UNDER THE CROIX ROUGE
I never expected to drive a motor ambulance, with badly wounded men,
down the Champs Elysées. But I did. I have done many things since the
war began that I never expected to do;--but somehow that magnificent
Champs Elysées--and ambulances--and groans of wounded seemed a
combination entirely outside my wildest imaginations.
This was a result of the eight days' parole, after my release from the
Cherche Midi; I was forbidden to write anything concerning my trip to
the battle fields.
During those eight days I came to the conclusion that the popularity
of journalism in France had reached its lowest ebb. In the ante-bellum
days newspapermen were rather highly regarded in the French capital.
They occasionally got almost in the savant class, and folks seemed
rather glad to sit near their corners of the cafés and hearken to their
words. I found that now, in popular estimation, they were several
degrees below the ordinary criminal, and in fact not far above the
level of the spy. Also the wording of my parole was galling. I could
not even write private letters to my family, without first obtaining
permission at headquarters of the Military Governor.
We had "run into an important turning movement of troops on that trip
to the front" was the final official reason assigned for our particular
predicament. We were dangerous; we might tell about that turning
movement. Therefore the eight days' parole.
Nevertheless, for eight days my activities for my newspaper were
suspended, and even then the hope of getting to the front seemed more
vague than ever. I thought over every plan that might produce copy, and
finally I called on the Ambassador--which was the usual procedure when
one had an idea of front-going character.
"I am weary of the reputation that has been bestowed upon me," I
told Mr. Herrick. "I am tired of being classified with the thugs and
yeggmen. I am tired of being an outcast on the face of Paris. In other
words, for the moment I desire to uplift myself from the low level of
journalism. I desire to don the brassard of the Red Cross."
"Yes," said the Ambassador, "I don't blame you."
"All right," I rejoined, "but as a journalist they won't have
me--unless you give me a bill of health. If you tell them I am not so
bad as I look nor so black as I am painted, I stand a chance. I confess
frankly that I am actuated by the low motives of my profession. I am
first and last a newspaperman and I believe that a Red Cross ambulance
may get me to the battle front. However, I am willing to do my share of
the work, and if I go into the service with my cards face up and your
guarantee--why--"
"Yes," replied Mr. Herrick. "And that goes, provided you will not use
the cable until you leave the service."
I promised. The Ambassador kept his word. A week later, vaccinated and
injected against disease of every character, clad in khaki, with the
coveted badge of mercy sewed on the left sleeve, I was taken into the
ranks of the Croix Rouge as an ambulance orderly. I remained for two
months--first hauling wounded from great evacuation stations about
Paris to hospitals within the walls. Most of our wounded went to the
American Ambulance, when we broke all speed laws going through the
Champs Elysées, en route to Neuilly. Later I was stationed at Amiens
with the second French army, at that time under the command of General
Castelnau. We slept on the floor in a freight station and we worked in
the black ooze of the railway yards. The battle front was still many
miles away.
One morning when the weather was bleakest (it was now December) and
the black ooze the deepest, and the straw from where I had just risen
was flattest and moldiest, I received word from Paris to get back
quick--that at last the War Office would send correspondents to the
front, and that the Foreign Office was preparing the list of neutrals
who would go.
I resigned my ambulance job and took the next train. But I kept my
brassard with the red cross upon it. I wanted it as a proof of those
hard days and sometimes harder nights, when my profession was blotted
from my mind--and copy didn't matter--I wanted it because it was my
badge when I was an ambulance orderly carrying wounded men, when I
came to feel that I was contributing something after all, although a
neutral, toward the great sacrifice of the country that sheltered me.
I shall keep it always for many things that I saw and heard; but I
cherish it most for my recollection of Trevelyan--the Rue Jeanne d'Arc
and those from a locality called Quesnoy-sur-Somme.
(A) Trevelyan
The orderly on the first bus was sitting at attention, with arms
folded, waiting for orders. It was just dawn, but the interior of his
bus was clean and ready. He always fixed it up at night, when the rest
of us, dog tired, crept into the dank straw, saying we could get up
extra early and do it.
So now we were up "extra early," chauffeurs tinkered with engines,
and orderlies fumigated interiors; and the First Orderly, sitting at
the head of the column, where he heard things, and saw things, got
acquainted with Trevelyan.
The seven American motor ambulances were drawn up with a detachment
of the British Red Cross in a small village near B----, the railhead
where the base hospital was located, way up near the Belgian frontier.
