Our life here is one of high lights. The transition from the absolute
quiet and tranquillity of peace to the rush and roar of war takes but
an instant and all our impressions are kaleidoscopic in number and
contrast. The only way to give an impression of what takes place
before us would be a series of pictures, and the only way I can do
it is to describe a few incidents. Sometimes we sit in the little
garden behind our _caserne_ in the evening, comfortably drinking
beer and smoking or talking and watching the flash of cannon which
are so far away we cannot hear the report. At such times, the war is
remote and does not touch us. At other times, at a perfectly appointed
dinner-table, laden with fresh strawberries, delicious cakes, and fine
wine, and graced with the presence of a charming hostess, the war is
still more distant. Pont-à-Mousson, moreover, is rich in beautifully
conceived gardens of pleasant shade trees, lovely flowers, and tinkling
fountains. Lounging in such a place, with a book or the latest mail
from America, the war is entirely forgotten. Yet we may leave a spot
like that and immediately be in the midst of the realities of war.
One evening, about seven-thirty, after the Germans had been firing
on Pont-à-Mousson and the neighboring villages for some hours, I was
called to Bozeville. This village, which is on the road to Montauville,
is a small cluster of one-story brick and frame buildings constructed
in 1870 by the Germans for their soldiers. When I reached this place
it was on fire, and the Germans, by a constant fusillade of shrapnel
shells in and around the buildings and on the roads near them, were
preventing any attempt being made to extinguish the fire. To drive
up the narrow road, with the burning houses on one side and a high
garden wall, thank Heaven, on the other, hearing every few seconds
the swish-bang of the shells, was decidedly nervous work, anything but
peaceful. After picking up the wounded, I returned to Pont-à-Mousson,
where conditions were much worse. At this time the Germans were
throwing shells of large calibre at the bridge over the Moselle. To
reach the hospital to which I was bound, it was necessary to take the
road which led to the bridge and turn to the left about a hundred yards
before coming to it. Just as I was about to make this turn, two shells
struck and exploded in the river under the bridge. There was a terrific
roar and two huge columns of water rose into the air, and seemed to
stand there for some seconds; the next instant, spray and bits of
wood and shell fell on us and around us. A minute later I turned into
the hospital yard, where the effect, in the uncertain and fast-fading
light, was ghostly. Earlier in the evening a shell had exploded in
the yard and had thrown an even layer of fine, powder-like dust over
everything. It resembled a shroud in effect, for nothing disturbed its
even surface except the crater-like hole made by the shell. On one side
of the yard was the hospital, every window broken and its walls scarred
by the pieces of shells; in the middle was the shell-hole, and on the
other side was the body of a dead _brancardier_, lying on his back with
a blanket thrown over him. He gave a particularly ghastly effect to the
scene, for what was left of the daylight was just sufficient to gleam
upon his bald forehead and throw into relief a thin streak of blood
which ran across his head to the ground. Needless to say I left that
place as quickly as possible.
Another scene which I do not think I will soon forget happened in
Montauville. It was just after a successful French attack and shows
war in a little different light, with more of the excitement and glory
which are supposed to be attached to battle. Montauville is a straggly
little village of one- and two-story stone and plaster houses built on
the two sides of the road. It is situated on a saddle which connects
one large hill on one side of it with another large hill on the other
side of it. It is used as a _dépôt_ and resting-place for the troops
near it. On this particular day the French had attacked and finally
taken a position which they wanted badly, and at this time, just after
sunset, the battle had ceased and the wounded were being brought into
the _poste de secours_. The tints of the western sky faded away to
a cloudless blue heaven, marked here and there by a tiny star. To
the south an aeroplane was circling like a huge hawk with puffs of
orange-tinted shrapnel smoke on all sides of it. In the village the
soldiers were all in the streets or hanging out of the windows shouting
to one another. The spirits of every one were high. They well might
be, for the French had obtained an advantage over the Germans and had
succeeded in holding it. A French sergeant entered the town at the
lower end and walked up the street. At first no one noticed him; then
a slight cheer began. Before the man had walked a hundred yards, the
soldiers had formed a lane through which he strode. He was a big
fellow, his face smeared with blood and dirt and his left arm held in a
bloody sling. On his head was a German helmet with its glinting brass
point and eagle. He swaggered nearly the entire length of the village
through the shouting lines of soldiers, gesticulating with his one well
arm and giving as he went a lively account of what happened. Some one
started the "Marseillaise" and in a few minutes they were all singing.
I have heard football crowds sing after a victory and I have heard
other crowds sing songs, but I have never heard a song of such wild
exultation as that one. It was tremendous. I wish the Germans could
have heard it. Perhaps they did! They were not so far away, and the
sound seemed to linger and echo among the hills for some minutes after
the last note had been sung.
Our work here on this sector of the front is about three kilometres
in length. We do it all, as there are no French ambulances here. We
usually carry in a week about eighteen hundred wounded men and our
mileage is always around five thousand miles. The authorities seem to
be pleased with our work and we know that they have never called for a
car and had to wait for it. At any rate, we have had the satisfaction
of doing the best we could.