There’s lots left up there, boy! Don’t you fret. They’re
cleaning the boches right out. We’re so proud of you we can’t see
straight. Now go to sleep. Try. Just a little. Won’t you try?”
“Awright!... Say, you sound an awful lot like my mother.... Can I have
a drink?... More.”
“It’ll make you sick, boy. Now lie still ... still ... still ... very
... ve-ry----”
“Say!”
“Sh!”
“No, but say--I want to say something.... Will you write a letter to my
captain?”
“Yes, in the morning.”
“No--right now. I want you to send it off right now--before they move
out.”
“All right, old man. What do you want to say?”
“Write this:” The voice was clear and smooth now.
“‘DEAR CAPTAIN: I’m so sorry I disappointed you that I can’t sleep.
I’m trying, but I can’t. I’m here in the hospital. They’ve took off
my leg, I think, but I’m not sure yet. But what I wanted to say was
this: I gave the orders just as you told me. But the damn cooks ran
away. I couldn’t much blame them. The Huns would have shot them to
hell if they’d stayed. But I gave the orders, exactly as you said. I
wanted you to know.’
“That’s all.”
Still holding the nurse’s hand he appeared to drowse. She breathed a
sigh of relief, and gently, very gently, sought to disengage herself.
Instantly the grip tightened. And the private’s voice, quiet, utterly
rational, sounded out of the dark:
“Say, you know my captain--he was killed. He was standing just a little
way in front of me as I came up to give my report, and a shell busted
straight in front of us and tore his whole----”
“Sh! Sh!”
“My captain, he was a fine captain.... He--sure was kind--to
us--all----”
The voice, weak, dragging, came to a halt, paused, died away. At last
the boy slept.
And now the tremulous moaning sigh of the dying man was the only sound
in the ward.
“O-o-o! O-o-o! O-o-o!” He was passing fast on his lonely road.
It drew on toward midnight. The moonlight, now at full strength, bathed
the tents and the road in a radiant silvery flood. Down behind the
wards a grove of somber pines seemed to draw all the darkness of the
night into its own heart and leave the surrounding air clear and pale
like a halo. One expected to see fairies with lustrous iridescent wings
and morning-glory skirts come trooping out from that solemn enchanted
wood to dance among the crimson poppies.
On the rear porch of the château the line of waiting stretchers had
been moved inside. The stream trickled, man by man, through the X-ray
room into the operating theater. There, under a brilliant concentrated
light, the surgeons toiled, without ever glancing up, under a
tremendous pressure. But they were catching up with the game.
Suddenly, between the moon and the blanched earth, whirled a monstrous
black shape. Lower and lower it swooped. And now the air was filled
with a terrible vibrating hum. The interrupted drone of twin motors
chanted louder and louder. It became an enveloping, stupefying roar.
Not continuous, but rhythmical, rising and falling, savage beating
waves of sound.
C-r-r--ash! A blinding flash. All creation seemed to go up in the
earth-shaking roar of explosion. The air was black with acrid smoke.
C-r-r--ash! Again. A tent, struck squarely, was slit to ribbons. Terror
insensate, blind, gripped one by the throat.
“The boches! They’re bombing us! They’re bombing the hospital!”
Screams, groans, horror indescribable. Men with broken arms and legs
threw themselves out of their beds, sought refuge underneath. Wounds
broke open. A shell-shock patient sprang from his cot with a crazy
yell and ran out into the night. Down, down, he rushed, panting, down
into the heart of those black pines. Another shell-shock case flew to
a heap of army blankets in the corner and burrowed out of sight. He
fancied he was in a dugout. An orderly who kept his head found time to
bend down and tuck his feet in, saying: “Now they won’t find you, old
sport!”
A high shrill scream. Another. The wounded were being hit again. The
dark air was filled with death. Pieces of shrapnel hurtled through the
air like knives. The tent walls gaped with holes like a sieve. And
still that deafening roar of twin motors, which seemed settling right
on their heads. An orderly standing in the moon-blanched road scuttled
like a rabbit to cover. He flung himself under the wheels of an
ambulance. And there his destiny found him. A piece of shrapnel passed
through his body. His soul took instant flight.
Up in the operating room the surgeons worked on, their faces the color
of chalk. Whang! Whang! Pieces of metal bit into the iron shutters.
The windows splintered into a million shards. One flying bit of shell
whizzed through the air, less than four feet from Major M---- and
lodged in the opposite wall. The orderly fled in blind panic.
“Hi! Go and stand in the corner for a dunce!” commanded the major
sternly. Turning to his surgeons he said: “Come on, men. We can’t
let our patients suffer!” and faced back to the table. His cheerful
sang-froid stiffened the nerve of them all. The orderly crawled out
from his corner. The nurse handed round tin hats. Silent, they bent to
their tasks.
And still overhead the terrific ear-splitting bourdon, the infernal
interrupted drone of a machine swooping down to less than three
hundred meters in order to make no mistake! C-r-r--ash! Another blind,
earth-rocking roar. It was the third bomb. And again it hit the mark.
Luckily it was the recreation tent--and nobody was playing just then!