The weather was cold. We had changed the brown paint on our busses to
gray, making them less visible against the snow. Even the hoods and
wheels were gray. All that could be seen at a distance were the two big
red crosses blinking like a pair of eyes on the back canvas flaps. The
American cars were light and fast and could scurry back out of shell
range quicker than big lumbering ambulances--of which there was a
plenty. Therefore we were in demand. The morning that the First Orderly
met Trevelyan our squad commander was in conference with the fat major
of the Royal Army Medical Corps concerning the strenuous business of
the day.
Both the First Orderly and Trevelyan were Somebodys. It was apparent.
It was their caste that attracted them to each other. The First Orderly
was a prominent figure in the Paris American colony; he knew the best
people on both sides of the Atlantic. Now he was an orderly on an
ambulance because he wanted to see some of the war. He wanted to do
something in the war. There were many like him--neutrals in the ranks
of the Croix Rouge.
The detachment of the Royal Army Medical Corps to which Trevelyan
belonged arrived late one night and were billeted in a barn. The
American corps were in the school house, sleeping in straw on the wood
floor. A small evacuation hospital was near where the wounded from the
field hospitals were patched up a little before we took them for a long
ambulance haul.
Trevelyan was only an orderly. The American corps found this "quaint,"
as Trevelyan himself would have said. For the orderly of the medical
corps corresponds to the "ranker" of the army. In this war, at a time
when officers were the crying demand, the gentlemen rankers had almost
disappeared. Among the American volunteers, being the squad commander
was somewhat a matter of choice and of mechanical knowledge of our
cars. We all stood on an equal footing. But Trevelyan was simply
classed as a "Tommy," so far as his medical officers were concerned.
So he showed a disposition to chum with us. He gravitated more
particularly to the First Orderly, who reported to the chauffeur of the
second bus that Trevelyan had a most comprehensive understanding of the
war; that he had also a keen knowledge of medicine and surgery, with
which the First Orderly had himself tinkered.
They discussed the value of the war in several branches of surgery.
The chauffeur of the second bus heard Trevelyan expounding to the
First Orderly on the precious knowledge derived by the great hospital
surgeons in Paris and London from the great numbers of thigh fractures
coming in--how amputations were becoming always fewer--the men walked
again, though one leg might be shorter.
Trevelyan, in his well fitting khaki uniform, seemed from the same
mold as hundreds of clean built Englishmen; lean face, blond hair. His
accent was faultlessly upper class. The letter "g" did not occur as a
terminating consonant in his conversation. The adjectives "rippin'" or
"rotten" conveyed his sentiments one way or the other. His hand clasp
was firm, his eye direct and blue. He was a chap you liked.
At our midday meal, which was served apart for the American contingent,
the First Orderly asked the corps what they thought of Trevelyan. "I've
lived three years in England," said the chauffeur of the second bus,
"and this fellow seems to have far less 'side' than most of his class."
The First Orderly explained that this was because Trevelyan had become
cosmopolitan--traveled a lot, spoke French and Spanish and understood
Italian, whereas most Englishmen scorned to learn any "foreign" tongue.
"Why isn't he in a regiment--he's so superior!" wondered the chauffeur
of the second bus. The First Orderly maintained stoutly that there was
some good reason, perhaps family trouble, why his new friend was just a
common orderly--like himself.
The entire column was then ordered out. They hauled wounded from the
field hospitals to the evacuation camp until nightfall. After dusk they
made several trips almost to the trenches. But there were fewer wounded
than usual. The cold had lessened the infantry attacks, though the
artillery constantly thundered, especially at nightfall.
New orders came in. They were:--Everything ready always for a possible
quick advance into L----, which was then an advance post. An important
redistribution of General French's "contemptible little army" was hoped
for. At coffee next morning our squad commander, after his customary
talk with the fat major, admonished us to have little to say concerning
our affairs--that talk was a useless adjunct to war.
That day again the First Orderly's dinner conversation was of
Trevelyan. Their conversation of that morning had gotten away from
armies and surgeons and embraced art people, which were the First
Orderly's forte. People were his hobby but he knew a lot about art.
This knowledge had developed in the form of landscape gardening at the
country places of his millionaire friends. It appeared that he and
Trevelyan had known the same families in different parts of the world.
"He knows the G's," he proclaimed, naming a prominent New York family.
"He's been to their villa at Lennox. He spoke of the way the grounds
are laid out, before he knew I had been there. Talked about the box
perspective for the Venus fountain, that I suggested myself."
