[Illustration: AMERICAN AMBULANCE IN VERDUN]
_S. S. Américaine No. 3,
July 3, 1916_
_Dear ----_
I never meant to let so long a time go by without more than a postal
or so. We are back, far back, of the lines in repose with the tattered
remains of our division. I have a lot that is worth while writing
about, but make allowances if it comes disconnectedly. We have just
come back from two weeks at Verdun! Our cars are battered and broken
beyond a year's ordinary service. Barber, though seriously wounded, is
on the road to recovery. No one else was more than scratched.
The Section we relieved told us what to expect. It began strong. The
first night the fellows worked through a gas attack. I was off duty and
missed out on one disagreeable experience. One has to breathe through a
little bag affair packed with layers of cloth and chemicals. The eyes
are also protected with tight-fitting isinglass, which moists over and
makes driving difficult. The road was not shelled that night, so it
might have been worse. The second night was my go. We rolled all night
from the _poste de secours_ back to the first sorting-station. The
_poste_ was in a little town with the Germans on three sides of the
road and all in full view, which made daylight going impossible. The
day work was evacuating from sorting-stations to field hospitals. There
our work stopped. English and French sections worked from there back
to the base hospitals. The road ran out through fields and a little
stretch of woods, French batteries situated on both sides the entire
way; that is what drew the fire. Four trips between dusk and dawn were
the most possible. The noise of French fire was terrifying until we
learned to distinguish it from the German _arrivées_. It is important
to know the difference, and one soon learns. The _départ_ is a sharp
bark and then the whistle diminishing. The _arrivées_ come in with a
slower, increasing whistle and ripping crash. In noise alone it is more
than disagreeable. The _poste de secours_ was an _abri_ in a cellar of
four walls. Of the town there was scarcely a wall standing: _marmites_
had done their work well. The road was an open space between, scalloped
and scooped like the moon in miniature. We would drive up, crawling
in and out of these holes, turn around, get our load and go. When the
place was shelled, we had time to hear them coming and dive under
our cars. The drive back was harrowing. One was sure to go a little
too fast on a stretch of road that felt smooth and then pitch into a
hole, all but breaking every spring on the body. I'll never forget the
screams of the wounded as they got rocked about inside. At times a
stretcher would break and we would have to go on as it was. Of course
we would have to drive in darkness, and passing _convois_ of artillery
at a full gallop going in opposite directions on either side. Each
night a bit more of tool box or mud guard would be taken off. Often I
found myself in a wedge where I had to back and go forward until
a little hole was found to skip through, and then make a dash for
it and take a chance. One night there was a thunderstorm with vivid
lightning and pitch darkness. The flash of guns and of lightning were
as one and the noise terrific. That night, too, the road was crowded
with ammunition wagons. But worst of all, it was under shell fire in
three places. Traffic became demoralized because of the dead horses and
wrecked wagons smashed up by shrapnel. All our cars were held up in
parts of the road. There is no feeling of more utter helplessness than
being jammed in between cannon and _caissons_ in a road under shell
fire. No one was hit that night. Two of the men had to run ahead and
cut loose dead horses in order to get through....
Barber's car was hit the next night. He had stopped and was crouching
by it, which probably saved him. Subsequently the Germans corrected
their range on the road by the sight of the car, and on our last run it
was level with the ground. The bodies of the wounded he was carrying
mingled with the wreckage. That night was the climax of danger. Things
eased off a bit after, but the strain was telling and our driving
was not so skillful. Next to the last night I collided with a huge
_ravitaillement_ wagon coming at full gallop on the wrong side of the
road. The entire front of the car went into bow knots, but I landed
clear in safety. This occurred under the lee of a cliff, so we went
in search with wrecking car the next day. After twenty hours she was
running again, shaky on her wheels, but strong in engine. She goes
to Paris soon for shop repairs. Poor old Alice! A wrecked car in so
short a time. Patched with string and wire and straps, she looks
battle-scarred to a degree. Her real battle souvenirs are five shrapnel
balls embedded in the roof and sides. I don't believe in collecting
souvenirs, but these I could not help!
There were humorous incidents; that is, humorous when we look back
on them, safely in camp. One goes as follows: Three cars running out
to the _poste_ about thirty yards apart. The whistle of shells and a
great increase in speed in the cars. (Somehow speed seems to give the
feeling of more security.) Road getting too hot--shells falling between
the cars as they run. First car stopped short and driver jumped about
thirty feet into a trench by the roadside. Landed in six inches of
water and stayed. Car No. 2 stopped, but not short enough to prevent
smashing into tail-board of No. 1. Driver made jump and splash No. 2
into trench. Ditto for Car No. 3 (me). Whistle and bang of shell, crash
of hitting cars, and splash of falling men in water. Here we remained
until the "storm blew over."
I am mighty glad we are through and out of it all. Whatever action we
go into again, it cannot be harder or more dangerous than what we have
been through. That will be impossible. I don't know yet whether I am
glad or not to have had such an experience. It was all so gigantic and
terrifying. It was war in its worst butchery. We all of us lost weight,
but health and morale are O.K., and we are ready for more work after
our repose. When you read this, remember I am out of it and in less
dangerous parts....
The French military is giving half of us forty-eight hours _permission_
for the Fourth of July. We are going for a two days' spree in Paris!
My debits to date are one letter from mother of the 7th; one shirt,
chocolate, and corduroy suit.
I would rather you didn't pass this letter around much. It is too
hurried and slapdash, and I may have quite different opinions after we
have calmed down a bit.
EDWARD
(_Tinkham_)
P.S. Barber was given the _Médaille Militaire_--most coveted of
military honors.