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THE WHITE ROAD OF MYSTERY
THE NOTE-BOOK OF AN
AMERICAN AMBULANCIER
[Illustration: AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE, SECTION XXXI
_at 21 rue Raynouard, Paris_
_The author is standing the seventh from the right_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WHITE ROAD
OF MYSTERY
THE NOTE-BOOK OF AN
AMERICAN AMBULANCIER
BY
PHILIP DANA ORCUTT
AMERICAN AMBULANCE FIELD SERVICE
_Section_ XXXI
_Illustrated with Photographs_
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
1918
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1918
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
SECTION THIRTY-ONE
TO ALL OTHER SECTIONS OF THE
AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE
AND TO THOSE WHO HAVE
MADE THEM POSSIBLE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Preface
THE position of the ambulance driver at the front is much the same as
that of the grouse in open season: every one has a chance to take a shot
at him and he has no opportunity for retaliation. That is why so many
drivers entered aviation or artillery at the expiration of their term of
enlistment of six months.
This transferring came to an end when the American Government took over
the Ambulance Service. From then on, all drivers have been of necessity
enlisted men. The old American Ambulance, later called the American
Field Service, was a purely volunteer organization, and had no
connection with any government. It was made up of American citizens who
left civil life, paying their own expenses and furnishing their own
equipment, and in many cases their ambulances. These men, feeling that
America owed a debt to France, banded together to form the original
American Ambulance Service, which they laid on the altar of their
devotion to a true and great cause.
By virtue of the nature of his work the ambulance driver must always be
in the warmest places, and has a really unusual opportunity to observe
by moving from sector to sector and battle to battle what few other
branches of the service can see.
I had the honor to be associated with Section XXXI of the American Field
Service, and have endeavored to weave my simple tapestry from the
swiftly-moving pictures of life “in the zone” and out of it, as they
passed before me.
P. D. O.
BOSTON, _June, 1918_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WHITE ROAD OF MYSTERY 19
II. IN ACTION 41
III. EN REPOS 87
IV. AT THE FRONT 117
V. L’ENVOI 151
GLOSSARY 171
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Illustrations
PAGE
AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE, SECTION XXXI 4
A SAUCISSE 33
BRANCARDIERS LOADING AN AMBULANCE 57
AN ABRI 77
A DIVISION EN REPOS 95
NORMAL TRAFFIC AT THE FRONT 131
TAKING A LOAD FROM THE ABRI 147
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prelude
THE _sweet, clear notes of a bugle come faintly up to me through the
cool air of morning, and as the sound dies away I hear the great guns
begin their bombardment, the rumbling echoes merging into the matin
chimes wafted across the valley from some small church as yet unscarred
by Mars._
_Reveille, the summons, calls man from his peaceful, prenatal slumber,
rouses him and bids him prepare for what the world will send him. Man
goes forth to meet the world, and struggles through his allotted time
until the bells of God ring for him to fold himself in his soul and
sleep._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I
THE WHITE ROAD OF MYSTERY
A SHARP whistle cuts the tense silence. It is the signal to start. It
marks the line which breaks the past from the future; it is the boundary
between the Known and the Unknown, and the frontier where duty and
service merge. For a second, as the motors race, there is
commotion—quickly settling into a rhythmic whir. The men are in their
seats with somewhat of an echo of that whir in their hearts. The
lieutenant’s car rolls slowly out of the gate, followed by the _chef’s_,
and in turn by the others of the section, and as the last car crosses
the threshold there is a cheer from the friends gathered to bid us
Godspeed,—for Section XXXI is born.
* * * * *
WE are off. We do not know where we are going. After a number of
interminable delays and halts we pass through the gates of the city, and
leave behind the last vestige of the Known. Ahead of us the road
stretches white in the sunlight—the white road of mystery leading on to
adventure and redemption. We have ceased to be our own masters. We are
units, cogs in the machine, infinitesimal pawns in the giant game, and
move as the dust which rises from the car ahead—where we know not, why
we know not,—and how we often wonder!
* * * * *
CONVOY formation allows, by the book, for an interval of twenty feet
between cars when passing through cities, and for one hundred feet when
in the country. The flesh, however, is weak. In cities it is rare indeed
to see cars separated by more than a nose except in spasms, while in the
country a matter of miles is unimportant. A convoy is like a pack of
dogs on the hunt, racing pell mell up hill and down dale one minute, and
crawling the next, with an occasional dog straying off and losing itself
for an indefinite length of time.
For example, we come to some small town where we are to have lunch. We
arrive in a hurry and with much dust, the first few cars in close
formation, nose to tail, the last a few miles in the rear. Suddenly the
driver of the leading car, who has been admiring the scenery on the
right of the road, sees the _chef_ standing on the left making frantic
motions for him to stop. Perhaps the driver puts out his hand, perhaps
he does not. At any rate, he applies the brakes and comes to a dead
stop—for an instant. The driver of the second car may have been
adjusting his carburetor or observing an aeroplane, or a peasant girl,
or a map—the exact object is beside the question. He suddenly comes to
earth when he finds his charge valiantly trying to climb over the car in
front—more brakes. Of course there is a third car, and possibly a
fourth, or more, which demand attention. The final result advances the
leading car some feet, decreases the supply of spare radiators, and as a
rule does not contribute to the general harmony.