The corps "joshed" the First Orderly on that: asked him whether
Trevelyan had yet confided the reason for his position in the ranks.
The First Orderly was indifferent. He waved a knife loaded with
potatoes--a knife is the chief army eating utensil. "He may be anything
from an Honorable to a Duke," he said, "but I don't like to ask, for
you know how Englishmen are about those things. I have found, though,
that he did the Vatican and Medici collections only a year ago with
some friends of mine, and I'm going to sound them about him sometime."
There were sharp engagements that afternoon and the corps was kept
busy. At nightfall, the booming of the artillery was louder--nearer,
especially on the left, where the French heavy artillery had come up
the day before to support the British line. The ambulance corps was
ordered to prepare for night work. They snatched plates of soup and
beans, and sat on the busses, waiting.
At eight o'clock a shell screamed over the line of cars, then another,
and two more. "They've got the range on us," the fat Major said.
"We'll have to clear out." Eighteen shells passed overhead before the
equipment and the few remaining wounded got away and struck the road to
the main base at B----.
The American squad was billeted that night in the freight
station--dropping asleep as they sank into the straw on the floor. At
midnight an English colonel's orderly entered and called the squad
commander. They went out together; then the squad commander returned
for the Orderly of the first bus. The chauffeur of the second bus waked
when they returned after several hours, and heard them through the
gloom groping their way to nests in the straw. They said nothing.
It was explained in the morning at coffee. "Trevelyan" had been shot at
sunrise. He was a German spy.
(B) The Rue Jeanne d'Arc
We were sitting in a café at the _apéritif_ hour--an hour that survives
the war. We were stationed in a city of good size in Northern France, a
city famous for its cathedral and its cheese. Just now it was a haven
for refugees, and an evacuation center for wounded. The Germans had
been there, as the patronne of the café Lion d'Or narrated at length
to every one who would listen; but now the battle lines were some
distance away. If the wind came from the right direction when the noise
of the city was hushed by military order at nightfall, the haunting
boom-boo-o-m of heavy artillery could be faintly heard. No one who has
heard that sound ever forgets it. Dynamite blasting sounds just about
the same, but in the sound of artillery, when one knows that it is
artillery, there seems the knell of doom.
The café was crowded at the _apéritif_ hour. The fat face of the
patronne was wreathed in smiles. Any one is mistaken who imagines that
all Northern France is lost from human view in a dense rolling cloud
of battle smoke. At any rate, in the Café d'Or one looked upon life
unchanged. True, there were some new clients in the place of old ones.
There were a half dozen soldiers in khaki, and we of the American
ambulance column, dressed in the same cloth. In a corner sat a young
lieutenant in the gorgeous blue of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, drinking
vermouth with a grizzled captain of artillery. Other French uniforms
dotted the place. The "honest bourgeois" were all there--the chief
supports of the establishment in peace or war. They missed the evening
_apéritif_ during the twelve days of German occupation, but now all
were in their accustomed places. For the places of oldtimers are sacred
at the Lion d'Or.
Madame la patronne acted in place of her husband, who was now safely
serving in the cooking department of the army, some kilometers from the
firing line. Madame sat contentedly at the caisse superintending the
activities of two youthful, inexperienced garçons. The old waiters,
Jean and André, vanished into the "zone of military activity" on the
first day of the war. After several post cards, Jean had not been heard
from. André was killed at the battle of the Marne.
We had heard the garrulous tale of the German occupation many times. It
was thrillingly revealed, both at the Restaurant de Commerce and the
Hotel de Soleil. At the Lion d'Or it was Madame's absorbing theme, when
she was not haranguing the new waiters or counting change. Madame had
remained throughout the trouble. "But yes, to be sure." She was not the
woman to flee and leave the Lion d'Or to the invaders. Her ample form
was firmly ensconced behind the caisse when the first of the Uhlans
entered. They were officers, and--wonder of wonders--they spoke French.
The new waiters were hiding in the cellar, so Madame clambered from
her chair with dignity, and placed glasses and drink before them. And
then--would wonders never cease?--these Germans had actually paid--even
overpaid, _ma foi_--for one of them flung a golden half louis on the
counter, and stalked from the place refusing change. Of course at the
Hotel de Ville, the invaders behaved differently. There the Mayor was
called upon for one million francs--war indemnity. But that was a
matter for the city and not for the individual. Madame still had that
golden half louis and would show it if we cared to see. Gold was scarce
and exceedingly precious. The sight of it was good.
