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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]


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.

The trees are twice decimated, but the birds have stayed, and now they
are waking and, overflowing with high spirits, sing their message of
good cheer. They answer each other from different parts of the wood, and
by closing one’s eyes one seems to be in the country at home. Never has
the song of birds seemed more beautiful or more welcome, and, gladdened,
we listen while we may, before the slowly swelling thunder of the guns,
beginning their early morning bombardment, drowns out all other sound.
We go down again into the _abri_ and pray for a load soon to take us
down to the hospital and breakfast at headquarters.

                  *       *       *       *       *

WE have been ordered _en repos_, and after turning in our extra gas
masks—we carry ten in the car for the wounded in addition to the two on
our person—our _blessé_ blankets, and stretchers, we start in to load
the cars with our friends, and our own baggage. As for some time our
baggage has been lying _en masse_ in the “drawing-room” of Tucker Inn,
as some humorous _conducteur_ styled the roofless pen in Récicourt,
where our belongings were left while we were rolling, or in the
surrounding _abris_, one could not be at all certain that he was putting
the right things in the right duffles, and it was not surprising if a
stray jar or two of _confiture_ most unaccountably found its way into
one’s own duffle.

The section in formation, we roll off with the sun shining brightly on
grimy cars and drivers, down the roads, passing ruin after ruin, with a
burst of speed past a corner in view of the German trenches, and we
again begin to see familiar ground. The green hill back of Erize, with
shadows of the woods and the scars of the old trenches, appears in the
distance, and my friend looks at me and chuckles.

Back in the same little town, parked in the same ruins with the same
quietness, peace, and relaxation from the tenseness of the past days,
which is so welcome this time, my friend and I walk into a little
_estaminet_, pledge each other in glasses of French beer, and taking off
our helmets for almost the first time in what seems an age, survey them
and each other in placid contentment.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  III

                                EN REPOS


A BATCH of mail was given out the morning after our return. When we
moved, our address seemed to have been lost, for only a few letters, of
no interest to any one, managed to find us. We have been too busy to
miss them, and when they arrived in a bunch there were no complaints.

It is a wonderful thrill to get a letter from home, to read what those
who mean all to one are doing, and to feel their personalities throbbing
“between the lines.” We bridge for a brief moment the chasm of three
thousand miles, and in revery gaze upon those persons, those places, and
those things we have known. Our thoughts here are always in the past. We
cannot think of the present, and we dare not think of the future, but
there is always the past to live in,—the past of events and memories.

We settle down to the same dull monotony as before. For a few days this
is bliss, but it soon becomes tiring again. All work here is contrast.
When we are at work, we work intensively, taking less rest than seems
physically possible, and when _en repos_ we are plunged into the dullest
monotony imaginable, with nothing to amuse or occupy us. This is true of
every branch of active service.

The few air raids are rather an anticlimax after the days that have just
passed, especially as nothing falls near enough to cause us any
annoyance. At Bar-le-Duc the Boche playfully drops a dozen bombs into
the German prison camp, much to every one’s amusement; a mile from us he
destroys a camp of Bulgarian prisoners, and we wonder at his
hard-headedness and laugh. But the next night we hear bombs crashing in
the distance, and in the morning learn from some men in another section
passing through that it was Vadlaincourt, where the Huns flew so near
the ground that soldiers in the streets shot at them with rifles. At
that height the aeroplanes could not mistake their targets, and they
retired only when the hospital was a mass of flaming ruins. There are no
smiles at this. Another night the purring motors reveal outlined high
against the stars a fleet of Zeppelins, bound we know not where, but, we
do know, on a mission of death to the innocent.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE enemy aeroplane comes over us often. We have wondered why, but we
now realize that while the Allies can get control of the air when they
want it, to keep continual control would be too expensive in both men
and machines. The anti-aircraft gun theoretically solves the problem.
When an enemy machine appears, a battery of _contre-avions_ is notified
and essays the destruction of the adventurer.

It is pretty sport. A little white machine, sometimes catching the glint
of the sun, dashes towards us at a great height. It is sighted, and then
the high-pitched boom-booms of the _contre-avions_ start in, and the
shrapnel breaks at varying distances around the machine like
powder-puffs, which float along for some minutes. After a little of this
harmless sport the Boche gets out of range, the guns cease, and the
machine, having in the meanwhile disposed of some bombs or taken some
photographs, dashes off, to be followed shortly by one or two Frenchmen.

The practical value of the anti-aircraft guns is to keep the machines so
high in the air that they can accomplish little, as the guns rarely
score. At M——, where every day they have been shooting two or three
hundred rounds at the machines which fly over the city, they are quite
proud of their record, for once in one day they shot down three
machines—two of their own and one German. They have been resting on
their laurels ever since. It was a few examples like this which taught
the French airmen to keep out of the sky while the _contre-avions_ were
busy.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“NAPOLEON” was so christened by us because, despite his sparrow-like
form and manner, he considers himself the moving spirit of the army in
general and of our section in particular. Because he knows nothing about
automobiles, he styles himself an expert,—the mere fact that he is
assigned as clerk to an ambulance section proves his claim. The one time
he had the indiscretion to touch a car, he drove the lieutenant’s around
the compound with the emergency brake set—after telling the _sous-chef_
that he had driven cars for twenty years! One of the ambulances goes for
_ravitaillement_ every day, carrying “Napoleon,” who disappears into
mysterious buildings and returns with still more mysterious edibles,
presumably for our delectation.

On one trip the carburetor gave trouble and we stopped and cleaned it.
While we were working we noticed “Napoleon” industriously turning the
lights on and off, pumping the button on the dash. We said nothing, and
when we had finished and started the car again he tapped his chest
proudly, cocked his head, and said, “_Moi!_”

In circumnavigating a large team in the centre of the road later that
day I rubbed “Napoleon” off against a horse, and after that he snubbed
me on every occasion.

                  *       *       *       *       *

BEING at the cross-roads, all manner of men and things come through
Erize. The never-ending stream of _camions_ passing each other as they
go, layers deep with dust and grime, winds on steadily. There is great
rivalry between the _camion pelotons_, and each has adopted an insignia
painted on the sides of the cars to distinguish it from the others. As
there are several hundred _pelotons_ the designs are many, interesting,
and reveal much of the inner nature of the _poilu_. Every species of
beast and fowl is depicted,—greyhound, stork, swallow, and other
types,—as a monkey riding on a shell, a demon with trident pursuing a
German, and then perhaps a child’s face, copied no doubt from the locket
of one of the men.