One or more cars must always have taken the wrong road, and lead a hare
and hound chase for some minutes before the final roundup, leaving for
clues numerous peasants who, when queried, always know just where it
went. Of course, by the law of chance, some one of these has undoubtedly
seen it, and the lost is eventually found.
There was one particular member of our section who was a rover at soul,
and led several interesting hunts. A little later in the season this
same rover took a by-road and started through the Hesse Forest for
Germany. Our whole pack was called out, and after an exciting chase he
was finally caught and convinced of his error. Fortunately for both him
and us the _chef_ has a sense of humor, and the section, in spite of our
many innocent attempts to disintegrate it and take individual excursions
to different parts of France, continues to be a unit.
For five days we proceed thus, with the white road stretching out in
front and the brown dust trailing behind. We stop to get gasoline, to
eat, and to sleep. We begin to near the front, and pass through town
after town of roofless houses, shattered churches, and scattered homes.
Through fields dotted with wooden crosses with the tricolored ribbon,
and pock-marked with shell-holes. We pass aeroplane hangars and
batteries of guns. We see more _saucisses_ in the sky and soldiers on
the ground. The hand of the Hun lies heavy on the land, and his poison
breath scorches the grass of the fields. We see fewer civilians and more
steel helmets, and yet the rumble of the guns is no louder. But there is
a certain breath of power and energy in the air, and one feels himself
waiting for something to happen.
Something does—an infuriated bull charges Rover’s car and picks off one
of his headlights. Rover reverses hastily and unhesitatingly into the
car behind, while the farmer’s wife makes her appearance, drives off the
bull, and saves Rover from extermination.
Then, one afternoon, we arrive at our point of embarkation, so to speak.
It is Bar-le-Duc, sixty kilometres from Verdun, and by virtue of its
being the one city in many miles, the meeting place of the world, which
is to say, of course, our sector of front—when _en repos_.
* * * * *
BAR-LE-DUC, the old stronghold of the feudal dukes of Bar, nestling in
the valley on the banks of the slow-moving Ornain, tributary to the
River Marne, and with _la ville haute_ trespassing far onto one ridge,
and the ruined castle frowning down from the other, is a town of
memories and traditions which greets this war as but another chapter in
the never-ending book of its history. It has two large and ancient
cathedrals, the one crowning the upper city—now quite naturally in
ruins, as the enemy, by this time a connoisseur in churches, makes
frequent air raids. The chateau—considered quite modern as it is but two
hundred years of age—has mellowed into the surroundings by now, and
forms a sufficiently integral part of the beauty of the city to be
likewise a target for our “considerate” neighbor.
One evening, as the last rays of the sun glinted from its roof, it stood
solid and strong,—ready to do battle with the elements for many
centuries more, but while the city lay quiet in the cold moonlight of an
August night, the sound of purring motors broke the silence from above.
The _contre-avions_ crashed, and the yellow shrapnel broke in the sky
often a mile from its invisible target, and never near enough to arrest
the advance of the raiders, who suddenly shut off their motors and, as
often before, swooped silently down on their motionless prey, and
dropped their bombs. Then, turning on their motors, they climbed and
glided over the city again and again until, having dropped their entire
cargo, they flew off. But in the morning the chateau no longer stood
proudly up from the river mist, and another buttress against the ravages
of the elements had crumbled into untimely ruins.
The main street of the town is denuded of its plate glass, and more
houses crumble each time the enemy reports “military advantage gained”
by an indiscriminate slaughter of the future crop of France’s defenders,
and those heroic souls who bear them.
The town is noted for its manufactures, its wines, and its _confitures_.
As to the first-named I know little, but as to the merits of its wines,
its _liqueurs_, and its _confitures_ I cannot say enough, nor can many
thousands of others who seek out Bar-le-Duc as the one sanctuary from
the mud and deprivations of the rest of their existence, and bask
gloriously in the discomforts of its civilization for a few stolen
hours.
* * * * *
CONVOY formation again, the cars freshly washed and glistening in the
sunlight,—for a few minutes, before the grey cloud of dust pouring from
the cars in front settles on us again. We come to a turn. A large sign
greets us, _Souilly—vers Verdun_, emphasized by a giant arrow pointing
in the direction we take. We are instantly sure that this is to be our
headquarters. Verdun is a name we have long wished to visualize. At the
first stop we tell each other the great news. While we are grouped in
the road a big grey limousine carrying three generals dashes past. Every
one salutes, and by a miracle we are noticed and the salute is returned.
Cheerful Liar at once informs us that they were Joffre, Petain, and—he
is at a loss for the third name. We help him out—Hindenburg perhaps.
But we are doomed to bitter disappointment. Thirty kilometres from the
famous city we are given orders to park our cars in a pile of ruins
formerly known as Erize—Erize la petite, and well named.
