IF AN AMBULANCE COULD SPEAK
In silent moments of rest between trips I occasionally would reflect,
"If an ambulance could only talk, what tales it would tell!" No doubt,
sometimes it would tell of the pleasant occasions and of merry
conversation, and then again it would turn to the tragic and the sad.
Now it would be of victorious moments, and again it would be of defeat
and discouragement. Occasionally it would be gay and glad, and speak of
heroism if some slightly wounded man was riding in it and talk joyfully
of the hope and gladness in his heart. But far more frequently, I fear,
it would tell of blood and pain and hate and death.
[Illustration: _Copyright. Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE READY FOR DUTY.
The ambulance is waiting outside the dressing station. Any moment a call
may come and galvanize it into action.]
As an example of ambulance tales there is one little incident which I
feel I must relate. After the battle at B----, where the French
Colonials of Africa composed the main force of the Allies' soldiers, we
had hundreds of these dark-hued men to transport in our ambulances. The
slaughter had been terrific, and the wounded men were extraordinarily
mutilated.
Two of these Turcos had been loaded into our ambulance and we were
waiting for a third passenger, when a German prisoner was brought out on
a stretcher. He was very seriously injured, and lay there quiet and
pale. One of the Turcos was badly wounded, and the other one not so
seriously. We received orders to carry the German wounded prisoner to
the same hospital as the Turcos, and so we lifted his stretcher and slid
it into the upper story of the ambulance, a suspended arrangement which
enabled us to carry three men while otherwise we could have carried only
two. There was a considerable distance to be traversed between the
station where we received our men and the hospital to which we were told
to take them. After we had been on the road for some minutes and were
driving along at a fairly good rate, there was a violent vibration and
shaking of the car. We switched off the gasoline and threw in the brakes
and, bringing the car to a stop, jumped down and ran around to the rear
to see what was wrong.
The first thing I saw was a stream of blood trickling down from the
stretcher above and soaking the uniform of one of the Turcos in the
bottom of the car. I then saw that this fellow had his knife in his
hand, and I excitedly asked what was the matter. The other Turco, who
was not so badly wounded explained that his partner did not like the
idea of having a live German riding in the same car with him, and so he
had slipped out his trench knife and with what strength he had left, had
rallied and raised himself up enough to thrust it upward through the
stretcher and into the back of the German above. There was a smile of
satisfaction on the black face of the Turco, who had fallen back
exhausted. We unbuckled the straps which held the German's stretcher and
slipped it out, but he was already dead. While we were examining him the
two Turcos said a few words to each other, and when we were about to
start forward they both refused to ride with a dead German in the car.
Before we were done with him we had to carry the corpse to the side of
the road and bury it there.
We folded up the stretcher, put it back into the car, and again set out.
When we got to the hospital several miles farther on, we lifted out the
stretchers, but one of the Turcos was dead. He had used up all his
strength and life in the great effort he had put forth to kill the
hated German, but the other one said he was very contented, and had died
willingly and gladly.
Such little incidents of different kinds are continually happening,
where millions of men from all classes of society and with different
ideals are thrown together, and I am sure any ambulance on the Western
front could tell many a thrilling tale if it but had the power. Perhaps
it is better that it can not speak.