Soldiers go up cheering wildly, singing and shouting. They return
silent, tired, covered with mud, and reduced in numbers. German rifles,
bayonets, caps, buttons, cartridges, and other odds and ends are then
offered for sale. In August a _poilu_ offered me a German rifle. I was
examining it, and admiring the design, when I noticed the maker’s
name,—the latest type German rifle had been made in New Jersey, U.S.A.

In addition to these things, the _poilus_ have for sale many articles
they have made themselves. The favorite is the _briquet_, or pocket
lighter. This is made in all conceivable sizes and shapes, and operates
by a flint and steel lighting a gasoline wick. This is why we use more
gasoline _en repos_ than when rolling! The soldiers also take the
_soixante-quinze_ shell-cases and carve and hammer them into vases. As
many of the men were experts at work of this type “_avant la guerre_,”
and as much local talent has appeared since, some of the specimens are
very fine indeed, and command high prices in the cities.


[Illustration: A DIVISION EN REPOS
INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.]


It is these laughing, playing, seemingly care-free soldiers who are the
spirit of the war. Relieved from the tense struggle of life and death
for a brief rest, their joyous nature blossoms forth in reaction from
the serious affairs of their day’s work.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THERE is nothing that so brings out the best in a man as to fight
against terrific odds, to struggle in a losing fight with the knowledge
that only by superhuman effort can the odds be equaled or turned. To
work for an ideal is a wonderfully inspiring thing, but when the battle
necessitates the risking or the sacrificing of home, happiness, and life
it brings to the surface in those who persevere characteristics which
lie dormant or concealed.

An ideal must be worth while when millions of men gladly risk their all
for its attainment, and those men who risk and sacrifice must have
returned to them something for what they give. Whatever sort of creature
he is on the surface, the fire test, if a man passes it and is not
shrivelled in its all-consuming flame, must develop in him certain
latent and hitherto buried attributes which are fit to greet the light
of day. If he be lacking in worthy human instincts, the flame will
destroy him, but if he passes through the test, he emerges a better
man—how much better depends on the individual. At least, having once
seen the ideal, he has something now for which to live and strive.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE world, judging from what it saw on the surface, flatly declared that
France could never stand up under the strain; but what has happened has
proved how little of the real worth of a nation or of a man is ever
visible on the surface. There must always come the test, the fire which
burns off the mask, the false surface beneath which mankind ever hides,
and brings forth what is concealed—good or bad. The bad is swept away
and the good survives.

The French are a temperamental people, and consequently are most easily
affected by circumstances. In former times the mass of the people were
inclined to be demonstrative, insincere, somewhat selfish, and rather
egotistical. These characteristics could never pass the tests, and now
the true spirit of France, the Phœnix, is rising from the ashes of the
past a freed and glorified being, radiant in the joy of accomplishment.
From the torture she has endured, an understanding of the feelings and
desires of others must be born which will banish the taint of
selfishness forever. Those who do things are never egotistical—they have
no time to talk, and France has been doing things these past years.
Those who rub elbows with the elementals and sacrifice for each other
and a cause can never be insincere again. And what harm is there in
demonstration? The bad characteristics removed, this becomes merely an
effervescence, a bubbling over of a joyous, unrestrained nature—Ponce de
Leon’s true fountain of perpetual youth.

The difference between the men who have served at the front and either
seen or felt great suffering, and those who have not, is most marked.
One evening I was in an _abri_ where some new recruits were wrangling
over unimportant things, and showing their selfish character in every
speech and act, when a desperately wounded man was brought in. After
serving for some time in the trenches he had been given a few days’
leave to see his family. He went back happily, thinking of the wife and
the little children he was soon to see again. Having left the third-line
trenches, he was walking through the woods down the _boyau_ which leads
to the outer world, when a shell broke overhead. The _brancardiers_
patched him up and brought him in with his head bound so that his eyes
and mouth alone were visible. The doctor handed him a cup of _Pinard_
and a cigarette, neither of which would he touch until he had offered it
to the rest of us. I picked up his helmet which he had put down for an
instant, although his eye never left it. There was a hole in it through
which I could have rolled a golf ball.

To illustrate the reverse—I was standing in a town a little ways back,
waiting for a car to give me a lift up to the lines, when a kitten
rubbed against my leg. I picked it up and started to play with it.
Instantly a peasant—not too old to serve—rushed out and snatched the
kitten from my arms:

“_Ce nest pas à vous!_” was his comment.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE English can never be called a temperamental race, but even their
stolid worth has needed much shaking up for the best in it to come to
the surface. The example they have set since their awakening is one
which any nation may well emulate, and it will be a proud people indeed
which can ever equal the record they have made in this war for courage
and devotion, never surpassed in the history of the world.

The _poilu_ and the Tommy are of such opposite types that each
completely mystifies the other. The Frenchman works himself up to a
fanatical state of enthusiasm, and in a wild burst of excitement dashes
into the fray. The Englishman finishes his cigarette, exchanges a joke
with his “bunkie,” and coolly goes “over the top.” Both are wonderful
fighters, with the profoundest admiration for each other, but each with
an absolute lack of understanding of the other, intensified by the
difference in language.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE varying characteristics of troops from different parts of the
world—the allied countries, dependencies, and colonies—have led to their
classification and assignment to the work best adapted to their
temperament. The fighting troops are divided into two main classes
called the “flying” and the “holding” divisions. There are some troops
who are wonderful in a charge, but have no stamina or staying power to
resist counterattacks or the wear of steady fighting. There are others
who lack the initiative and dash, but who can hold on and resist
anything. Then there are others who, while they are possessed of both
qualities, are somewhat better suited for one class than the other. The
Flying Divisions are used chiefly in the attacks, where a quick advance
and desperate fighting must win the day. This completed, they go back
_en repos_ again, while the Holding Divisions take their place to
consolidate the ground won, and to resist the enemy’s attempts to regain
it. The Flying Divisions have longer _repos_ but more violent fighting
while they are on the line, and the Holding Divisions have shorter
_repos_ but a less strenuous although longer stretch in the trenches.
This has all been worked out from observation and experiment.

For example,—in the early days of the war the Madagascans, French
colored colonial troops, are given certain trenches to take. They take
them with little delay, and are told to consolidate and hold them. This
is all very well until supper fails to arrive. The soldiers wait
impatiently for a short while, and then, ignoring the commands of their
officers, evacuate their trenches, which are immediately occupied by the
Germans, and go back for their meal. Supper finished, with no hesitation
they return and in a wild charge recapture their trenches and several
more.

Other French troops in the Flying Division are the Algerians, who have
done wonderful fighting throughout the war, and have suffered heavily.
It is the boast of the Foreign Legion, which is classed as Algerian,
that since its organization it has never failed to reach its objective,
and even in this war it has made good its boast. In one attack the
Legion entered thirty-five thousand strong and returned victorious with
a remnant of thirty-five hundred men.