* * * * *
ERIZE is, without exception, the dullest place beneath the sun—a small
town, now a mass of crumbling ruins, holding not above two dozen
civilians, who are, for the most part, still less interesting than the
town. Of course, there are Grand’mère and Grand-père, no relation to
each other, but so christened by us because they are the only two
octogenarians here. Grand’mère is not properly from Erize. Her home is
somewhere north of Verdun, in a town with an unpronounceable name and
long since destroyed. She, herself, carries proudly on her wrinkled
forehead a two-inch scar from shrapnel, and informs us tearfully that
her two sons have died in action, “_pour la patrie_,” she concludes,
with a faint smile.
I met Grand’mère for the first time when I picked an unripe apple from
an overburdened tree. The old woman appeared from the depths of a nearby
building and advanced menacingly towards me, hobbling along on a cane,
and pouring forth as she came an unintelligible tirade from which I
gathered that the apple reposing guiltily in my hand was hers—not mine.
A single _franc_ served to wreathe her face in smiles and to obtain
undisputed claim to the apple and her good graces in the future. _Ira
furor brevis est._ I afterwards learned that houses in Erize rent for
fifty _francs_ a year, this including several acres of farm land.
Grand-père, aged ninety-eight, I met near the temporary kitchen where
the cook was giving him a cup of _Pinard_, which he drank eagerly, while
Grand’mère gave him wise counsel, to which he replied as Omar Khayyam
might have done.
But they are the only characters of interest here. The fields
surrounding the town have as their redeeming feature a system of old
trenches, with much barbed wire and an occasional shell-fragment to
reward the searcher. The German advance was stopped less than a mile
from here, and the trenches have been used since for practice.
The dugouts interest us particularly. We are later to become surfeited
with them, but as yet they are still delightfully novel. The rumble of
the guns can be heard plainly from here, and at rare intervals a
_saucisse_ rises on the horizon, much to our joy and excitement.
* * * * *
THE _saucisse_ is a balloon shaped like a sausage—hence its name. At the
front they are in the sky by the hundreds on both sides to direct the
fire of the artillery and to observe the enemy’s operations generally.
They are consequently made the objective of the aeroplane, and many are
brought down every day. The aeroplane dodges along from cloud to cloud,
and when he is just over the _saucisse_ suddenly swoops down, and with a
tic-tic-tic from his machine-gun the bag crumples up in a cloud of black
smoke and flames, the observer jumps out with his parachute, and the
aeroplane dashes off pursued by many shells.
In the balloons the observers all have parachutes and usually make their
escape, although often they have to spend a little time dangling from
the limb of some tree.
* * * * *
WE are told not to stray far, as the order to move may come at any
moment. We take walks through the country, and always on returning find
the section with “no news,”—but at last the order comes.
[Illustration: A SAUCISSE]
We have gotten our baggage ready, and are sitting around in the darkness
smoking our pipes and thinking. Tomorrow we are going up to the lines. A
big attack has been scheduled, and we are to take care of the wounded.
It is to be our first work, and any fighting at all seems a “big attack”
to us. We are a green section, fresh from Paris. We have never heard a
shell whistle, and have been thrilled by the sound of guns twenty miles
away. What will be our sensations face to face with the real thing? We
are a bit nervous. There is some tension. We discuss the probable extent
of the attack and debate as to its success. This leads us nowhere, and
after we have pledged each other and the section “_Bonne chance_” in a
glass of cognac from a bottle opened for the occasion, we turn in.
* * * * *
IT is cold and chill, and a steady drizzle is oozing from the sky above
into the earth beneath, and is making it soft and slippery. I awake,
yawn, stretch sleepily, and gaze out into the grey dejection of the
morning. I have been sleeping luxuriously on the floor of an ambulance,
wedged in between two trunks and a duffle-bag.
“Well, this is ‘_der Tag_’ for us,” I remark to a friend, who has spent
the night on top of the two trunks.
He stops eating my jam for an instant and agrees with me. Then, on
second thought, he generously offers me some jam. I sit up and struggle
for a few seconds with a piece of the bread we carry for nourishment and
defence, spread some jam on it, get out a bottle of Sauterne (at the
front wine is wine at all hours of the day and night), and we settle
down to breakfast. Breakfast is a purely personal investment, as it
officially consists of coffee—so called by courtesy—and bread. The
French bread comes in round loaves a foot in diameter, and is never
issued until four days old, and is often aged ten or more before we see
it. Fresh bread, it is believed, would give a soldier indigestion.
French officialdom believes the same evil of water, and provides each
soldier with a quart a day of cheap red wine called, in the _argot_ of
the trenches, _Pinard_. Breakfast over, we make our way to the barn, our
official quarters, by means of stepping-stones previously laid from the
car, and chat with the other members of the section.
