BY December 20, the approximate date of the beginning of the French
attack upon the German positions on Hartmannsweilerkopf, the
headquarters of Section 3 of the American Ambulance had been moved
temporarily to a place called Moosch. Here was located a large modern
hospital to which the wounded were brought from the dressing-stations
in the mountains, two or three kilometres behind the lines of advance
trenches. From this hospital the _blessés_ were moved into the interior
as fast as their condition would permit. It was the duty of the small
American Ford ambulances to bring the wounded from these mountain
stations down to the hospital at Moosch.
Moosch, a typical Alsatian town, consisting of a few large buildings,
the "Mairie," the church, a hotel or two, and perhaps a weaving mill,
about which are clustered the homes and stores and cafés or combination
of these latter, is situated in the valley of the river Thur. This
valley runs up, and west or slightly north of west, to the divide,
between the Moselle River and the Thur, this divide making the old
boundary between French and German territory; and down in a south of
east direction until the mountains end and we enter the plain that
forms part of the drainage basin of the Rhine. Moosch is about halfway
down this valley and about twelve kilometres from the front, which was
on the last row of hills before the beginning of this plain.
The valley itself ranges from one to two kilometres in width and the
green forest-clad mountains rise on each side to a height of three
hundred to four hundred metres. In the floor of the valley were
orchards, open fields, and small towns. Down the centre of it was
the broad road which continued up and over the divide into France.
It formed, aside from an aerial tramway that the French constructed
over the divide especially for this war, the only avenue of traffic
for the supplies of ammunition, guns, food, etc., for the armies that
were situated in this district. As a consequence it was night and day
a scene of activity throughout its entire length. Down the valley this
road had two important branches, one at a point six kilometres from
Moosch and another at eight. Both these branches followed the course
of small creeks that feed the river Thur, up and up the small valleys
through which the streams flowed, then turned up the mountain-side and
climbed to the top of one of the larger hills. One route was used for
traffic ascending, the other for all descending, except for any that
was required by Red Cross Stations or artillery posts along the way. In
this manner much passing of the up and down streams of wagons, mules,
motor trucks, etc., which would have been well-nigh impossible on these
steep, narrow roads, was avoided.
On the mountain-top was a small space, somewhat cleared of the forest
growth, where three roads met, two that have already been mentioned
and another that went over one shoulder of the mountains and down to
an advance _poste de secours_, practically under Hartmannsweilerkopf
itself. In one angle of the "Y" formed by these roads were a few
roughly constructed buildings for taking care of the wounded, cooking,
etc., and in another nothing but the steep slope of the mountain with
a cabin or two tucked close against it amid the pine woods. In the
last angle was a small graveyard where lay the men who had died from
wounds there at the station or had been killed during the bombardment
of some local artillery post or of the road. Next to this graveyard
was a limited parking-space for the ambulances, and beyond this
the cosy little building, the _poste de secours_, where the French
stretcher-bearers and American drivers ate and slept together when not
at work.
This place was popular among the Americans, at first, at least, before
the Germans captured a colonel with telltale maps upon his person,
and their guns began to find and make uninhabitable a spot that had
once seemed a secure retreat. Up in the fresh air and ozone of the
pine woods, it was hard, in spite of the graveyard near by and the
ever-passing stream of ammunition wagons or pack trains, not to think
of this place as a pleasant vacation ground. The Frenchmen, too, were
wonderful companions, playful as boys of ten, and kind and generous
to a fault. After a snowstorm, unless there was a great deal of
work, there was sure to be a tremendous snow battle in progress,
and the Frenchmen, old territorials some of them, forty to fifty to
sixty years of age, would be as hard after one another as boys in
their mimic wars. Their generosity went so far as surrendering their
bunks to the Americans while they slept out in the ambulances. At
times the little _poste de secours_ would be a scene of revelry, the
professional entertainer taking part in the programme of the evening
with the country songster. More often, however, the Frenchmen were busy
and the Americans would amuse themselves with some deep, protracted
argument or read the latest book on the war that some kind friend had
sent to a member of the Section. At night the little hut had its bunks
filled to overflowing, but sleeping was generally good, unless your
bedfellow happened to be a soldier dreaming of battle or a mule-driver
dreaming of swearing at his mules. At night there were always one or
two interruptions, especially whenever an ambulance-driver was wanted.