The Algerians have a sense of humor all their own. An _ambulancier_ was
carrying one of them down to the hospital. As he was only slightly
wounded he was sitting on the front seat with the driver, leaving more
room for the _couchés_ inside. One of the _couchés_ was a German. Half
way to the _triage_ the Algerian made signs to the driver to stop. The
driver looked inquiringly at the man who, with a broad grin, pulled out
a long knife and pointed at the German. The driver naturally did not
humor him, and the sulky Zouave refused to speak to him during the rest
of the trip.

Another Algerian came into the _poste_ one day. He had a great joke that
he wanted us all to hear. He said that he had been given three prisoners
to bring in, and was leading them down a road in a pouring rain, when he
noticed the ruin of a house with the roof missing. He told the prisoners
to go in there there—“where it would be drier,” and when they complied,
stood on the outside and tossed grenades over the wall at them.

The fact that the colonial troops of the Allies, especially those of
Great Britain—the Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders—fall
practically without exception into the Flying Division because of the
initiative, dash, and daring developed in them to such a degree, has
given Germany, who has won more victories with poisoned pen than with
the sword, an opportunity to stir up hard feeling with her propaganda
between the colonies and their mother country.

This propaganda claims that England has sacrificed her Colonials to save
her own troops. Nothing could be farther from the truth. While the
Colonials are in the Flying Division and the larger part of the English
in the Holding Division, because of their famous bulldog tenacity, the
English have lost a greater percentage of their men than any one of the
colonies. The world has never seen such fighting as the troops of Great
Britain have had to stand up under, and full credit is always given the
Colonials for their share.

The Canadians particularly have distinguished themselves. They share
with the Foreign Legion alone the distinction of never having been given
an objective they have not taken. When the order came for the attack on
Vimy Ridge it read: _The Canadians will take Vimy Ridge at such and such
an hour_, and they took it on the dot. With the Canadians must be put
the Anzacs,—Australians and New Zealanders,—examples of what universal
military training can do.

Then there are the Indians, who never take a prisoner. By training and
tradition they are great head-hunters, and enjoy nothing better than
creeping out at night over No Man’s Land and waiting before the enemy’s
trench until a sentry puts up his head to observe. A quick sweep of the
curved knife, the head is secured, and the Indian returns with the
feeling of “something accomplished, something done, has earned a night’s
repose.” Their sense of humor has much in common with that of the
Algerians—and of the Germans.

Many of the heads, in all stages of curing, have been found in the
knapsacks and equipments of these troops—when they were dead or
unconscious. While conscious, the Indian will guard them with his life,
feeling that they are legitimate souvenirs.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THERE are three French medals which are given for service in this war,
not to mention a number of lesser ones which are seen rarely. The most
coveted of these is the Legion of Honour, a medal famous for some
centuries both in war and peace. This is divided into several classes.
There is the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, a very large medal
worn over the right-hand pocket with no ribbon. This has been awarded to
a few men of the greatness of Joffre and Petain. Then there is the grade
of Commander of the Legion of Honour. This is a smaller cross worn at
the neck. There are also the ranks of Officer and Chevalier. Both are
small crosses on red ribbons, but the former has a rosette on the ribbon
to distinguish it. These are awarded to officers only and are greatly
prized.

Two new medals were struck for the war,—the _Médaille Militaire_ and the
_Croix de Guerre_. The _Médaille_ is a round medal on a yellow ribbon of
one class only, and is awarded to officers and soldiers alike for actual
bravery on the field. The _Croix de Guerre_ is a bronze cross on a green
and red ribbon, and has three classes,—the _Croix de Guerre d’Armée_,
which has a bronze palm on the ribbon, _de Corps d’Armée_, which has a
bronze star on the ribbon, and _de Division_, which has a plain ribbon.
They are awarded for different degrees of bravery or service to officers
and soldiers alike, and may be won unlimited times. In aviation a
_Croix_ with palm is given to an aviator for every enemy plane he is
officially credited with downing. Thus Gynemer at the time of his death
was privileged to wear fifty-five palms on his ribbon. For the benefit
of such as he a silver palm is worn, representing five bronze, and a
gold palm in place of ten bronze. Before this was allowed, Gynemer wore
his ribbon with forty odd palms.

In addition to these there are the colonial medals and a number of
French decorations which have not strictly to do with the war.

                  *       *       *       *       *

TONIGHT I am on guard. I have just taken a walk around the cars. It is
the hour before the dawn, and the cold, grey mist hangs over all, robing
the jagged ruins and harmonizing the rough outlines into something more
human, while accentuating the stare of the vacant window-openings. There
is the first crescent of the moon in the sky. Two companies of artillery
have just passed along the road. The guns and caissons creak and rumble,
and the men, preserving a sleepy silence, bend forward on their horses,
their heavy sabres smacking against the horses’ sides, and their blue
uniforms melting into the mist.

The officer halts to water his horse, and we chat for a minute. The
_contre-avions_ are after a raider headed for Bar-le-Duc, and I put out
my lantern. We smile as the shrapnel bursts more than a mile from the
machine. The officer speaks a few words of praise about his men, then
vaults on his horse. We exchange “_bonne chance_” and he canters off
down the road, disappearing in the blue-grey mist.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A RUMOR creeps into camp that the next attack will be at V——. More
rumors follow, supported by the increased traffic. We are on the main
road to V——, and are keenly critical. We take out our maps and examine
the outline of the front in the sector just as if we knew something
about it. Would-be strategists hold forth in heated arguments, and many
bitter debates follow. Those of us who have the early watch just at
daybreak notice many companies of _soixante-quinzes_ rumbling by each
morning, and observe that they take the left fork of the road. This is
important, for the left road leads towards M——, which is really not in
our sector. More argument follows, and ears are constantly strained to
catch the first augmentation of the distant thunder of the guns, and to
determine from which end of the sector it comes.

Now all the officers admit that an attack is to ensue shortly, but they
do not know when. We tune up our cars and get our baggage ready, as we
may be called. The lieutenant receives some orders and warns us to be
ready to move on a moment’s notice.

The traffic is incessant now. _Camions_ with shells, barbed wire,
_camouflage_ cloth, _torpilles_, and more shells rush by. Convoys pass
filled with troops, cheering wildly, thirty-five hundred or more in an
evening. The thunder is gradually intensified, and the sky flashes
faintly in the distance like heat lightning. From a hilltop artillery
rockets and star-shells can be seen in the far horizon. More troops keep
going up, and the guns pound the line with unabated fury.

