[Illustration: WHAT NIGHT TRIPS WITHOUT LIGHTS SOMETIMES MEAN]
[Illustration: THE DANGERS OF THE ROAD]
_Perils of a Blizzard_
The other night, just as I was going to crawl in, three _blessés_
arrived from the trenches, another was down the road in a farmhouse
waiting for the _médecin chef_; he was too badly wounded to go farther.
They asked me to take the men to the hospital at Krût, which is back
over the mountains twenty miles, and of course I said I would. I
dressed again (I hated to because it was warm in the little log shack
and it had begun to rain outside); I lit my lantern, and went out to
the shelter where the cars were, got my tank filled with gas, and my
lights ready to burn when I could use them. It was so black one could
see nothing at all. We put two of the _blessés_ on stretchers and
pushed them slowly into the back of the car; the other sat in front
with me. We did this under the protection of the hill where the _poste
de secours_ is located. When one goes fifty yards on the road beyond
the station there is a valley, narrow but clear, which is in full view
of the trenches, and it is necessary to go over this road going and
coming. In the daytime one cannot be seen because the French have put
up a row of evergreens along it which hides the road. I started and
proceeded very carefully, keeping my lantern under a blanket, and we
soon arrived at the house where the other _blessé_ was waiting for
the doctor. It was a typical French farmhouse, little, old, and dirty
inside, and white outside. I pushed in the door and stepped down into
the flagstone kitchen. On the floor lay the _chasseur_ on a stretcher,
his face pale under the lamplight from the table. The _médecin chef_
was bending over him injecting tetanus (lockjaw) anti-toxin into his
side, and with each punch of the needle the poor fellow, already
suffering from terrible wounds, would squirm but not utter a word. The
soldiers stood around the tiny room, their heads almost touching the
brown rafters above. We took the man out to my car on the stretcher,
carrying the light under the coat of one of the stretcher-bearers. If
the Germans see a light moving anywhere in the French territory, they
will fire on it if they think it near enough. I started up the mountain
with my load of wounded. On either side of the road the French guns at
certain places pounded out their greetings to the _Boches_, and the
concussion would shake the road so that I could feel it in my car. I
could light my lights after about a mile, so I proceeded slowly up the
mountain in low speed. The heat from my motor kept the _blessés_ and
myself warm. About halfway up, we ran into the clouds and it became
so foggy one could scarcely see; farther up it became colder and began
to snow. I had no chains on my car (none to be had). They need so many
things here, if they only had the money to buy them. I thought of the
time you and I got stuck at Princeton, and it worried me to be without
chains, especially since I had three helpless men inside and one out.
I kept climbing up and the higher I went the more it snowed and the
harder it blew. Near the top it became veritably blinding--snow, sleet,
and wind--a typical northeasterly American blizzard. The little car
ploughed on bravely; it stuck only once on a sharp turn, and by backing
it I was able to make it by rushing it. I could not see the road, the
sleet was blowing into my face so and the snow was so thick. At last
I reached the summit and the wind was so strong there it actually
lifted my car a little at one time. On one side of the road was a high
embankment and on the other a ravine sloping down at least one thousand
feet. I was scared to death, for without chains we were liable to skid
and plunge down this depth. The snow had been falling all day, and it
had drifted in places over a yard deep. Twice I took a level stretch to
be the road, but discovered my mistake in time to back up; the third
time was more serious; I plunged ahead through a drift which I thought
was the road, and finally I stuck and could move neither way. I could
not leave these men there all night wounded, and the blizzard did not
stop, so my only means was to find help. I walked back to what I
thought was the road and kept on toward a slight, glimmering light I
could see in the right direction. It was an enclosure for mules which
haul ammunition over the mountains, and I felt safe again, for I knew
there were a lot of Territorial soldiers with them. I hauled them out
of bed; it was then 10.30. They came with me and pushed me back on
the road, also pushed me along--ten of them--until they got me on the
descent, and from there on the weight of my car carried me down through
the drifts. I arrived at the hospital at 12.30 and was the happiest man
you have ever seen to get those poor fellows there safely.
I was sent back to Mittlach the next day to get four more wounded. They
were what are called _assis_, not _couchés_, fortunately, because the
snow on top of Trekopf had been falling and drifting all day and night.
When I got to the top of the mountain and started down, the roads had
been broken and beaten down by munition wagons and were like a sheet
of ice. I started down without chains, and with all my brakes on the
car began to slide slowly down the road. It slid toward the edge of the
ravine and the two front wheels went over; it stopped, I got it back on
the road, and turned the radiator into the bank on the other side and
tried tying rags on the rear wheels to keep the car from going down,
when a big wagon with four horses came down the hill behind me. It was
so slippery that the horses started to slide down on their haunches,
and, with brakes on, the driver could not stop them. The horses came
on faster and they slid into the rear of my car, pushed it along for
about six feet, and then nothing could stop it. It started down the
road. I yelled to the wounded, "_Vous, jetez vous._" They understood
and piled out just in time. The car ran across the road and plunged
down into the ravine. There was a lot of snow on the side of the
ravine, and it had piled up so that it stopped the car part way down,
and it was not injured very much. It took nine men and as many mules
to pull it out. Now that the snow has come, I think our service to
Mittlach will have to be abandoned.