FRIENDS
Ambulancier Donald Richards, with Washington White beside him, but
without his usual grin, drove his much battered car down the military
road and across the scarlet-flowered fields in the direction of the
battle sounds. From a rise of ground he could see advancing lines
of men, some distance apart, moving rapidly for a short space and
dropping on the ground; then arising and going forward to repeat
the movement--all this carried out with wonderful precision. At one
moment there were a thousand men thus spread out, moving swiftly. At
the next moment they were all prone on the ground, in perfect unison.
Don understood this perfectly. He had witnessed the same tactics a
few days before in the charge on Bouresches and they had won. But the
attempt to win Belleau Wood had been frustrated for three days by the
terrible machine-fire which greeted the determined Americans. Would
it be possible to attain their object this time before they were all
killed?
For he could see also, all over the field behind the charging
soldiers, many men who had fallen. In spots the ground was strewn
with bodies of the wounded and dead. As he gazed, horror-stricken yet
fascinated by the spectacle, he could discern the thinning out of the
charging lines, as they swept forward.
“We’ve got to get right down there, Wash, and bring some of those
fellows out,” Don said.
“Down whar? On de groun’ whar dem sojers is kilt? Say, Mist’ Donal’,
yu done that-a-way t’other day en’ yu-all knows how dis amberlance
looked when hit come out. En’ yu kin see now how she looked. En’ hit
wa’n’t no foolishness of ours dat we didn’t get sent to Kingdom Come.
En’ ’tain’t always dese yer po’ white Heinies is gwine miss us. Boun’
tu git it some time.”
“Oh, forget it, Wash! You always think we’re going to get hurt. You
see we haven’t been hurt yet and that’s as good as just starting out.”
On the ambulance went, dodging shell-holes, running around natural
obstacles, rapidly nearing the ground across which the marines had
charged not five minutes before. The boys overtook a light, active
fellow, on foot and trotting, though now with lagging steps, and Don
knew him for a messenger. Don slowed down and asked the lad to hop
in for a lift. But this was only for a fourth of a mile, for they
then soon came well within the edge of the zone of flying bullets and
shells. Here they met the first _brancardiers_ with a wounded man, so
the ambulance came to a stop. Without a word the runner leaped out
and dashed on. Don and Wash were filled with admiration for these
nervy fellows, who seemed to have no thought of danger in carrying
messages to officers in the field. Right here another runner came to
Don.
“Captain Baston says tell you there are five men, all badly wounded,
in a shell hole--over there, near those poplar trees--and they ought
to be got out. It won’t do to carry them far, he said. Got the nerve
to make it?”
Did he have the nerve? He saw that this first case was not a bad one
and could stand a little jolting. He told the _brancardiers_ to load
on their man and hop in. Then he turned his car across in line with
the German fire.
“I kin wait heah twill yuh come back. Yu ain’t got no special use fo’
me,” Wash began, but this time only a look from Don ended the negro’s
protest. In three minutes he had reached the shell-hole by the trees.
Half a dozen direct or ricocheting machine-gun bullets had hit the
ambulance, but had done no more damage than to add to the holes and
dents already in its sturdy sides.
It was the work of but a few minutes for the two _brancardiers_ with
their one stretcher, and Don and Wash with another, to get most of
the wounded fellows into the ambulance, while shells and smaller
calibre missiles flew and struck all round them. The last poor chap
was suffering with a wound in the leg. Entirely out of his mind he
fought against being moved, so Wash went back with the bearers to
hold the soldier on the stretcher. As they started back, Don, who had
been glancing at his carburetor, began to lower the hood over his
motor.
The sound of an approaching shell; nothing can describe it; the long
swish of a carriage whip, the rush of water at high pressure from
the nozzle of a hose, the wind singing past a kite string--these
might barely suggest it. Hearing it once it is never forgotten. Don
looked when he noticed it; one must do that when it is near, though.
Trying to dodge a shell is as useless as ducking at lightning.
Then came the thud of the projectile and the almost simultaneous
explosion. The boy’s eyes, just above the hood, had been upon the
approaching stretcher. The next instant the group of four--the
_brancardiers_, Wash and the raving man--had ceased to exist amidst
a furious upheaval of flame and earth and stones. Innumerable flying
pieces struck the engine hood and Don’s helmet. The wounded men were
protected by the sides of the ambulance.
Don walked slowly over and looked down at the hole made by the shell;
he glanced around at the torn and twisted bodies flung twenty feet
away. Something like a sob choked him as he recognized the black face
of his helper. Don had almost compelled him to come within this area
of awful danger, else the poor fellow would have been living now.
Flinging a suggestion of salt water from his eyes, the boy leaped to
his seat and addressed the wounded men behind him:
“Where was the nearest dressing station set up?”
“Back of that low hill to the left,” a weak voice directed, and the
car shot forward.
“Get ’em in here! You bring in the biggest loads, so keep at it!”
said the field-surgeon. “Others of your crowd are getting them back
to the evacuation hospital all right. Go to it, boy!”
And again Don went flying toward the fighting front, toward the level
fields filled with crimson flowers, waving grass or ripening grain,
stretched south and west from Belleau Wood.
Up the slopes of the hill he could now see the indomitable marines,
still charging, overcoming all opposition, destroying the machine-gun
nests, bayoneting the gunners, and defeating every attempt of the
enemy to check their attack. On into the fields--to the very foot
of the hill--Don drove his car, looking to the right and left for
_blessés_. The bullets, as never before, sung around him, threshing
out the grass and grain, and tearing up the blood-red poppies.
Here also the stretcher-bearers were more than busy. Two, with a
wounded man, came running to Don. Another wounded man crawled and
dragged himself toward the car, until the boy saw and helped him. The
soldier could speak only in halting accents.
“There’s one--our corporal--down back--bush. Helped
me--water--canteen. Fainted, then--good fellow--get him.”
Don, fishing in his pockets for his ammonia spirits and grabbing a
water bottle, ran to the spot designated, a hundred feet away. The
marine lay on his stomach, his face hidden in the crook of his left
arm. Evidently he had come to. The other arm lay limp on the grass. A
clot of blood stained the clothing on his left side.
“_Ambulancier_ here. I’ll help you, or get a stretcher if you
can’t--” Don began, stooping to lift the fellow. The wounded man
twisted about, raised his head and once again Don Richards and
Clement Stapley gazed into each other’s eyes. But the look of
defiance was gone.
“Clem, poor chap, are you hurt much? Where?”
“Arm busted, Don. Side cut a little. Flesh wound, I think. If it’s
worse, tell mother and dad.”
“I don’t believe it’s bad, Clem. Don’t you think it! We’ll see that
it isn’t. My car--”
“I can walk to it, perhaps. Legs O. K. Use gun as crutch.”
“No; I’ll help you; carry you, if need be. Get your good arm over my
shoulder.”
“That’ll bring you on the side where the bullets--”
“Well, what of that? I don’t--”
“No, you don’t care, but I do, Don. If I get another it’s only
one--but you--”
“Never mind! Come on. You know I always have my way. Your arm around
my neck.”
With painful laboriousness the two began to walk across. They had
gone a dozen feet when Clem heard the sound of a bullet striking
flesh. He had heard it too often not to know it. But Don did not
hear it. He only sank to the ground. Clem struggled to maintain his
footing but fell beside him.