It is evening, and we are formed in a circle listening to some story.
The lieutenant walks up to us:

“We move at seven in the morning,” he says laconically, and steps off.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   IV

                              AT THE FRONT

THIS time we have a different run. It is from Montzéville to Hill 239,
and the wounded are brought in through the communication trench which
leads to Mort Homme—the well-named Dead Man’s Hill. The road was once
lined for a distance of perhaps a mile with towering poplars, evinced by
the size of the stumps, but now not one of them is left higher than
three or four feet. The road runs the entire distance across open
meadows, and as what _camouflage_ there was has been shot away by the
Boche in his search for two 220 batteries, which have long since moved
on, the enemy _saucisses_ can regulate the traffic quite simply. The
place has been shot up so much recently that there has been no time to
repair the roads fully, and now there are long stretches temporarily
patched with rough, broken stone, which makes bad going. Riding forward,
one sees large German shells breaking on the road ahead like sudden
black clouds, which disappear slowly and convey to the mind
uncomfortable premonitions.

Mort Homme comes suddenly and bleakly into view about two kilometres on
our left,—a hill, not exceedingly high, commanding a great plain, it is
imposing only in the memory of the rivers of blood that have flowed down
its sides. Once—and looking at it one can scarcely believe it—this was
covered with trees and vegetation like many another less famous hill.
Now it is reduced to a mere sandpile, pitted with the scars of a million
shells. After standing the continuous bombardment of both combatants for
over a year, there is left not a stick of vegetation, nor an inch of
ground that has not been turned over by shells many times. Crowned by
the pink of the sunset, it stands there on the plain a great monument to
the glorious death of thousands.

The French lost many thousands of lives in their attempts to capture
Mort Homme, and were very bitter, consequently, against its defenders.
There was a large tunnel running through the hill, and when three sides
had been captured and both ends of the tunnel were held, it was
discovered that they had trapped there three thousand Germans. I talked
with a man who walked through the tunnel the day after the massacre and
he told me that it was literally inches deep in blood.

Arrived at the _poste_, which is nothing more than a hole in the ground,
we stand around while the _brancardiers_ load the car and exchange lies
with any one who happens to be there. The Boche sends a dozen or more
shells whining over our heads to break on the road or beside it, and
near enough for every one to gravitate slowly towards the _abri_ in
preparation for a wild dive should the next shell fall much nearer. One
man asked me why they put stairs leading into an _abri_, as nobody ever
thought of using them. When I asked him how else one would get out, he
said he had never thought of that.

There is nothing quite so uncomfortable to hear as the near whistle of a
shell. The more one hears the sound the more it affects him. There is
something in the sharp whine which seems to create despair and induce
subconscious melancholy. There is a feeling of helplessness and
powerlessness that is most depressing. The thunder of the guns or the
crash of the bursting shells cannot be compared with the sound of this
approaching menace. It is as if some demon from the depths of Hades were
hurtling towards you, its weird laughter crying out, calling to you and
chilling your blood. For the second of its passage a hush falls on the
conversation, and the best jokes die in dry throats. But it is only for
that second, and instantly laughter rings out again at some jest.
Speculations or comments are made on the probable or observed place
where it exploded, and all is the same except for that subconscious
tenseness which, for the most part unrealized, grips every man while he
goes about his work here.

The first ordeal by fire is the easiest. It is then but a new and
interesting sensation and experience. Later, after one has seen the
effect and had some close calls, it is more of a nervous strain. The
whine of a shell is very high-pitched, and after a time the sound wears
distinctly on the nerves. It is a curious fact that, in spite of the
philosophy developed, the longer a man has been under shell-fire the
harder it is for him to stand it. By no means would he think of showing
it, but he would not deny the fact. It is only the philosophy and
callousness developed which keep the men from breaking down, and in many
cases the strain on the nerves becomes so great that men do collapse
under it. This is one of the forms of so-called “shell-shock.”

The car loaded with _blessés_, we start back, driving more slowly this
time, as precious lives are in our care and jolts must be avoided
wherever possible. We find the road still more “out of repair” than when
we went over it before, with a number of new shell-holes varying from
two to ten feet in diameter, and much wood, dirt, and torn _camouflage_
strewn about, and often a horse lying where it was hit, its blood
coloring the mud in the gutter.

Approaching the town of Montzéville one sees at first a
wood—_ci-devant_—now a few blackened tree-trunks of spectre-like
appearance against the grey of the evening sky. Behind these appears the
town, a mass of jagged ruins, at that distance seeming to be absolutely
deserted. In fact it is, except for the dozen odd men who live in two or
three scattered _abris_ for some obscure purpose. An air of desolation
and despair broods over the place, and God knows it has seen enough to
haunt it.

From Montzéville we ride on to Dombasle and Jouy, the hospital, and
after handing over our more or less helpless charges to the tender
mercies of the _brancardiers_, we return to the relay station at
Montzéville to wait for our next roll, and to wonder what possible good
those _poilus_ can be doing who sit all day so peacefully at the door of
the _abri_ opposite ours, sipping _Pinard_ and smoking their cigarettes.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE soldiers at the front are always looking for the bright side of
life, and after a little one gets to see humor in many more things than
he would have believed possible at home. As an example, there seems to
be little humor connected with a funeral, yet one of the times I saw the
_poilus_ most amused was one day at P 4, our relay station, on such an
occasion.

There had been an intermittent bombardment, and we were sitting or
standing inside the _abri_ waiting for it to let up. The _abri_ was
located in the corner of a graveyard, and there was always the
unpleasant feeling that the next rain might wash a few bones in on us.
The _abri_ was small, very crowded, and, as it was several feet
underground, none too well ventilated. Every one spent long stretches
here, and brought his food with him. What was too poor to eat soon mixed
with the mud on the floor, lending an unsavory odor to the atmosphere.
Presently one of the Frenchmen went out to see if the bombardment had
stopped. This is discovered by the same method one ascertains whether or
not it is raining—if he gets wet the storm is not over. The bombardment
was not over, and we waited. At last it seemed to have let up, only an
occasional shell crashing into the woods across the road, and we went
out to stretch and get a breath of air.

The _poilus_ gathered our inquisitive friend from the surrounding
shrubbery and trees and put him into several empty sandbags which they
laid on a stretcher, carefully placing the head, which appeared to have
been solid enough to withstand the shock, at the upper end. Another man
carried a freshly-made pine-wood coffin. In high spirits, the assembled
soldiers formed a procession and marched into the graveyard, singing
alternately a funeral dirge and “Madelon,” the French “Tipperary.” This
graveyard, not being on the firing-line itself, was rather a formal
affair. The graves were laid out in neat rows, and each man had one all
to himself with a wooden cross and his name on it. Of course
occasionally the shells did a little mixing, but that was a jest of the
Fates which disturbed no one, least of all those who were mixed.