Those who were sent to call him always succeeded in waking the whole
lot of sleepers before finding the man whose turn it was to "roll."
[Illustration: WINTER DAYS IN ALSACE]
This "night rolling," as it is called, is not the easiest thing to do
by any means. The road, steep and narrow and rough at any time, would
in snowy or rainy weather cause an occasional sinking of the heart to
the best of drivers. To these difficulties was added the necessity
of passing the slowly descending trains of ammunition wagons and
mules. On one stretch of road no lights were permitted, as they would
have disclosed its location to the Germans. On nights when there was
no moonlight and heavy mists enshrouded the mountains, it was a trying
nerve strain to come down this bit of road. The history of every car
would be full of stories of narrow escapes from running into wagons,
mules, or men, or running over the edge of the road or against the side
of the hill. These difficulties and trials, however, weren't what would
occupy the mind when the German shells began breaking near; they lose
their importance entirely. One can get used to the blind driving on a
dark night, but never to the high-explosive shells. Even on the floor
of the valley where the road is level, the thrills might not cease, for
here it has been a common experience to run into an unlighted wagon or
to be smashed by a heavy, ponderous motor truck. Perhaps it would be
a mere matter of getting ditched in the effort to get out of the way
of the latter. But with the Ford this was never a serious trouble, as
eight or ten men, and they were always to be had in a few moments on
any part of the road, could quickly lift it out and put it on the road
again. Out of the most severe smash-ups the Fords have emerged supreme
and in every case proved the statement that a "Ford car can be bent but
not broken."
At the hospital the wounded would be taken out, new blankets and
stretchers put in, the gas tank filled, and the car sent up the
mountain again to wait for more _blessés_ unless it was time for the
driver to turn in and get a bit of sleep.
During the day a call would very often mean a trip down the other side
of the mountain to the advance posts nearer Hartmannsweilerkopf. While
day driving hasn't the terrors of night driving, yet the road near
these two posts and the posts themselves were more often the object
for German fire, and it was with a little feeling of dread that one
went there. The road down to it was exceedingly steep in places and few
cars could make the return trip with a full load. There never was any
anxiety about stalling, however, for a little assistance from eight
or ten soldiers would send the car on its way again. Many a time a
driver would unconsciously arrive at the posts at a time of bombardment
and be told to leave his machine and hurry to an _abri_. An _abri_
is a cave or dug-out in the side of the mountain offering protection
against the German shells. All along the mountain roads these little
places of refuge began to appear after the Germans had learned how to
drop shells consistently near these routes, and to see them thus was
a real comfort to the mind whenever the whistle of a shell sounded
unpleasantly loud and near. These caves were not always in a finished
state, as a big broad-shouldered driver learned to his discomfort and
the vexation of his two comrades. They were taking a look at Hartmanns
from a portion of the road whence it can be seen, when the portentous
sound of the flying shells began which kept coming nearer and nearer.
The Americans turned and ran up the road to one of these _abris_, the
big man leading. He darted for the cave entrance, but his body was just
too big and he was wedged tightly between the stone sides, while his
two comrades pounded on his back clamoring for admittance. He decided
it was more comfortable and safe flat against the rocks in front of
the car, and safer, too, than in a hole the entrance to which might so
easily be closed.