Now the Germans were gone--forced out, grace à Dieu, so the good
citizens no longer lived in the cellars. They were again in their
places at the Lion d'Or, sipping vermouth and offering gratitude to the
military régime that had the decency to allow cafés open until eight
o'clock. Outside the night was cold and a fine drizzle beat against
the windows. Several newcomers shivered and remarked that it must be
terrible in the trenches. But the electric lights, the clinking glasses
on the marble tables, the rattling coins, soon brought them into the
general line of speculation on how long it would take to drive the
Germans from France.
For a hundred years the cafés have been the Forum of France. The
Lion d'Or had for that entire period been the scene of fierce verbal
encounters between members of more political and religious faiths than
exist in any other nation of the world. Every Frenchman, no matter how
humble in position or purse has decided opinions about something. But
now the voices in the Lion d'Or arose only in appellations concerning
_les Boches_. There was unanimity of opinion on the absorbing subject
of the war.
The members of the American ambulance column sat at a table near the
door. Our khaki always brought looks of friendly interest. Almost every
one took us to be English, and even those who learned the truth were
equally pleased. We finished the _apéritif_ and consulted about dinner.
We were off duty--we might either return for the army mess or buy our
own meal at the restaurant. We paid the garçon and decided upon the
restaurant a few doors away. Several of the men were struggling into
their rubber coats. I told them that I would follow shortly. I had
just caught a sentence from across the room that thrilled me. It held
a note of mystery--or tragedy. It brought life out of the commonplace
normality of _apéritif_ hour at the Lion d'Or.
The speakers were two Frenchmen of middle age--fat and bearded.
They were dressed in ordinary black, but wore it with a ceremonial
rather than conventional manner. The atmosphere of the city did not
seem upon them. They might rather be the butcher and the grocer of a
small town. One of the pair had sat alone for some time before the
second arrived. I had noticed him. He seemed to have no acquaintances
in the place--which was unusual. He drank two cognacs in rapid
succession--which was still more unusual. One drink always satisfies a
Frenchman at _apéritif_ hour--and it is very seldom cognac.
When the second man entered the other started from his seat and held
out both hands eagerly. "So you got out safe!" were the words I heard;
but our crowd was hurrying toward the door, and I lost the actual
greeting. I ordered another vermouth and waited.
The two men were seated opposite each other. The first man nervously
motioned to the waiter and the newcomer gave his order. It was plain
that they were both excited, but the table adjoining was unoccupied,
so they attracted no attention. The noisy waiter, banging bottles on
the table, drowned out the next few sentences. Then I heard the second
man: "So I got out first, but you managed to get here yesterday--a day
in advance."
The other replied: "I was lucky enough to get a horse. They were
shelling the market place when I left."
The second man gulped his drink and plucked nervously at the other's
sleeve. "My wife is at the hotel," he almost mumbled the words, "I
must tell her--you said the market place. But how about the Rue Jeanne
d'Arc?--her sister lived there. She remained."
"How about the Rue Jeanne d'Arc?" the other repeated. He clucked his
tongue sympathetically. "That was all destroyed in the morning."
The second man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat
from his forehead.
(C) Those from Quesnoy-sur-Somme
They were climbing out of the cattle cars into the mud of the freight
yards. They numbered about fifty,--the old, the halt, the blind and
the children. We were whizzing past on a motor ambulance with two
desperately wounded men inside, headed for a hospital a half mile away.
The Medical Major said that unless we hurried the men would probably
be dead when we arrived. So we could not lessen speed as those from
Quesnoy-sur-Somme descended painfully from the cattle cars. Instead,
we sounded the siren for them to get out of our way. The mud from our
wheels splattered them. But it was not mud--not regular mud. It was
black unhealthy ooze, generated after a month of rain in the aged
layers of train soot. It was full of fever germs. Typhoid was on the
rampage.
As we passed the sentinels at the gates of the yards we were forced to
halt in a jam of ammunition and food wagons. To the army that survives
is given the first thought. The wounded in the ambulance could wait. We
took right of way only over civilians--including refugees.
We asked a sentinel concerning those descending from the cattle cars,
"_là bas_." He said they came from a place called Quesnoy-sur-Somme.
It was not a city he told us, nor a town--not even a village.
Just a straggling hamlet along the river bank--a place called
Quesnoy-sur-Somme.