Today we are moving up into the zone of fire itself, and are somewhat
excited. The entire section is to move to a little destroyed town,
Ville-sur-Couzances. From there six cars are always to be on duty taking
care of our first wounded. The _chef_ and the _sous-chef_ join us
presently. They went up yesterday and were shown the _postes_, and
consequently come in for a storm of questions. The _sous-chef_ tells us
that today we shall hear them “whistle both ways.” We are thrilled. He
asks us if we are ready. We are—even Rover. Then the lieutenant comes
in. He speaks a few words to the _chef_. The _chef_ blows his whistle
four times. It is the signal for assembly. He gives us a few
instructions. We run to our cars. One whistle—we crank up. Two
whistles—the leading ambulance painfully and noisily tears itself from
its bed of mud. The others follow in regular succession, until the last
car melts into the grey, cold mist. When shall we see Erize again?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
II
IN ACTION
VILLE-SUR-COUZANCES is also at this time the headquarters of Section
XXIX, which has just lost two men, and Section LXIX, which is a
gear-shift section,—we are quite proudly Fords. Section XIX, French,
whom we are relieving, examines us critically, but makes no audible
comments. To the six of us chosen for the first “roll” there is but one
impatient thought. We hear “Napoleon”—a French private attached to our
section for _ravitaillement_ because he could do nothing else—telling
the cook and several unwilling assistants how to dispose of the field
range. In the French manner, instead of ignoring him, the stove is
discarded, and a Latin argument follows much to the amusement if not to
the edification of the onlookers. This does not concern us, and as soon
as we get the order to roll we are blithely off.
It is only a few minutes’ run to Brocourt, where the _triage_, or front
hospital, is located. This is like a giant hangar in shape, but, instead
of the mottled green, blue, and grey _camouflage_ of the latter, it is
brilliantly white with a red cross fifty feet square surmounting it.
Despite this fact, it is bombed and shelled regularly by the “merciful”
Hun. We pass through the shattered town, its church tower still
standing, by a miracle, and pointing its scarred and violated finger to
the heavens with the silent appeal—“Avenge!”
The _sous-chef_, who is sitting beside me, tells me to put on my helmet
and to sling my mask over my shoulder. From here on men “go west”
suddenly, and in their boots. We pass over a short rise in sight of the
German _saucisses_, and down a steep and long hill into Récicourt. Of
that hill there is much to remember—but today it is just steep, and
green, and has many trees by the roadside loaded down with much unripe
fruit. Past the sentry, over the bridge which the Boche hit yesterday
with an eight-inch shell—which failed to explode and bounced into the
muddy river—and we are at the relay station. It is a barn with half the
roof and a goodly portion of the walls missing. We use this to screen
the cars from the eyes of raiding enemy aeroplanes, of which there are
many.
Two of us are at once assigned to run to the _poste de secours_, P 2,
where just now we are to keep two cars, the other four remaining at the
relay station. Again luck is with me, and I am in the first car to roll.
Our run is entirely through the woods, in the Hesse Forest, and as the
enemy will not be able to see us we rejoice—but we soon learn not to
rejoice prematurely. There is hardly a man in sight as we struggle along
through the mud, but beside the road everywhere, often spilling into it,
lie piles of shells, 75’s, 155’s, and _torpilles_ by the thousand,
apparently arranged haphazardly. The _torpille_ is a winged and
particularly deadly shell, first cousin to the German _minniewerfer_,
and differing essentially only in range. The _maréchal des logis_
informs us encouragingly that the one lying in the middle of the road
which we just ran over was a Boche which did not explode when it landed,
and has not—yet.
Everything is wrapped in the silence of the grave except for an
occasional crash as some battery sends its message into Germany. We
arrive at P 2, which is distinguished from the rest of the world by a
foot square of white cotton and the universal red cross. There is room
inside the gate—a log dyke against the mud—to park the cars: “Room
sideways or deep,” as one member of the section described it as he
watched his boots sink steadily into the mud.
The _sous-chef_ calls us around him and gives us our detailed
instructions, for he is going back by the first car. Suddenly, as we are
listening to him attentively, there is a piercing _zz-chung_, and a 250
lands within a hundred yards with a dull crash and a geyser of trees,
dirt, and black smoke. We look at him inquiringly and he points to the
_abri_. We nod and adjourn to it. A few more shells follow, then all is
peaceful again, while the French batteries around us hammer away at the
Germans in their turn. We take lunch on a rustic table under the trees
and thoroughly enjoy having our tin plates rattled by the concussion of
the guns, while a Frenchman explains to us the difference in sound
between an _arrivée_ and a _départ_.
Such is the initiation. Then while we, as yet mere amateurs, eat
peacefully, relishing the novelty of the situation, and buoyed up by our
first excitement, a short procession passes. It is a group of men
carrying stretchers on which are what were men a few minutes before,
who, standing within talking distance of us, were blown out of existence
by the shells which whistled over our heads and, bursting, scattered
_éclats_ and dirt on the steel roof that sheltered us. It is a side of
the front which has not touched us deeply before, a side which in the
first few days of the ordeal by fire impresses itself more and more on
the novice, until he learns to temper the realization with philosophy
and the so-called humor of the front. Then is the veteran in embryo.
The ambulance sections are divided into two classes—gear-shift and Ford.
The gear-shift sections are composed of Fiats, Berliets, or some other
French car. They carry five _couchés_ or eight _assis_, and have two men
to a car. The French Army ambulances are all gear-shift, and the
gear-shift sections included in the American Field Service all
originally belonged to the French Government. Before the American
Government took over the Ambulance Corps, the American Field Service, in
addition to sending out Ford sections as quickly as they were subscribed
in America, had been gradually absorbing the French Ambulance System,
relieving with its own men the French drivers who could then serve in
the trenches, and including those sections among its own.
