[Illustration]
_A Gallant Blessé_
I was stationed at one of our _postes de secours_ the other night
during a terrible rainstorm. The wind does blow on top of these
mountains when it begins! About bedtime, which is at 7.30 (we eat our
dinner at 4.30--it is pitch dark then), a call came from one of our
_postes_ three kilometres nearer the line. There was a captain wounded
and they asked me to go for him. I cannot speak French well, but I made
them understand. The _poste_ is at the foot of the mountain, hidden
from the _Boches_ by the trees in the woods only. At night we cannot
use lights, for the Germans would see us easily, and then there would
be a dead American in short order. Of course, I told them I would go,
but it would be dangerous for the _blessé_. I could jump out in case I
should run into a ravine, but I could not save the man on the stretcher
if anything happened. They understood, and, after about half an hour,
we heard another knock on the cabin door, and they brought the captain
in--four men, one on each corner of a stretcher. They put him on the
floor, and in the lantern light of the room (made of rough timbers) one
could see he was vitally stricken by the death color of his face and
lips. He had his full senses. It was my duty then to take him down the
opposite slope of the mountain to the hospital. I started my car and
tried to find my way through the trees in the dark. The wind was almost
strong enough to blow me off the seat, and the rain made my face ache.
The only light I had was that of the incendiary bombs of the French and
the Germans at the foot of the hill, about one and a half kilometres
away. These bombs are so bright they illuminate the whole sky for miles
around like a flash of lightning. I must admit my nerves were a little
shaken, taking a dying man into my car under such conditions, almost
supernatural. It did seem like the lights of the spirits departing
mixed with the moaning wind and the blackness of the night, and the
pounding of the hand-grenades in the front lines so near. They gave
me another _blessé_ with the captain. This man had been shot through
the mouth only, and was well enough to sit up in back and watch the
captain. I could use my lights after I had passed down the side a short
distance out of sight of the lines. We must run our motors in low speed
or we use up our brakes in one trip. All the poor _capitaine_ could say
during the descent was "_J'ai soif_," except once when he requested
me to stop the car, as the road was too rough for him, and we had to
rest. When we reached the hospital, I found a bullet had struck one
shoulder and passed through his back and out the other shoulder. He
also had a piece of shell in his side. A few hours before he had walked
back from the trenches into the woods to see a position of the Germans;
they saw him--and seldom does a man escape when seen at fairly close
range. He was vitally wounded. I climbed up the mountain watching the
fire-flashes in the sky, feeling pretty heavy-hearted and homesick, but
with strengthened resolve to help these poor chaps all I possibly could.
The next day I had another trip from the same station on the mountain
to the same hospital at five o'clock in the afternoon--then dark as
midnight. The sisters told me the _capitaine_ was better; the ball had
not severed the vertebra and there was hope for him. They told me also
that the general had arrived and conferred upon him the Cross of the
_Légion d'Honneur_. It was reassuring to hear that he was better and
had distinguished himself so well, and I went back up the trail this
night with a lighter heart. I had felt really guilty, for I did not
have a thing in my car to give him the night before when he asked me
to stop the car and said, "_J'ai soif_." Never did I want a spoonful
of whiskey more and never have I regretted not having it more. I could
not give him water--he had some fever; besides, though there are many
streams of it running down the mountain, no one dares to touch it.
Water is dangerous in war-time, and we have all been warned against it.
I was called the next morning for the same trip and when I reached the
hospital at eight o'clock it was still raining--now for three days! I
met Soeur Siegebert in the hall--carrying her beads, her prayer-book
and a candle. She is one of the good nuns who always gives me hot
soup or tea with rum in it when I come in cold, wet, and hungry--and
many times I and the others have blessed her! My first question was:
"_Comment ça va avec le capitaine ce matin?_" All she said and could
say was "_Fini_." He had passed out a short time before I got there.
He was only thirty years old, tall and handsome, and they say he led a
whole battalion with the courage of five men.
A little later I stepped into the death chamber in a little house
apart from the hospital. It was cold, wet, and smelled strongly of
disinfectant, just as such places should, and in a dim, small room
lighted by two candles, upon a snowy white altar made by the nuns,
there he lay on a bier of the purest linen beautifully embroidered,
whiter even than the pallor of his features and hands, and as I came
near him the only color in the room was the brilliant touch of red
and silver in his _Légion d'Honneur_ medal, which was pinned over his
heart. His peaceful expression assured me he was happy at last, and
made me realize that this is about the only happiness left for all
these poor young chaps I see marching over these roads in companies for
the trenches, where their only shelter is the sky and their only rest
underground in dug-outs. When they go into the trenches they have a
slim chance of coming out whole again, and they pass along the road in
companies with jovial spirits, singing songs and laughing as though
they were going to a picnic. I see them come back often, too; they are
still smiling but nearly always in smaller numbers. What can they have
in view when they see their numbers slowly but surely dwindling! I
marvel at their superb courage!