Good-by, phonograph. Good-by, comfortable easy-chairs! Screams from the
adjoining tent as the whistling missiles flew.
But by now another blessed racket had set up. Crack! Crack!
Crack-crack! The antiaircraft guns began to bellow from a dozen
concealed points. Sparks of fire burst in the clear upper air. Would
the boche plane drop its fourth bomb? One waited in anguished suspense.
And now that infernal vibration began to lift; the savage rhythmical
whir sounded less and less fierce, died down, faded away. The French
guns had scared the intruder off.
The surgeons straightened backs, which despite themselves had humped
beneath the iron hail, drew deep breaths, and smiled at each other with
lips that were still a trifle stiff.
“Scared pea green!” admitted one.
“Thought it was going to roost on the rooftop all night.”
“Gee! Some roar!”
Yes, it was over. It had lasted just six minutes! For six eternity-long
minutes hell had yawned wide. Then, suddenly as it came, the danger had
passed.
Major M---- settled his tin hat firmly on his head and, looking like a
mandarin in his long white blouse, started forth to estimate the damage
and collect the rewounded for operation. Fortunately one of the large
tents which had been struck square amidships was empty. Here twisted
beds, gutted mattresses, bits of uniforms and tatters of clothes were
pasted over the landscape as if a degenerate monster had been at play.
In another ward he discovered the patients down on all fours, just
clambering out from under cover.
“What’s all this? What are you doing under those beds?” demanded the
major in mock severity.
An Irishman poked out his head from his refuge, but cautiously, like a
tortoise emerging from its shell.
“We were blown here, sir!” he explained solemnly.
The burst of laughter that followed this mendacious sally cleared the
atmosphere. With the aid of nurses and orderlies the patients were
got back to bed; shattered nerves were soothed by sleeping potions;
the rewounded victims carried up to the château; one shell-shock case
was retrieved from his dugout and the other from the wood; the dead
orderly was tenderly borne away; the wounded nurse, struck in the side
by flying metal, brought in for operation--and a semblance of peace
settled down once more over the hospital.
Up in the operating room, Joe, one of the toughest little toughs
that the Bowery ever reared, and one of the gamest sports, was being
prepared for the table. He was one of the bomb victims. By a perverse
freak of fate a second piece of shrapnel had re-entered his old wound.
He had been struck twice in exactly the same spot. And as that spot was
a sizable hole in his back, and as he had already acquired pneumonia to
boot, Joe was staggering under the envious darts and slings of a very
adverse circumstance indeed. He had grim need for all of his toughness
now!
“Them blanky dash boches,” commented Joe weakly to the orderly who was
stripping him, “they ain’t no slouches when it comes to hittin’ de
mark. Look at me now. They had two shells wit’ my name on, and both of
’em found me out. And I ain’t no general, nor yet a colonel--dem big
guys is easy to find. What’s more, them two shells pinked me twice in
de same spot--a double bull’s-eye. Can youse beat it? If they got a
toid shell wit’ my name on it--it’s good night, chicken, wit’ Joe!”
“If they’ve got a third shell with your name on it, kiddo, you call an
alibi,” advised the orderly.
“I’m a-callin’ one right now, friend, and don’t you fergit it,”
retorted Joe earnestly. “I ain’t takin’ no chances wit’ dem blanky dash
boches!”
They lifted him onto the table.
Outside, the moon, high, pale, tranquil, drenched the dark earth with
a silvery flood. The somber pines sucking the blackness from the
surrounding air still seemed the abode of enchantment. It appeared
incredible that a short half hour ago this quiet landscape had
witnessed such an atrocious deed. The raid had been an act of wanton,
inhuman brutality. In honest, open warfare the Americans were winning
at Château-Thierry, and in revenge the Huns had wreaked their rage on
helpless wounded men. It was a futile, insane act.
Nor did it achieve its end--to terrorize the enemy. On the contrary,
that enemy, with a white flame of wrath burning high in its heart, kept
steadfastly on with its appointed work. The surgeons, the nurses, the
orderlies, the drivers--redoubled their vigilant care. The ambulances
continued to rumble in, a steady stream. From their dark interiors
stretchers were lifted gently out and deposited on the grass. Again it
was a wave of gassed. Among them moved orderlies and nurses with food
and soothing lotions for the burns. When the tents were filled the
lighter cases lay out on their blankets under the moon. It was like a
vast gypsy encampment. The men leaned on their elbows, drank hot coffee
and talked of horrible, grotesque, fantastic and sanguinary things in
low, level, dispassionate tones as if they were discussing the weather.
Up there the battle still raged with a ferocious violence unconceived
of in far-away safe America. Overhead the sullen German cannon still
boomed and boomed and boomed.
And still the Americans advanced--advanced--advanced!
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain. Obvious errors in punctuation and accents have been
silently corrected in this version, but some inconsistencies and
archaic forms have been retained as printed.
The following alterations have been made:
p.34 Soisante-quinze! to Soixante-quinze!
p.50 man to men
p.68 semed to seemed
p.104 three to there
P.236 best best [repeated word deleted]
p.240 divisons to divisions
p.275 mater to matter