The Ford sections carried three _couchés_ or four _assis_, and had one
driver, although many sections had extra men to help out. A Ford section
then, when complete, consisted of twenty ambulances, one Ford
_camionnette_ or truck, which went for food and carried spare parts and
often baggage, one French _camionnette_, a one-ton truck, which carried
tools, French mechanics, and other spare parts, one large White truck
with kitchen trailer, one Ford touring-car for the _chef_, and a more or
less high-powered touring car for the lieutenant. The personnel was one
French lieutenant, who was the connecting link between the organization
and the government, and was responsible to the latter for the actions of
the section; one _chef_, who was an American chosen by the organization
from the _sous-chefs_ of one of the sections in the field; one or two
_sous-chefs_, chosen by the _chef_ from the members of his or some other
section; twenty drivers, often an odd number of assistant drivers, an
American paid mechanic, and an odd number of French mechanics, cooks,
and clerks.
The lieutenant received the orders and was responsible to the army for
their execution. The lieutenant gave the _chef_ his orders, and the
_chef_ was responsible to him for their execution by the section. The
_sous-chefs_ were the _chef’s_ assistants.
The routine when at work is for a certain number of cars to be on duty
at one time, the number depending on the work. The section is divided
into shifts of the number of cars required. When on duty a man must
always have his car and himself ready to “roll,” and when off duty,
after putting his car in condition, must rest so as to be in shape for
his next turn. When the work is heavy, the cars on duty are rolling all
the time with very little opportunity for food or rest for the driver;
consequently, for a man not to get himself and his car ready in this
period of rest means that the service is weakened; and that, if other
cars go _en panne_ unavoidably, it is possibly crippled—and lives may be
lost. When the work is light, men are usually twenty-four hours on and
forty-eight off; when moderate, twenty-four on and twenty-four off; when
stiff, forty-eight on and twenty-four off, and during an attack almost
steadily on. The longest stretch that my section kept its men
continuously at work was seven days and nights in the Verdun sector
during an attack, and we were compelled to cease then only because too
few of our cars were left able to roll to carry the wounded.
From headquarters the day’s shift is sent to the relay station, and from
there cars go as needed to the _postes de secours_. The _postes_ are as
near the trenches as it is possible for the cars to go, and some can be
visited only at night. The wounded are brought to these by the
_brancardiers_ through the _boyaux_, or communication trenches, and
usually have their first attention here. After first aid has been
administered, and when there are enough for a load, or there is a
serious case, the car goes to the _triage_, stopping at the relay
station, from which a car is sent to the _poste_ to replace the first,
which returns to the relay station directly from the hospital.
The hospitals also are divided into two main classes, the _triages_, or
front hospitals in the zone of fire, and the H.O.E.’s, hospitals of
evacuation, anywhere back of the fines. The hospital of evacuation is
the third of the four stages through which a wounded man passes. The
first is the front-line dressing station, the _abri_; the second, if the
wound is at all serious, is the _triage_; the third, if serious enough,
is the hospital of evacuation; and the fourth, if the soldier has been
confined to the hospital for ten or more days, is the ten-day
_permission_ to Paris, Nice, or some other place of his choice. Then
these classes, in some cases, are subdivided into separate hospitals for
_couchés_, _assis_, and _malades_.
These subdivisions sometimes make complications, as in the case of one
driver who was given what appeared to be a serious case to take to the
_couché_ hospital. While on the way, however, the serious case revived
sufficiently to find his canteen. After a few swallows he felt a
pleasant warmth within, for French canteens are not filled with water,
and sat up better to observe his surroundings and to make
uncomplimentary remarks to the driver. Arrived at the hospital, the
_brancardiers_ lifted the curtain at the rear of the car, and seeing the
patient sitting up and smoking a cigarette, apparently in good health,
they refused to take him, and sent the car on to the _assis_ hospital.
Overcome by his undue exertion, the wounded man lay down again, and by
the time the ambulance had reached the other hospital was peacefully
dozing on the floor. The _brancardiers_ shook their heads, and sent the
car back to the _couché_ hospital. Somewhat annoyed by this time, the
_ambulancier_ did not drive with the same care, and the jolts aroused
the incensed _poilu_, who sat up and began to ask personal questions.
The driver, not wishing to continue his trips between the two hospitals
for the duration of the war, stopped the car outside the _couché_
hospital, and, seeing his patient sitting up, put him definitely to
sleep with a tire tool, and sent him in by the uncomplaining
_brancardiers_.
* * * * *
WE spend a good part of our time in the _abri_. Just now the Boche
appears to have taken a particular dislike to this part of the sector,
for he is strafing it most unmercifully. We do not doubt at all that it
is because we are here. The fact that there are six thousand French guns
massed in the woods, so near together that you cannot walk a dozen feet
without tripping over one, may, of course, have something to do with the
enemy’s vindictiveness, but that does not occur to us.