The past tense was the correct usage of the verb. The place _was_ that;
but now--now it is just a black path of desolation beside a lifeless
river. The artillery had thundered across the banks for a month. The
fish floated backs down on the water.
When the ammunition and food wagons gave us room enough, we again raced
through the streets and delivered our wounded at the hospital--alive.
Then we returned to the freight yards for more. Several ambulance
columns had worked through the night from the field hospitals to the
freight yards. There the men were sorted and the less desperate cases
entrained.
We plowed our way carefully through the ooze of the yards, for ahead
of us walked those from Quesnoy-sur-Somme on their way to the _gare_.
They walked slowly--painfully, except the children, who danced beside
our running board and laughed at the funny red crosses painted on the
canvas sides of the ambulance. It was raining--as usual. The sky was
the coldest gray in the universe, and the earth and dingy buildings,
darker in tone, were still more dismal. But one tiny child had a fat
slab of bread covered thickly with red jam. She raised her sticky pink
face to ours and laughed gloriously. She waved her pudgy fist holding
the bread and jam, and shouted, "Vive la France!"
We were now just crawling through the mire. The refugees surrounded
us on all sides. The mother seized the waving little arm, and dragged
the child away. The woman did not look at us. She just plodded along,
eyes fixed on the mud that closed over her shoes at every step. She
was bareheaded and the rain glistened in great drops upon her hair.
The child hung back. The mother merely tightened her grip, doggedly
patient. She was past either curiosity or reproof.
Our car ran so slowly that accidentally we killed the engine. I got out
to crank her up and meantime the forlorn mass surged by. Two soldiers
herded them over the slippery tracks to a shed beside the gare where
straggled some rough benches. We lined our car up behind the other
ambulances. Then we went to look at the refugees.
They had dropped onto the benches, except the children. The littlest
ones tugged fretfully at their mothers' skirts. The others ran
gleefully about, fascinated by the novelty of things. It was a holiday.
Several Red Cross women were feeding the crowd, passing about with big
hampers of bread and pots of coffee. Each person received also a tin of
dried meat; and a cheese was served to every four. We helped carry the
hampers.
Most of the refugees did not even look at us; they did not raise their
eyes from the mud. They reached out their hands and took what we gave
them. Then they held the food in their laps, listless; or staring out
across the yards into the wet dusk.
One or two of them talked. They had been hustled out at sunrise.
The French army thought they had occupied that dangerous place long
enough. There was no longer hope for any living thing remaining. So
they came away--bringing nothing with them, herded along the line by
soldiers. Where they were going they did not know. It did not matter
where. "_C'est la guerre!_ It is terrible--yes." They shrugged their
shoulders. It is war!
One old man, nearly blind and very lame, sat forlornly at one end of
the line. He pulled at an empty pipe. We gave him some tobacco--some
fresh English tobacco. He knew that it was not French when he rolled
it in his hand. So we explained the brand. We explained patiently, for
he was very deaf. He was delighted. He had heard of English tobacco,
but had never had any. He stuffed the pipe eagerly and lit it. He
leaned back against the cold stone wall and puffed in ecstasy. Ah! this
English tobacco _was_ good. He was fortunate.
We glanced back along the line. As we looked several of the women
shrank against the wall. One covered her eyes. Two French ambulances
passed, carrying a wounded Zouave on a stretcher. A yard engine went
shrieking across their path and the ambulanciers halted. The huddled
figure under the blankets groaned horribly. Then the procession
proceeded to our first ambulance. The men were on the seat, ready for
the race against time to the hospital.
After a few minutes the soldiers who had herded the refugees into the
shed came again to herd them out--back to the cattle cars. I asked one
of the soldiers where they were going. He waved his hand vaguely toward
the south. "_Là bas_," he muttered. He didn't know exactly. They were
going somewhere--that was all. There was no place for them here. This
station was for wounded. And would they ever return? He shrugged his
shoulders.
I looked at the forlorn procession sloshing across the yards. The rain
beat harder. It was almost dark; the yard lamps threw dismal, sickish
gleams across the tracks. The old man with the tobacco brought up the
rear, helped along by an old woman hobbling on a stick.
We heard the voice of the Medical Major bawling for "les ambulances
Américaines." We looked behind into the gloom of the gare; a procession
emerged--stretchers with huddled forms under blankets. As far down
the yards as we could see--just on the edge of the night, those from
Quesnoy-sur-Somme were climbing slowly into the cattle cars.
PART FOUR
WAR-CORRESPONDING DE LUXE