Arrived at the grave, the _poilus_ rolled in the fragments of our late
friend and covered them with dirt.

              “_Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note._”

Then they came back, roaring with laughter and tossing the coffin in the
air. The hero had expected the coffin and they had fooled him. Now they
could use it again.

The usual method of burial on the French front, where there is little
time to attend to such matters, is to dig a ditch six feet wide, ten
feet deep, and twenty feet long approximately. As each man is killed,
time and circumstances permitting, he is divested of his coat and shoes,
and his pockets are emptied. He is then thrown into the ditch and
covered with a few shovelfuls of dirt. This system is all very well
until new divisions relieve those in the trenches, and start digging
ditches for their own men. As there are no marks to show the location of
the old ones, they sometimes uncover rather unpleasant sights.

The reputation we have gained at home of being cold-blooded and lacking
in the finer senses is undeserved. While one is in it he cannot permit
himself to realize or dwell on the horrors or they would overwhelm him
and drive him insane. What is more natural than for the reaction to turn
the matter into jest and joke, to permit it to glance from the surface
without inflicting a wound?—“_C’est la guerre._”

                  *       *       *       *       *

PLUNGED suddenly from the commonplaces of peace into the seething
cauldron of war, France has had to adjust herself. Every one without
exception has lost many who were dear to him and much that he had
considered essential. The homes and hopes of thousands have been
blasted. Destruction, following in the wake of the invaders, has laid
waste much of the land, in many cases irreparably.

Entering the war a man is possessed of the greatest seriousness. He
thinks of its causes, the results both immediate and future, and of the
effect of each on him. He is stunned by what he believes himself to be
bearing up under. Then, as he moves up into the zone, into service and
action, and sees how others are affected, how much suffering and
misfortune come to them, he merges his troubles with theirs, realizing
the pettiness and insignificance of his own in the _tout ensemble_. He
laughs, and from this laugh springs the philosophy,—“_C’est la guerre._”

If a fly falls in his soup, if his best friend is blown to bits before
him, if his home and village are destroyed, he calmly shrugs his
shoulders, and remarks, “_C’est la guerre._”

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE roads at the front are cared for by a class of unsung heroes, the
roadbuilders. Back of the lines German prisoners are often used for this
work, but it is a rule of warfare that prisoners must not be worked
under fire, and the Allies observe this as the other rules of civilized
warfare. The roads are the arteries of the front, and during an attack
the enemy does his best to cripple them. If he succeeds, the troops in
the trenches, cut off from food, ammunition, and other supplies, are at
his mercy. During one attack through which I worked, the Boche, whose
hobby is getting ranges down to the inch and applying them as all other
things in a definite system, put a 150 every ten yards down the more
important roads.


[Illustration: NORMAL TRAFFIC AT THE FRONT
INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.]


All work in the zone is done by three classes of workers, excluding the
necessary military operations carried on by the troops in action. First,
there are the German prisoners who do every kind of work out of the zone
of fire. Then there are the French prisoners in the army, who have
committed some military crime, from sneezing in ranks to shooting a
colonel. Instead of serving time in a guardhouse, these are put in the
front-line trenches and kept there unarmed to build up the parapet,
attend to the drains, stop Boche bullets, and perform other functions.
If, for instance, a French soldier sends a letter through the civil
instead of the military mails, where the censorship is more strict, he
receives a thirty days’ sentence. If these prisoners make a suspicious
move they are shot by their own men. Second timers are rare, but many
serve life sentences.

Then there is the third class, a regular branch of the army, a
subdivision of the engineers, termed _pionniers_. The engineers do the
nastiest work in the army, and the _pionniers_ do the nastiest work in
the engineers. It is their duty to see that the wire is properly cut
before a charge, that the parapet is in repair and does not lack
sandbags,—and it is in this class that the roadbuilders come.

All along the roads lie piles of broken stone, which are continually
replaced by loads from the rear. At intervals are placed _abris_ filled
with roadbuilders who watch until a shell hits the road in their sector.
Then, almost before the dirt settles, they rush out armed with shovels,
and pile this rough stone into the hole and rush back again to shelter,
to wait for the next shell, which is not long in coming. This rough
patching is consolidated later when the sector quiets down, but does
admirably for the time-being, as the mud and traffic push it rapidly
into shape.

Steam-rollers are then sent up to finish the work, but find themselves
_persona non grata_ when left over night in the middle of a narrow and
muddy road, with no lights showing. We _ambulanciers_ are not fond of
the species at any time, as they seem to have a great affinity for
six-inch shells. When disintegrated, any one of the numerous parts
blocks our way. We are perfectly content to have the task left to the
simple roadbuilder, who proves less of an obstruction after meeting a
one-fifty.

                  *       *       *       *       *

MANY undeveloped instincts lie dormant in the subconscious mind of man.
In this war, where man has turned back the pages of civilization to live
and act for a period of time as a glorified cave-dweller, a number of
these unknown faculties have been discovered and developed.

Many animals have the power of seeing in the dark, and all species can
sense an unknown danger. These senses have been denied to civilized man,
but the primitive life at the front has developed them and other
instincts in those who live there so that it seems as if man might again
become possessed of all his latent powers.

A man going along a road has a conviction that if he continues he will
be killed. He makes a wide detour to avoid the road, and a shell strikes
where he would have been. Then again, men have premonitions that they
will be killed in the next attack or battle. All this is coupled with
absolute fatalism. They feel either that they are going to be killed or
will live through everything, and whichever it is, they merely shrug
their shoulders, remark, “_C’est la guerre_,” and permit nothing to
alter their belief. Many say that the shell with their name on it has
not yet been made, or if it has—“Why worry? We cannot escape it.” I
carried one man, while doing evacuation work, who had served three years
without a scratch, and when _en repos_ had fallen from an apple tree and
broken his leg. He thought it a great joke.

The _ambulancier_ has developed two of these instincts to quite a
degree. The first is that he can always locate an _abri_, his or some
one else’s, and disappear in it with astounding rapidity. The second is
that he can keep the road with no lights. This has to be done almost
entirely by instinct on many nights, and we find it usually safer to
make a turn where the “inner voice” directs us rather than where we
remember it should be. It is not remarkable, of course, that an
occasional car falls into a ditch or a shell-hole, but astonishing
rather how seldom this happens. While our Fords never attained any great
speed in night driving, I rode once with a friend from another section
in a Fiat, when he drove in pitch darkness faster than fifty miles an
hour, taking every turn accurately and safely by instinct and luck.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE mud plays havoc with calculations, and we long to set our foot once
again on dry land. All the water in France seems to have gone into mud.
Water has never been a popular beverage here, and now it is even less
so. One horrified _poilu_, who had observed me drinking a glass of
water, asked if it did not give me indigestion. At the front there is
good reason for this. With so many men buried in the ground and so many
animals uninterred on it, all the springs are contaminated, and the
germs of every disease lurk in the water.