After taking an hour or two of interrupted sleep in the _abri_, we step
out in the early morning to get a breath of fresh air and to untangle
our cramped muscles. A shell or two whines in uncomfortably near, and we
are convinced that the enemy knows our every move by instinct. When we
sit in the _abri_ during the day, and there is never a second that we do
not hear the whine of at least one shell overhead, and the intervals
between shells striking near enough to shake the _abri_ and rattle
_éclats_ on its steel roof grow less, we are convinced the Boche is
searching for _our dugout_. When I am making a run to P 2, and, rounding
Dead Horse Corner, start on the last stretch, and a shell knocks a tree
across the road a hundred feet ahead, blocking us completely, and two
more shells drop on the road by the tree, two more strike ten yards on
our right, and another lands within fifteen feet on our left, there is
no doubt in my mind that the enemy is after me.
In reality, of course, the enemy has no idea where the _abris_ are
located, and just now is simply taking a few chance shots at a likely
corner—but every man _knows_ that every shell he hears is meant for him
personally,—all of which goes to prove how egotistical we really are.
* * * * *
AS one man remarked, “Our life out here is just one d— _brancardier_
after another.” The _brancardiers_, or stretcher-bearers, include the
musicians—for the band does not play at the front,—the exchanged
prisoners who are pledged to do no combatant work, and others who
volunteer for or are assigned to this work. These men are in the
front-line trenches, where they bandage wounded men as they are hit, and
carry them to the front _abri_, where the _major_, army doctor, gives
them more careful attention. At the front _abri_ are other
_brancardiers_, who then take charge of these men and load them into our
cars. We arrive at the hospital, and _brancardiers_ there unload the
ambulances and carry in the wounded. Inside the hospital other
_brancardiers_ nurse the wounded, as no women nurses are allowed in the
_triage_ hospitals.
[Illustration: BRANCARDIERS LOADING AN AMBULANCE
COPYRIGHT—INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.]
A callous, hardened, dulled class of men, absolutely lacking in
sentiment, yet doing a noble and heroic work. Who could do their work
without becoming callous—or insane? We curse them often when they put a
man in the car upside down or drop him, but we forget that when the
infantry goes _en repos_, the _brancardiers_ stay at their posts, going
out into No Man’s Land every hour to bring in a countryman or an enemy.
When, standing by the car at P 3, I see two _brancardiers_ carrying a
man up from the _abri_ and, after noticing that both his arms are
broken, one in two places, that both legs are broken, that a bloody
bandage covers his chest, and that the white band around his head is
staining red, I see them drop him when a shell screams overhead, I curse
them. But I forget that for the past two nights, with their _abri_
filled with chlorine gas, these same men have toiled faithfully in
suffocating gasmasks, bringing in the wounded, caring for them, and
loading them on our cars. I forget that these men have probably not had
an hour’s consecutive sleep for weeks and that it may be weeks before
they have again; that it is months since they last saw a dry foot of
ground, or felt that for a moment they were free of the ever present
expectation of sudden death. It is something to remember, and it is to
wonder rather how they do these things at all than why they seem at
times a little careless or a bit tired.
Would the _brancardier_ tell you this? When he sees you he asks after
your comrades. He takes you in and gives you a cigarette and some
_Pinard_ in a battered cup, and tries to find you a place to rest, all
the time telling you cheerful stories and amusing incidents.
The Staff is the brains of the army; Aviation, the eyes; the Artillery,
the voice; the Infantry and Cavalry, the arms; the Engineers, the hands;
the Transportation, the legs; the People behind it, the body; but the
_Brancardier_ is the soul.
* * * * *
THERE are sounds outside of a klaxon being worked vigorously. However,
we have several dozing Frenchmen inside the _abri_ who are making
similar noises, so nothing dawns upon our sleepy senses for some minutes
while the owner of the klaxon searches for the _abri_. This is dangerous
business, because on all sides are barbed wire, shell-holes, and other
_abris_. Also, as this one is located in the corner of a graveyard,
there is danger that the searcher will wander on and uproot a dozen or
more wooden crosses in the search. At last he discovers the right one by
falling down the pit we called stairs before the rain set in. A violent
monologue arouses us from our dozing comfortlessness, and we learn that
a car is wanted at P 2. I am next on call, so I slowly and painfully
unwind myself from a support and two pairs of legs, and, with the man
who rides with me, make my way into the outer darkness.
We get the car and start off down the road with no lights anywhere, and
pray that everything coming the other way keeps to its side of the road
and goes slowly. There is always something coming the other way—and your
way, a steady succession of _camions_ in the centre of the road, and of
artillery trains on the side. The _camions_ are mostly very heavy and
very powerful, and have no compunction at all about what they run into,
as they know that it cannot harm them. The ammunition trains consist of
batteries of 75’s, little framework teams with _torpilles_ fitting in
small compartments like eggs, and other such vehicles in tow of a number
of mules, with the driver invariably asleep. The traffic, however, in
spite of the pitch darkness, would be endurable if it were not for the
mud which often comes up to the hubs. It is a slimy mud, and if spread
thinly is extremely slippery. On the roads it is rarely spread thinly,
and when one gets out to push he often sinks in up to the knee. Then of
course there is always the whine of _arrivées_ and _départs_ passing
overhead, and the occasional crump of a German 77 or 150 landing near at
hand.