One was not always compelled to be conscious of such unpleasant things
as bursting shells. At slack periods when neither side was firing, and
the traffic was not too heavy up and down the roads, the trip up and
over the mountains could be one of the pleasantest of rides. Sometimes
after a snowstorm the mountain forest scenes were magnificent, and
there was the occasional wonderful expanse of view over valley and
plain below. Away off on the German side could be seen the town of
M---- which was brightly illuminated at night. The Germans seemed
indifferent to the fact that these lights were a great temptation to
the French gunners. As far as known, the latter seldom yield to this
temptation to bombard civilians despite the fact that the Germans
were shelling towns, needlessly it seemed, in the territory held by
France. Many pleasant rides after the attack, in the warm sunshine of
the spring days that came in January, will stay in the minds of the
drivers, a contrast to the rushing trips taken in slush and mud and
snow during the height of the attack.
[Illustration: EFFECT OF GERMAN SHELLS IN ALSACE (THANN)]
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO HARTMANNSWEILERKOPF, DECEMBER, 1915]
The time spent in Moosch at the hospital was nearly always a period
of activity and interest. There were sure to be minor repairs needing
attention, tire-changing to be done, and often more difficult matters
to attend to, such as eliminating the knock in an engine, changing
brake-bands, or putting in a new rear axle. The hospital itself looked
across the valley to the hills beyond, upon one of which was anchored
a small sausage-shaped balloon, such as is used all along the French
line for observation purposes. One hundred metres back of the hospital
rose the hills forming the other side of the valley. On the slope of
one of these was the rapidly growing graveyard where the bodies of the
soldiers who had died at the hospitals were laid. Among them was the
body of Richard Hall, the young American ambulance driver who lost
his life during the attack, when his machine was struck by a shell on
the road up the mountain. On the east side of the hospital passed a
small road that led up to the graveyard, and beyond this was an open
field where an aero bomb fell with disastrous results to one fowl and
to the windows of the hospital on that side. In the hospital yard on
this side were put the ambulances needing repairing, and in rush times
part of the other side of the yard was also required. Here was rather
a good-sized building, the front end of which was the morgue and the
other end the laundry. Behind it was a small shelter where the bloody
stretchers were cleaned. It was in these surroundings, with the rows
of coffins on one side and the stretcher-cleaning on the other, that
much of the repair work was done during the height of the attack. Here,
too, would form the military funeral processions that went with the
bodies to the graveyard on the hill. Two funerals a day of one to five
coffins was the regular schedule in the busy days of the attack. One of
the most intensely interesting sights was the gathering of the whole
regiment, of those who were left after the attack, about this graveyard
to give a last formal salute to their departed comrades.
Hardly a day passed during the period of the attack when the village
was not shelled, and when it was clear, the German aeroplanes would
appear and drop their bombs or smoke signals, or seek to destroy the
observation balloon of the French, descending as near to it as they
dared. One of the prettiest sights of the war is to see the little
tufts of cloud appear near the course of the speeding machine whenever
the shrapnel bombs burst. The cloudlets formed by the French shells are
white, by those of the Germans, black. It was surprising how difficult
it seemed for gunners to get anywhere near the aeroplanes. They would
pepper the sky in every direction except near the moving spot they were
trying to hit. At rare intervals both German and French machines were
up, and their manoeuvring for an advantage was always interesting. The
interest, however, in this sort of thing changes after a few bombs have
been dropped and their terrific effect seen.
Such is the general story of the activity and life of the Section's
last months in Alsace. Its details would include many stories of tight
squeezes, of break-downs and troubles in hot places, of the carrying of
soldiers driven mad under the strain of war, of having men die in your
car on the way to the hospital, of short side trips right up amidst the
French artillery stations, and always of the patient, quiet suffering
of the French soldier. There would be stories of the days when the car
would have "moods," and refuse to make the grades as it ought, and then
again of times when nothing was too much for the engine to do.
After the attack we were moved from Alsace farther inland, and after
some wandering from place to place through a country that had been the
scene of much fighting in the earlier part of the war, and through
villages almost completely destroyed by the Germans, we were sent to a
town near Nancy--Tantonville--to do ambulance work for the hospitals
situated within a twenty-five-kilometre radius and to wait until our
cars could be overhauled and repaired.[3]