The French army provides a light red wine to take its place. This wine
is little stronger than grape juice and is the _Pinard_ of the _poilus_.
The government also provides tobacco which, to quote one _ambulancier_,
cannot be smoked without a gas mask.

The water in the streams is little better, and a bath in one of them
gives more moral than physical satisfaction. One French artilleryman
told me with great glee of seeing from his observation post a company of
German soldiers marched down to a river for a bath. As soon as they were
in the water he signalled the range to his battery, and they put a
barrage between the bathers and their clothes.

                  *       *       *       *       *

VERDUN is more than a name now—it is a symbol. France’s glorious fight
here with her back to the wall has gone down in history as a golden
page. The foe thundered at the gates and the gates held,—held for months
while the fate of France hung in the balance, and then opening, the
hosts of France poured out and drove the foe back mile by mile, bitter
miles.

The city does not boast an unscarred building, but these wounds do not
bleed in vain. For every one here there shall be two across the frontier
when the day of reckoning comes. An awe-inspiring silence broods over
the littered streets. There are no civilians here now, but many
soldiers, and as one walks an occasional cheer greets him,—“_Vive
l’Amérique!_”

The enemy has been driven back so far by this time that not more than
half a dozen vengeful shells a day are directed towards the violated
cathedral, its subterranean vaults blown open and exposed, its walls
struck, its windows shattered, and its roof fallen. A walk through this
city, divided by the peaceful Meuse, would convince one, if nothing had
before, that this war is not in vain, and that no force should be
spared, no rest taken until the nation which has perpetrated these
million crimes be crushed, that it may never strike like this again.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A BATTLE is made up of a number of attacks, and a push consists of a
number of battles. Consequently, each attack is most important as it is
one of the single stones out of which the wall of the push is
constructed. The taking of A—— was a small attack in itself, but it was
a part of the foundation on which was built the great August push at
Verdun.

Our section rolled into a town about four miles from A—— three days
before the attack proper was scheduled to begin. We established our
headquarters there, and our relay station and _poste de secours_ in the
Hesse Forest, the latter just behind the third-line trenches.

In the Champagne push the year before the French had not had nearly
enough artillery support, and it had cost them many lives. It is
something one hears spoken of rarely. To avoid a repetition of this
disaster they had massed for this attack in one wood six thousand guns
varying in calibre from the famous 75’s to several batteries of 380’s,
mounted on a railroad a stone’s throw from our sleeping quarters.
However, as we had no time for sleep, it made little difference. The 75
is about a three-inch gun, and the 380, a sixteen approximately.

Starting in three days before the attack, these guns began firing as
steadily as they could without overheating. Very often in our front
_abri_ it was impossible to write because of the vibration. One day,
when we stopped in the woods to change a punctured tire, the car was
knocked off the jack by the shocks several times before we could remove
the tire, and at last we had to run in on the rim.

Finally, just before the men were to go over the top, the barrage was
set down in front of the trenches and the men climbed over the parapet,
and started walking towards the enemy. It is always possible to tell the
_tir de barrage_ by the sound of the guns. There is a certain regularity
which is lacking when each gun is firing at independent targets, and the
steady thunder gives one the feeling of a tremendous hammer smashing,
smashing, irresistibly, each blow falling true and hard, and following
one another with the regularity of the machines in a giant factory.

A perfect barrage is impenetrable, with the shells falling so near
together and with such short intervals of time between that nothing can
survive it. The only possibility is the inaccuracy of some one or more
guns which will put a number of shells out of the line and leave a break
or opening.

Before the attack the officers all have their watches carefully
synchronized, as a mistake of one minute may cost many lives. Walking
ahead of their men, keeping them the right distance behind the solid
wall of flame and steel, they wait until a certain minute when the
barrage is lifted a number of yards and then advance to that distance.
In the orders, the minute the barrage is to be lifted and the distance
are given out beforehand; for to advance the soldiers too quickly would
be to put them under fire from their own guns.

In this attack the first wave passed over the destroyed wire, and on
reaching the enemy’s front-line trenches could not distinguish them from
the rest of the ground, and found no living thing there. The second-line
trenches were little better, and they got their fighting at the
third-line trenches. So perfect had the preparation and execution of
this attack been that the Bois d’A—— was cleared of the enemy in
thirteen minutes from the time the French left their trenches.

The first wave is followed by the “butchers” (the English “moppers-up”),
who kill all the wounded and the odd prisoners, it being impractical for
a charging line to attempt to hold a few captives. Also another factor
which makes this treatment of prisoners necessary, and which the Allies
have learned by experience, is that unguarded men, once the first wave
has passed over them, will take out a machine gun and catch the
advancing troops between two fires. This happened a number of times
before the simple expedient was adopted of requesting the prisoners to
go down into an _abri_ where they would be “safer,” and then tossing in
two or three grenades which kill and bury them at the same time.

Of course the Boche was not idle in the meanwhile, and kept up a hail of
fire from behind A—— Wood and Dead Man’s Hill, which did not fall until
two days later, and we had the benefit of this back on the roads as we
tore from the relay station to the _poste_, to the hospital, and back
again, trying to take care of as many as we could of the countless
wounded from the attack who were being brought in. French soldiers who
had been in the war since 1914 said that they had never seen such fire.

This run and the work through this attack were the most interesting of
the experiences I had in the zone. We worked day and night, sleeping and
eating at odd moments and with long intervals between, ceasing only when
twelve of our cars had gone _en panne_, and half that number of drivers
were in the hospital suffering from the new mustard gas which was
showered on us in gas shells. We were tired indeed when relieved for a
short period _en repos_.


[Illustration: TAKING A LOAD FROM THE ABRI
COPYRIGHT—INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   V

                                L’ENVOI


AN American army is in France. Old Glory is proudly floating above an
armed host which has come to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Allies,
and do battle to prove that Right makes Might. We read in the papers of
the ovations the troops receive, of the reviews, the presentations, the
compliments, and the training, and our hearts beat proudly because we
too are Americans. We are non-combatants, to be sure, and are members
not of the American army but of the French; yet, we are serving in the
same cause, and, we hope, doing our bit towards the final victory.

