THE NORTHWEST FRONT--MUD!
The section which had been at Dunkirk and in Flanders had some
interesting experiences. The larger part of the time the boys were put
up in stables and slept on straw or in the ambulances. They had gone out
in the early spring and were detailed to work around Dunkirk carrying
the _blessés_ from the freight depot to the several hospitals as the
French authorities directed. Working in mud under air raids and long
range bombardments was not unusual to them.
The history of the northwest front is a history of men in mud. From
Dunkirk to Verdun and much farther, this ugly nightmare tears the soul.
The world has heard of the mud in Flanders, long ere this, and I believe
this war has done more to advertise the real estate of that country than
anything else could do. I suppose the people of the Western Hemisphere
never knew there was so much mud in the world. I know I never did. And
Flanders is not the only place that has it either. That entire front is
blessed with it extending two hundred miles long and almost two feet
deep. If I had unlimited time I would figure up just how much mud there
was. We think we have mud in America, Missouri boasts of most of it, and
has thus become proverbial. I once read of an old colonel who was riding
along on his horse one day in Missouri during the Civil War when he saw
an old hat lying in the mud on the side of the road. Strange to say, the
hat kept revolving, first one way and then the other. The colonel's
curiosity finally got the better of him and he dismounted and went over
to where the hat was lying. Giving it a kick he discovered a private's
head under it smiling up at him graciously. "Well, my man," said the
colonel, "you'll pardon me, but can I do anything to help you? You seem
to be in a pretty bad way." "Oh, yes," answered the private, "but as for
myself, I'll make out all right, for I can breathe. It's not myself I'm
worrying about, but the horse that's under me sure is in a bad way."
I thought of this story a thousand times while over there, and I think I
told it at least half that number of times. The mud in the spring is so
thick that it oppresses one. It gets on your mind as well as on your
body. A person who only has an occasional trip may laugh at it, but
when one drives through it day and night, and night and day for weeks
the humor of it all wears off. It becomes a mighty serious affair. In
many places it is thick and sticky like bread dough and piles up on your
wheels or feet making it almost impossible to move. The clay, or gumbo,
in America cannot compare with it. It is whitish gray in color and even
when it is not heavy it is exceedingly disagreeable. It splashes on your
clothes and flies in your eyes. It gets into your ears, your nose, and
your hair, and not infrequently into your mouth if you talk or laugh too
much. It has a resemblance to gray paint and partakes very much of its
nature. Once it gets on your clothes it is impossible to get it off and
it even sticks to and stains your flesh so that it requires hard
scrubbing with soap and hot water to remove it. Yet when it splashes you
in this manner it is pleasant--compared to the discouraging effect when
it is heavy!
One day when I was going to a shop with an empty car for some repairs, I
met my old antagonist, French mud. It was the genuine article this time
too, the kind that gets a hold and doesn't let go. I was turning out of
the road to allow a _camion_ to go by but in my eagerness to avoid it I
swerved an inch too far. Little by little I felt the back end of my car
sliding off the road so I threw in low speed and opened the gas. The
front wheels stayed on the higher ground but the rear wheels seemed to
be trying to catch up with them and finally did so, but when they did,
they pulled the whole car off into the gutter which was not steep but
oh, so muddy. I labored and struggled with the gas and the low speed. I
groaned and swore, I stalled my engine and got out to crank it, and when
I did I couldn't get in again. I used up ten minutes in getting my feet
out of that mud and getting them cleaned up. I tried it again but it was
no use, the car would not come, for it was stuck. That was the only
explanation there was, it was stuck in French mud. Not having any chains
I tried to put sticks and boards under the wheels and I succeeded but
they went so far under that I could not see what became of them. I
finally began pulling a farmer's rail fence to pieces in my attempt to
pry out the wheels and get a foundation to start from, but at last I had
to walk more than a mile till I found two men at a farmhouse who came
down with a heavy team to pull me out. When they arrived at the place
where the car was stuck, lo, the fence which I had dismantled belonged
to one of the men. He looked at me with a peculiar expression. I thought
he was angry and was going to scold me and demand payment for damage to
his property. In a couple of seconds, however, we both burst out into a
hearty laugh for he appreciated the situation as well as I. With a large
log chain looped around the front axle of the car the great horses put
their necks into the collar and hauled it out. The men would not accept
a cent of pay, one of them saying, "Not a sou, it's for France."