The French and the German gunners play a little game every night with
supply trains and shells. The shells are trumps. The object is to see
who can play the more “cards” without being trumped. An artillery train
counts one, a _camionnette_ two, a _camion_ five—because it blocks the
road for some time when hit, and gives the enemy time to trump more
cards—two ambulances give a win, and if a gun is hit the enemy is
disqualified. The game is very interesting—for the artillery.
This modernized blindman’s buff is carried on at its best in the early
hours of the morning before the game becomes too free-for-all to score
carefully, and most of the cars are returned to the “pack”—out of the
zone of fire—to wait for the next evening’s fun. At this time the roads
are crowded, and the game is at its height. As the fun increases for the
judges, however, it decreases for the players,—that is to say the
“cards.” The prospect of being trumped is not a pleasant anticipation,
although it keeps up the interest and prevents _ennui_. After an hour or
so of sport the going becomes very bad, as there are always many horses
killed, and when the fighting is at all severe there is no time to bury
them. Then, too, the narrow gauge railway crossing the road every few
rods is often hit, and left, like a steel octopus, with its twisted
tentacles stretching out in all directions. These add to the sport
hugely, and our chief consolation is to imagine the Boche over on his
side having fully as bad if not a worse time than we.
“This or the next?” inquires my companion in reference to a cross-road
which appears on our right.
Having no idea I answer, “This one,” and we turn. An unaccountable
number of jounces greets us as we continue.
“They must have strafed this road a good bit since our last roll,” my
friend comments.
The going is worse, and we stop to get our bearings. We shout and
presently a form rises from the darkness. At any hour of the day or
night it is possible to rouse by one or more shouts any number of men
anywhere. You can see no one, as the world, for obvious reasons, lives
underground in the rabbit burrows of _abris_, but when needed comes
forth in force. This is very convenient, as often when driving at night
one finds his car stuck in the middle of a new and large shell-hole, and
help is necessary. We ask our location.
“_Ah, oui, M’sieu, P-trois!_”
We have come by error to the artillery _poste_ and must retrace our way.
We exchange cigarettes with the friendly _brancardier_ and set off
again. At last we get back on the right road, and after making another
turn are nearing the _poste_. In the last gleams from a star-shell ahead
we see something grey by the side of the road. As we are in the woods I
take a quick look with my flash. It is one of our ambulances. My friend
and I look at each other, and are mutually glad that it is too dark to
see each other’s face. A careful survey of the surroundings yields
nothing, and we press on—in silence. We jolt into the _poste_ with
racing motor and wheels clogged with mud, and go down into the very
welcome _abri_. Our friends there know nothing about the ambulance, so
we hope for the best.
Friendships at the front are for the most part sincere—but sometimes
short.
* * * * *
IT is about ten o’clock in the evening. We have been given a load at P 2
and are returning to the hospital. We turn from the battered Bois
d’Avocourt into the Bois de Récicourt, and passing through the Bois de
Pommiers roll into the valley. We cross through the town, and when the
sentry lifts the gate pull slowly up the hill towards Brocourt.
Punctually at five-thirty this evening twelve shells whistled over
Récicourt and struck the hill, but fortunately not the road.
This hill makes a perfect target for the Boche, for if he falls short he
hits the town, if he overshoots he will probably hit the hospital, and
if he hits what he aims at he may get the road. Consequently there are
intermittent bombardments at all hours of the day and night—preferably
at night as there is more traffic on the roads. There is one time that
the Boche never fails to greet us. That is five-thirty. Every day while
I was there, as the hour struck, or would have struck had the clock been
left to strike it, twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and knocked
fruit from the orchard on the hill. If the Boche were sentimental, we
would say it was the early twilight that made him do this, but as we
remember Belgium we call it habit. There are several big _rôtis_ set up
by the roadside like kilo-stones to remind us that to roll at
five-thirty is _verboten_.
For some unexplained and mysterious reason many of the German shells do
not explode. Whether this is from faulty workmanship or defective fuses
or materials we do not know, but it causes the _poilus_ much amusement.
There will be the whine of an _arrivée_ and a dull thud as it strikes
the ground, but no explosion. Every Frenchman present immediately roars
with laughter and shouts, “_Rôti! Rôti!_”
We crawl up the hill, the road luckily having escaped injury during the
afternoon, and at length reach the hospital. Then, much lightened, we
start back. Coasting slowly down the hill we have a perfect opportunity
to observe the horizon.
The sky tonight is softly radiant, a velvety black with myriads of
brilliant stars in the upper heavens. Opposite us is another hill,
crowned with trees which break gently into the skyline. Above these the
sky flashes and sparkles in iridescent glory. The thundering batteries
light up everything with brilliant flashes, and the star-shells
springing up over No Man’s Land hang for an instant high in the air with
dazzling brilliancy, and then fading, drift slowly earthward. The
artillery signals (Verrey Lights, rockets carrying on their sticks one,
two, three, and four lights) dart up everywhere. A raider purrs
overhead, and golden bursts of shrapnel crack in the sky. All merge
together, first one, then another standing forth to catch the eye for a
brief second, the kaleidoscopic brilliancy lifting one up out of the
depths of the mire to forget for a moment why these lights
flare—treacherous will o’ the wisps leading men on to death—and one sees
only the wonderful beauty of the scene: a picture impressed on the
memory which makes all seem worth while. One sight of these causes the
discomforts and dangers of the day’s work to fade, and they become a
symbol—a pillar of fire leading on to the victory that is coming when
Right shall have conquered Might, and the tortured world can again
breathe freely.
