Part 2

Such is the initiation. Then while we, as yet mere amateurs, eat peacefully, relishing the novelty of the situation, and buoyed up by our first excitement, a short procession passes. It is a group of men carrying stretchers on which are what were men a few minutes before, who, standing within talking distance of us, were blown out of existence by the shells which whistled over our heads and, bursting, scattered _éclats_ and dirt on the steel roof that sheltered us. It is a side of the front which has not touched us deeply before, a side which in the first few days of the ordeal by fire impresses itself more and more on the novice, until he learns to temper the realization with philosophy and the so-called humor of the front. Then is the veteran in embryo.

The ambulance sections are divided into two classes—gear-shift and Ford. The gear-shift sections are composed of Fiats, Berliets, or some other French car. They carry five _couchés_ or eight _assis_, and have two men to a car. The French Army ambulances are all gear-shift, and the gear-shift sections included in the American Field Service all originally belonged to the French Government. Before the American Government took over the Ambulance Corps, the American Field Service, in addition to sending out Ford sections as quickly as they were subscribed in America, had been gradually absorbing the French Ambulance System, relieving with its own men the French drivers who could then serve in the trenches, and including those sections among its own.

The Ford sections carried three _couchés_ or four _assis_, and had one driver, although many sections had extra men to help out. A Ford section then, when complete, consisted of twenty ambulances, one Ford _camionnette_ or truck, which went for food and carried spare parts and often baggage, one French _camionnette_, a one-ton truck, which carried tools, French mechanics, and other spare parts, one large White truck with kitchen trailer, one Ford touring-car for the _chef_, and a more or less high-powered touring car for the lieutenant. The personnel was one French lieutenant, who was the connecting link between the organization and the government, and was responsible to the latter for the actions of the section; one _chef_, who was an American chosen by the organization from the _sous-chefs_ of one of the sections in the field; one or two _sous-chefs_, chosen by the _chef_ from the members of his or some other section; twenty drivers, often an odd number of assistant drivers, an American paid mechanic, and an odd number of French mechanics, cooks, and clerks.

The lieutenant received the orders and was responsible to the army for their execution. The lieutenant gave the _chef_ his orders, and the _chef_ was responsible to him for their execution by the section. The _sous-chefs_ were the _chef’s_ assistants.

The routine when at work is for a certain number of cars to be on duty at one time, the number depending on the work. The section is divided into shifts of the number of cars required. When on duty a man must always have his car and himself ready to “roll,” and when off duty, after putting his car in condition, must rest so as to be in shape for his next turn. When the work is heavy, the cars on duty are rolling all the time with very little opportunity for food or rest for the driver; consequently, for a man not to get himself and his car ready in this period of rest means that the service is weakened; and that, if other cars go _en panne_ unavoidably, it is possibly crippled—and lives may be lost. When the work is light, men are usually twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off; when moderate, twenty-four on and twenty-four off; when stiff, forty-eight on and twenty-four off, and during an attack almost steadily on. The longest stretch that my section kept its men continuously at work was seven days and nights in the Verdun sector during an attack, and we were compelled to cease then only because too few of our cars were left able to roll to carry the wounded.

From headquarters the day’s shift is sent to the relay station, and from there cars go as needed to the _postes de secours_. The _postes_ are as near the trenches as it is possible for the cars to go, and some can be visited only at night. The wounded are brought to these by the _brancardiers_ through the _boyaux_, or communication trenches, and usually have their first attention here. After first aid has been administered, and when there are enough for a load, or there is a serious case, the car goes to the _triage_, stopping at the relay station, from which a car is sent to the _poste_ to replace the first, which returns to the relay station directly from the hospital.