We know that sooner or later the entire American Field Service is to be
absorbed by the American army, but as to when this is to come, and in
what manner, we are ignorant. We debate often now about these things,
and wonder what effect the change is to have on us and on the section.
Pessimist has picked up a rumor somewhere that we are to be turned out
in a body, and that drivers who have been training at Allentown are to
take our places. Cheerful Liar informs us that we are all to be made
first lieutenants, and that the section is to serve with the American
troops. “Napoleon” thinks that we are to be discharged, and that French
drivers who “know their business” are to take our places. Some one else
says that we are all to be put in the trenches. No one knows anything
definite, and the _chef_ and _sous-chefs_ are besieged for information
which they have not. The Assistant Inspector comes out to us and we know
little more. American officers encountered in Bar-le-Duc can give us no
information, and rumors, most of them originating in the section,
contradict each other.

One evening a large Pierce Arrow pulls up beside our cars, parked in a
walnut grove. Three American medical officers step out with clanking
spurs, and we are all attention. The _chef_ is called and we assemble.
The officer in command makes a short speech. The section is to be taken
over, he says, and those who remain must enlist as privates in the
American army for the duration of the war. These men, having signed up,
are then at the disposal of the Army, but will probably be kept in the
Ambulance Service. The new officers are to be an American lieutenant,
who will be our present _chef_, two sergeants, and a corporal. The
section is to continue to serve with the French army, but may be
transferred to the new American front.

We form small circles and discuss the situation. All the freedom and
romance are gone, but many are going to stay. The rest have chosen
aviation or artillery, and one or two may return home. The old volunteer
Ambulance Service is dead, but the days we have lived with it are
golden, and nothing can ever take them away from us, or bring them back
again.

There is a little lump in each man’s throat as he turns in tonight, but
from now on we serve America, and any sacrifice is worth that. And for
the rest—“_C’est la guerre._”

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE participation of the United States in this war marks the time of
this country’s coming of age, and the real beginning of its work as one
of the great world powers. Up to the War of the Revolution the thirteen
colonies had more than enough on their hands in managing their own
affairs. In the throes of that war the country was born, and slowly
grew, feeling its increasing power which was never quite secure until
the Civil War was at an end. Then, year by year, reaching out over the
two continents of America, guiding and helping our weaker brothers in
their affairs, gave us a foundation of courage and experience in the
adolescent period before we were ready to stand forth staunch in our
beliefs and secure in our power to uphold them. That that time has come,
and that the Old World, throwing down the gauntlet to the New, has found
it unexpectedly ready, is shown by the presence of the Stars and Stripes
on the battlefields of France. The mask of our isolation by the ocean,
that time-worn excuse, has been rudely torn aside by modern inventions,
and the affairs of Europe have become by their intimacy our own. In
mingling with them as we were forced to do, one side was bound to
transgress sooner or later—Germany did. And when Germany transgressed,
America stepped across the bridge from youth to manhood, and picking up
the iron gauntlet proceeded to settle the question by force of arms,—the
one indisputable argument.

This war is to make Democracy secure only in that it is the continual
struggle between the new and the old, a struggle whose issue is certain
before the start—civilization moves to the west.

America is the vanguard of the European civilization moving westward. It
has taken the sum of the civilizations of the earth to bridge the chasm
of the Atlantic. America is the last section of the circle of the world,
which completed, civilization moves back to its starting place. Power
increases with civilization and, with each step civilization has taken,
the conquests have been proportionate. Each has tried world conquest and
failed, but each has come nearer and each time the world has been nearer
ready to receive it. The present war is the attempt of a representative
of the civilization of Europe to control the earth, and proving _per se_
its unfitness to do so.

Consequently, the relation of America to the War is that she is coming
of age, and is at last ready to take her place among the great nations
of the world as a power that can never again be disregarded, a mighty
guardian of the Right.

                  *       *       *       *       *

AMERICA has been aptly called the Melting Pot. Since 1620, when the
Pilgrims established their permanent colony at Plymouth, people from the
Old World have been flocking to this country and becoming “Americans.”
Every country of the globe has sent its representatives—each a different
metal to be merged with the others until the American should be as
distinct a type as the Englishman or Frenchman. At first there was
natural discord—each was a different metal in the melting pot, but as
there was no heat, no fire, they could not amalgamate. Then came the
first blast of national fire—the Revolution, and in that, the first
great struggle for Liberty, was moulded from the composite alloys—the
American. The American as he came from the mould of the Revolution was
the foundation on which the country rests, and although the descendants
of those Americans are too few in number now to be more than a flux for
the steady stream of metal as it pours from the pot, they can at least
preserve the standard that their forebears passed down to them as the
Golden Heritage, and be examples to these new and untried metals.

In the War of 1812 and in the Civil War the new metals were amalgamated
and tempered with the old, but since 1864 there has been no fire hot
enough to mould together the millions who have sought the United States
as a home. There has been no sword over our heads. There has been no
great impending disaster, no danger to the country as a whole of great
loss of life or property, and our Liberty and our Honor have not been at
stake as they are today.

So it is now in this fierce blast from Hell’s furnace, the Great War,
that the National fire is rekindled and each metal is slowly sinking its
own individuality into the common form carefully stirred by the hand of
the Almighty, and in the white heat, as the pure metal is tempered until
it rings true and measures to the old standard, the slag is cast aside.
Thus is America the Melting Pot.

                  *       *       *       *       *

PARIS is the place where everything begins and ends. From here during
the four years of war there has been the constant departure of men bound
for the great adventure, and it is Paris that has received with open
arms the greater bulk of the _permissionnaires_ and the _réformés_. Gay,
very gay on the surface, but below the crust it is the saddest of all
places. When a man is in great agony he laughs. It is so with the great
city, and the laugh of delirium is a poor sham indeed.

The shortage of necessities has also been a damper on the city. In
Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, a man was carrying a bag of coal. A few
paces behind him a well-dressed woman was walking home. The man dropped
a piece of coal from his sack and the woman eagerly picked it up and
placed it in her gold bag.

The war hangs over all in a dismal cloud and is in the back of every
one’s mind; although it is rare to hear it mentioned it is always before
one. There is no Parisian who has not lost some one very dear to him or
her, and nineteen out of every twenty women are in deep mourning. The
social activities, therefore, are greatly curtailed, and the gay life is
left only to the people of the street, the majority of whom have been
driven to that life by the reaction of despair and sadness, and in
lonesomeness seek the only companionship that they know.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE old chateau at 21, rue Raynouard, so kindly loaned to the American
Field Service for its headquarters by the Comtesse de la Villestreux, is
a place of traditions. The great Napoleon has walked here. Rousseau
wrote part of his works here, and Franklin walked in the park daily
while he was Ambassador to France.

