THE DEATH OF A COMRADE
On a certain Friday afternoon at M---- the day had been ominously quiet.
Several of the boys had gone out for a little stroll and lunch before
retiring, and a few were hanging around the cars. The sun was sinking
low in the west and appeared to be loath to drop out of sight. An
orderly from the hospital came rushing over out of breath and told us to
come quickly. Two boys went with me immediately and as we entered a
darkened room we saw our old friend, Gaston, apparently "passing out."
Some of us had been pretty well acquainted with him. We went in
noiselessly but as soon as we stepped over the threshold he opened his
eyes a little wider and smiled faintly. He looked so peaceful that we
hated to disturb him. Speaking in a kind of hoarse whisper he said, "I
sent for you. I am glad you came. You boys have been good to me and I
wanted to thank you. I am lonesome, and I want my mother, too. Pneumonia
has set in, but I'll be better--in--a--couple--of--days.
How--is--the--battle--go----?" Here his eyes closed and he seemed to
sleep. Yes, I can truthfully say he did find sleep. The sleep which
knows no waking. But the room was so quiet and he looked so calm and
happy as he lay there that it did not seem like death. It only seemed as
if some white angel had come down and touched his tired, feeble body and
transfigured him. Poor fellow, he had been gassed at the battle of
Ypres, and we had met him at the hospital. Several times we had had good
visits with him and neither he nor we surmised that his time was so near
at hand. He had not appeared to be in pain and he always said he did not
suffer. And he was so hopeful to the end.
His life story had been a sad one. Married when very young he had been a
farmer on one of those little places so common and yet so unique in
France. Things had not gone well with him and his farm had almost been
forfeited. He had a family of children but his little twin boy and girl
had been killed in a runaway and the shock had prostrated his wife. She
had been an invalid ever since. Years had gone by and then when the
Germans came, a shell had struck his home killing his wife in her bed
and injuring his other boy. A few hours later the Germans entered the
place, driving him out of his home, taking his farm. He had barely time
to escape being captured, which would have meant service for Germany
instead of for France. His heart had been saddened but he was glad to
get away and go into the French Army and he had gone back to fight the
Germans. He had gone through several battles without being injured but
the gas caught him at Ypres. He lived sadly but died peacefully, and we
were requested to be present at the last little service over what was
earthly of him. They put him in a plain casket covered with a French
flag and the procession started down toward the little church.
At this time the Germans were bombing the district quite regularly. On
reaching the graveyard we could see dozens of tombstones demolished, and
one grave had thrown its occupant to the surface of the earth and it lay
there a crumbling, rotting corpse--yet smiling, or at least so it seemed
as the pearly white teeth were exposed to full view--smiling in
derision, beyond the power of the German and his _Kultur_. Here Gaston
was laid to rest.
But war furnishes strange contradictions. It is a continuous panorama of
lights and shadows; of beauties and hideous monstrosities. It furnishes
some of the truest and bravest acts that history records and it produces
some of the foulest deeds of crime. Experiences are so varied. Some
evenings, while loafing about the headquarters sitting at little tables
writing letters or talking peacefully there was nothing whatever to
remind us of battle. Beautiful parks were in front of us, fountains and
flowers, and all was quiet and serene. Then a call would come and within
an hour or two we would be enveloped in the harsh stern facts of war.
After witnessing the death of our comrade and seeing the shattered
cemetery and the decaying corpse sticking out of the grave, all in one
day, I felt a bit weird myself. A man's nervous constitution isn't made
of iron and even after seeing many morbid spectacles, unless he has
become hopelessly hardened, he will still be affected by tragic
experiences and brutal scenes. I didn't rest any too well that night
after those creepy sensations and the next day my nerves were rather
shaky. The grim spectacle which was now to greet my eyes did not tend to
quiet me either.
I was sent on quite a long trip to bring in two wounded men of the
Colonials, one French, the other British. These two men, Turko and
Senegalese, proverbially speaking, were as black as the ace of spades.
Neither of them was very dangerously wounded and both were talking
cheerfully. One had a leg broken and the other had been caught in the
shoulder. As we slid out the stretcher of the first man and placed it on
the ground, his knapsack fell off and to my astonishment out rolled the
head of a German soldier! The African spoke of it with great
satisfaction, turning it over in his hands and boasting of his good
fortune, as, I suppose the primitive American Indian boasted of the
scalp dangling from his belt. The other fellow, not to be outdone, ran
his hand into the cavernous depths of his pocket and brought forth a
human eye. It was a ghastly looking object. It seemed to me to be
penetrating the soul of the Colonial, but he just laughed and enjoyed
very much my discomfiture.
One evening as I was about to "hit the hay," two wounded men came in on
foot from the front. They were so weak they could drag themselves along
no farther. I was requested to take them to a hospital which was some
distance from the place. I got my car ready and saw that everything was
right. The night was dark as pitch. The men were put on a _brancard_, or
stretcher, and placed in the ambulance. We were making our way toward
our destination when we came to a piece of road running through a cut in
the hilly country. The road was rather narrow, just allowing enough room
for two vehicles to pass. On either side was a great bank fifteen or
more feet high. Right in the main part of the cut was a mudhole perhaps
a hundred feet or more in length. When we came to this place we were
suspicious of it and stopped for a few moments to consider before making
the plunge. As we did so a line of motor lorries and soldiers came down
from the other direction. I was afraid it was too daring an enterprise
but two or three of the trucks got safely through and my fears began to
be allayed. A truck now came loaded high with ammunition cases and just
behind it two men on horses. Into the mudhole plowed the ammunition
truck, and the riders followed close behind. The mud was getting deeper
and deeper and the wheels began to clog. An awful tattoo sounded as the
driver threw in the low speed and tried to pull ahead. The boys on
horseback turned out to go around the truck, which was evidently
sticking. As they did so its rear wheel struck a rock and broke short
off, upsetting the entire load. In falling down, the shell cases
frightened the horses. One of them reared and fell, throwing the rider
right under the overturning truck. He was fatally crushed. The soldiers
coming up extricated the poor fellow from the wreckage and brought him
to our ambulance. I quickly saw that he was "done in." He could talk a
little, and he said that it was foolish to attempt to ride around the
truck in the narrow space, especially where the mud was so deep.
We doubled back part way on our journey and made a detour. But the
mangled man died before we reached our destination. We delivered the
other wounded and made the return trip with little difficulty. Later on
many soldiers came in on foot over that piece of road but they said that
the other trucks had all turned back and gone around another way. They
did not dare to brave that awful mudhole. These soldiers were dirty,
worn and battle-weary for they had walked from the trenches for miles
through the mud, and they plainly showed it too. There was not a spot as
big as your hand on them that was not dyed with that cream-colored mud
and their faces were speckled with it so that they looked almost as if
they had had the smallpox. As one of them turned to leave me, he uttered
the words, "Some mud."