* * * * *
IT is night, and the chill mist has settled close to the ground. It is
cold and damp, but the front is always cold and damp so no one comments
on it. We are several feet underground and that augments the chill
somewhat, but as here one lives underground he does not think of that.
There is a little breeze outside, for the burlap that hangs at the foot
of the stairs leading to the outer world quivers, and the lone candle
flickers uncertainly, casting weird shadows from the black steel roof on
the sleeping forms. The sides of the _abri_ are lined with bunks, wooden
frames covered with wire netting, upon which lie sprawled
_brancardiers_, _poilus_, and in one an American has managed to locate
himself quite comfortably. The _abri_ is short, and the few bunks are at
a premium.
Two of our men are asleep,—one on the floor, another in a bunk. The rest
of us wrap our coats around us and smoke pensively. We think of home,
and wonder what our friends there are doing just now. It is August and
slightly after midnight. The time difference makes it a few minutes past
six in the States. At the seashore they are coming in from canoeing and
swimming, sitting around before dinner, discussing the plans for the
evening and the happenings of the day. At the mountains they are
finishing rounds of golf or sets of tennis, and the pink and gold of the
sunset is crowning the peaks with a fading burst of glory. Soon the
fights of the hotel will shine brightly forth into the gathering gloom,
and the dance music will strike up.
Each tells the others just what he would be doing at the moment were he
in the States, and comments. It is all done in an absolutely detached
manner, just as one describes incidents and chapters in books. We think
we would like to be home now, but we know that we would rather not. We
are perfectly contented to be doing what we are doing, and do not envy
those at home. Nor do we begrudge any of them the pleasant times they
may be having. In fact, if we thought they were giving them up we would
be miserable. One cannot think about this war for long at a time, and
when one meditates it is to speculate on what is happening at home. One
gloats over imaginary dances, theatres, and all varieties of good times.
I have often enjoyed monologue discussions with my friends, or imagined
myself doing any one of the many things I might have been doing. It is
the lonesome man’s chief standby to five by proxy.
Outside there is continually the dull thunder of the guns. They are
evidently firing _tir de barrage_, for there is a certain regularity in
the wave of sound that rumbles in on us. Perhaps the barrage is falling
on the roads behind the enemy lines, cutting off and destroying his
supply trains. Perhaps it is trying to sweep some of his batteries out
of existence, or perhaps it is falling on his trenches, taking its toll
of nerve and life. Again we can only conjecture. There is the continual
whine of his shells rushing overhead, and the _crump-crump_ of their
breaking in the near distance. Then the enemy starts a little sweeping
of his own, and the _arrivées_ begin to fall in an arc which draws
steadily nearer, until a thunder clap just outside and the rattling of
_éclats_, dirt, and tree fragments on the roof, make you rejoice in your
cover, and you chuckle as a _brancardier_ sleepily remarks, “_Entrez!_”
You wonder curiously, and listen expectantly to see if the next will
fall on you; then you doze again or say something to the man beside you.
Inside there is an equal variety of sounds. There are _poilus_ snoring
in seven different octaves, there is the splutter of the candle
overhead, and from one corner an occasional moan from some wounded man,
growing more frequent as the night wears on. We may not take him in
until we have enough for a load. Soon there is the sound of feet on the
stairs, and a _brancardier_ stumbles in leading a man raving wildly,
with his head swathed in fresh bandages rapidly staining with the oozing
blood. Some one moves, and he is seated and given a cup of _Pinard_ and
a cigarette, which he accepts gratefully. We get ready to go out to the
ambulance, but the doctor shakes his head—we have not a load yet. Some
of the regulations perplex us; but it is not our business, so we light
up our pipes again and snuggle down into our fur coats, dozing and
listening to the whine of the shells outside and the moans inside. Then,
after a while, another _blessé_ is brought to the door and the doctor
nods. Two of us jump up, snatch our _musettes_, run to the car, and
assist the _brancardiers_ in shoving in the third man, who is
unconscious. Then we crank up, and after some minutes of manœuvring in
the deep mud reach the road and start for the hospital.
* * * * *
THE black of the night, split by the star-shells and the batteries, has
given place to the grey of the dawn. All is still and quiet, with the
rare crash of a battery or an _arrivée_ alone breaking the silence.
There is no sign of the sun, and it will be some hours before it breaks
through the early mist to smile upon us for a few brief moments before
the never-ending rain envelops us again,—for it is the _mauvais temps_.
After lying for two hours in one of the bunks in the _abri_, and vainly
endeavoring to keep warm with two _blessé_ blankets, I arise stiffly and
crawl out into the fresh air. The _blessé_ blankets are single blankets
quartered and, as they are assigned for use in the ambulances and
_abris_ for the wounded, often bring little visitors.
[Illustration: AN ABRI]