The park is the most extensive and beautiful within the fortifications
of Paris, and contains the largest grove of chestnuts in the city. The
water in the springs on the place was famous in the seventeenth century
as the “_eaux de Passy_.”

In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, located on the banks of the Seine,
the place breathes an atmosphere of rest and beauty and solidity,
springing from the traditions of age. The men of the American Field
Service, we who have had this place as the home to which we would return
_en permission_, can never fully express our sincere gratitude to the
Comtesse de la Villestreux and the other members of the Hottinguer
family, who so graciously extended to us, Americans, the hospitality of
their beautiful estate.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A DREAM of a town, hot but not oppressive under the sun of the Midi,
with quaint streets meandering through it, little blue tables set in the
sunlight and a park filled with gay-colored soldiers and drab women, was
my first impression of Bordeaux. Dilapidated _fiacres_ in tow of hungry
horses transport one from place to place, and give the newcomer his
first taste of the haggling, without which a Latin would be
disconsolate.

For all its quaintness and simplicity it is as much a “pay as you enter”
city as the rest, and even in the park should one sit upon an iron seat
instead of a wooden one there is an indemnity of two _sous_ extracted
and a further _sou_ should the seat possess arms. A damsel in black then
presents a ticket which entitles the possessor to hold down the seat as
long as he comfortably can. The military may sit free, however, if they
know it; but the new arrivals do not, and the park fund increases.

Bordeaux on my return I found to be quite Americanized. The quiet
uniforms of our soldiers were neutralizing the bright reds and blues of
our ally. The little blue tables were often covered by a khaki arm, and
many new signs proclaimed “American Bar,” those houses which had
specialized in German beers before the war having painted “American”
over the name of the Rhine country.

There is a large American hospital here completely equipped and ready to
receive and take good care of the flood that will soon be pouring in. An
American private telephone line has been built to Paris by Americans,
and with our gradual assimilation of the railway system of France we are
“carrying on” well from here.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE American Ambulance, the American Field Service as it was in the old
days, is dead. The spirit of _bonne camaraderie_ and intimacy which each
member felt for the others; the time when, members of no army, we served
with the French, on equal terms with the _poilus_ in the trenches and
the officers on the staff; when, responsible to no one, we served the
cause and the god Adventure, content with the past and with no thought
for the morrow,—has passed. With the coming of army discipline and
system, with governmental organization and routine, the old days are
gone. We are sorry, selfishly, to see them go; but we cannot and would
not have it otherwise. The Ambulance Service is now proudly enrolled
under Old Glory, and is broader and greater than it ever could have been
as a volunteer organization. We rejoice that it is so, and are proud
that we have been a part of it. So, hail to the new United States Army
Ambulance Corps! The men of the Old Ambulance salute you!

                  *       *       *       *       *

A LITTLE group of us stands together in the darkness, with the deck
rising and falling beneath our feet. We are silent and pensive. The last
lights of Bordeaux are fading in the mist, and with them France. The
boat has been running up and down the wide harbor all day, and now in
the darkness is making a dash for the open sea, hoping to outwit the
enemy lurking in the depths.

Up there, far to the north of those lights, the great guns thunder and
the sky glimmers with star-shells. Men are fighting, and struggling, and
dying, and laughing over their _Pinard_, but it is not for us. We have
finished for a while. Of course we are coming back, but furlough is not
offered often enough to be refused lightly. We feel a queer mixture of
sadness, and happiness, and relief. The life has worked its way into our
hearts, and the call to return rings in our ears. But the relief from
the tenseness and the joy of anticipation of America and Home exceeds
all else. The wind blowing across the waves starts somewhere in America,
and we take deep breaths. Soon we shall be home, shall see our friends,
and shall lead a life of luxurious ease again for a short space of time.

We walk around the deck and then, taking out our pipes, settle down in
our steamer chairs and puff thoughtfully. All is peace and quietness
here, the spray breaking over the bow and the waves lapping against the
sides. It is hard to realize that the earth is shaking in a cataclysm
only a little north, but we know that this must be endured until the
power of Germany is destroyed—that the world may be as peaceful as is
the sea tonight.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                GLOSSARY


[_The meaning of the words as given in this Glossary is that which holds
in the army at the front and sometimes conflicts with the meaning as
given in the dictionary._]

            ABRI                   _dug-out_

            AMBULANCIER            _ambulance driver_

            ARGOT                  _slang_

            ARRIVÉE                _an enemy shell_

            ASSIS                  _a wounded man able to
                                     sit up_

            BLESSÉ                 _wounded man_

            BONNE CAMARADERIE      _good-fellowship_

            BONNE CHANCE           _good luck_

            BOYAUX                 _communication trench_

            BRANCARDIER            _stretcher-bearer_

            BRIQUET                _pocket lighter_

            CAMION                 _truck_

            CAMIONNETTE            _small truck_

            CHEF                   _first lieutenant_

            CONDUCTEUR             _ambulance driver_

            CONTRE-AVION           _anti-aircraft gun_

            COUCHÉ                 _a wounded man lying
                                     down_

            CROIX DE GUERRE        _war cross_

            DÉPART                 _a shell fired towards
                                     the enemy_

            DUD                    _a shell which does not
                                     explode_

            ÉCLAT                  _shell fragment_

            EN PANNE               _breakdown_

            EN PERMISSION          _on furlough_

            EN REPOS               _on a rest_

            ESTAMINET              _café_

            MAJOR                  _army surgeon_

            MALADE                 _sick man_

            MARÉCHAL DES LOGIS     _French petty officer_

            MAUVAIS TEMPS          _rainy season_

            MÉDAILLE MILITAIRE     _military medal_

            MINNIEWERFER           _German trench mortar_

            MORT HOMME             _Dead Man’s Hill_

            MUSETTE                _haversack_

            PELOTON                _section_

            PERMISSION             _furlough_

            PERMISSIONNAIRE        _man on furlough_

            PINARD                 _wine_

            PIONNIER               _a branch of the
                                     Engineers_

            POSTE DE SECOURS       _front dressing station
                                     for wounded_

            RAVITAILLEMENT         _provisioning_

            RÉFORMÉ                _soldier discharged on
                                     account of wounds_

            ROLL                   _to drive_

            RÔTI                   _shell which does not
                                     explode_

            SAUCISSE               _observation balloon_

            SOIXANTE-QUINZE        _75 mm. shell_

            SOUS-CHEF              _second lieutenant_

            STRAF                  _to shell_ (literally,
                                     _to curse_)

            TIR DE BARRAGE         _barrage fire_

            TORPILLE               _trench mortar shell_

            VERBOTEN               _forbidden_

            VILLE HAUTE            _upper city_


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).







End of Project Gutenberg's The White Road of Mystery, by Philip Dana Orcutt