Chapter I: Part 1

THE WHITE ROAD OF MYSTERY

THE NOTE-BOOK OF AN
AMERICAN AMBULANCIER

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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

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COPYRIGHT, 1918
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY

THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A

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TO

SECTION THIRTY-ONE

TO ALL OTHER SECTIONS OF THE

AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE

AND TO THOSE WHO HAVE
MADE THEM POSSIBLE

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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_

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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

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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

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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._

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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.

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?

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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.

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.

The air is clear and damp, and remarkably invigorating. A few deep breaths start the blood slowly moving through my veins, and I walk around in the mud, stretching my cramped limbs. There are the usual new shell-holes scattered about to make us first rejoice in our shelter and then look doubtfully at the all-too-thin layer of dirt on the roof between us and a direct hit. The Germans, when they take up a position, seem to think of it as permanent, dig their _abris_ often as deep as a hundred feet underground, and are absolutely safe in them except when a raiding party tosses a grenade down the stairs. Their officers’ quarters are particularly spacious, lined with cement, with the walls often papered, holding brass beds and other quite civilized comforts. A piano was found in one. It had been put in before the cement was laid, and they were unable to remove it when they retreated—even if they had had the time. The French, whether from laziness or because they expect soon again to be moving forward, waste little time on the dug-outs. The standard is a pit lined with sandbags, and covered by a conventional form of corrugated steel roof, with more sandbags and a little dirt on top of this. These protect from the _éclats_, or shell fragments, but form a death trap for all inside if there is a direct hit. If the side of a hill or a hollow is available it affords more protection. The one direct hit on our _abri_ at P 2 was luckily a “dud,” and caused no damage.

I walk over to the pile of discarded equipment to see if anything interesting has been added during the night. This and the hospital are the two favorite places for souvenir hunters. At all the _postes_ and in the hospitals the rifles, bayonets, packs, belts, cartridges, knives, grenades, revolvers, shoes, and other equipment of the wounded and dead are put in a large pile, and the first to recover get the pick—after our selection. At the _postes_ these things are piled in the open, with no protection from the elements, and many are slowly disintegrating. This morning, of the new things there is of interest only one of the large wire-clippers, used by the _pionniers_ and scouts for passing through the enemy wire. But my friend has seen them first, so I waive all claims, and he tucks them carefully away in one of the several side-boxes with which the cars are equipped.