The hospitals also are divided into two main classes, the _triages_, or front hospitals in the zone of fire, and the H.O.E.’s, hospitals of evacuation, anywhere back of the fines. The hospital of evacuation is the third of the four stages through which a wounded man passes. The first is the front-line dressing station, the _abri_; the second, if the wound is at all serious, is the _triage_; the third, if serious enough, is the hospital of evacuation; and the fourth, if the soldier has been confined to the hospital for ten or more days, is the ten-day _permission_ to Paris, Nice, or some other place of his choice. Then these classes, in some cases, are subdivided into separate hospitals for _couchés_, _assis_, and _malades_.

These subdivisions sometimes make complications, as in the case of one driver who was given what appeared to be a serious case to take to the _couché_ hospital. While on the way, however, the serious case revived sufficiently to find his canteen. After a few swallows he felt a pleasant warmth within, for French canteens are not filled with water, and sat up better to observe his surroundings and to make uncomplimentary remarks to the driver. Arrived at the hospital, the _brancardiers_ lifted the curtain at the rear of the car, and seeing the patient sitting up and smoking a cigarette, apparently in good health, they refused to take him, and sent the car on to the _assis_ hospital. Overcome by his undue exertion, the wounded man lay down again, and by the time the ambulance had reached the other hospital was peacefully dozing on the floor. The _brancardiers_ shook their heads, and sent the car back to the _couché_ hospital. Somewhat annoyed by this time, the _ambulancier_ did not drive with the same care, and the jolts aroused the incensed _poilu_, who sat up and began to ask personal questions. The driver, not wishing to continue his trips between the two hospitals for the duration of the war, stopped the car outside the _couché_ hospital, and, seeing his patient sitting up, put him definitely to sleep with a tire tool, and sent him in by the uncomplaining _brancardiers_.

* * * * *

WE spend a good part of our time in the _abri_. Just now the Boche appears to have taken a particular dislike to this part of the sector, for he is strafing it most unmercifully. We do not doubt at all that it is because we are here. The fact that there are six thousand French guns massed in the woods, so near together that you cannot walk a dozen feet without tripping over one, may, of course, have something to do with the enemy’s vindictiveness, but that does not occur to us.

After taking an hour or two of interrupted sleep in the _abri_, we step out in the early morning to get a breath of fresh air and to untangle our cramped muscles. A shell or two whines in uncomfortably near, and we are convinced that the enemy knows our every move by instinct. When we sit in the _abri_ during the day, and there is never a second that we do not hear the whine of at least one shell overhead, and the intervals between shells striking near enough to shake the _abri_ and rattle _éclats_ on its steel roof grow less, we are convinced the Boche is searching for _our dugout_. When I am making a run to P 2, and, rounding Dead Horse Corner, start on the last stretch, and a shell knocks a tree across the road a hundred feet ahead, blocking us completely, and two more shells drop on the road by the tree, two more strike ten yards on our right, and another lands within fifteen feet on our left, there is no doubt in my mind that the enemy is after me.

In reality, of course, the enemy has no idea where the _abris_ are located, and just now is simply taking a few chance shots at a likely corner—but every man _knows_ that every shell he hears is meant for him personally,—all of which goes to prove how egotistical we really are.

* * * * *

AS one man remarked, “Our life out here is just one d— _brancardier_ after another.” The _brancardiers_, or stretcher-bearers, include the musicians—for the band does not play at the front,—the exchanged prisoners who are pledged to do no combatant work, and others who volunteer for or are assigned to this work. These men are in the front-line trenches, where they bandage wounded men as they are hit, and carry them to the front _abri_, where the _major_, army doctor, gives them more careful attention. At the front _abri_ are other _brancardiers_, who then take charge of these men and load them into our cars. We arrive at the hospital, and _brancardiers_ there unload the ambulances and carry in the wounded. Inside the hospital other _brancardiers_ nurse the wounded, as no women nurses are allowed in the _triage_ hospitals.

A callous, hardened, dulled class of men, absolutely lacking in sentiment, yet doing a noble and heroic work. Who could do their work without becoming callous—or insane? We curse them often when they put a man in the car upside down or drop him, but we forget that when the infantry goes _en repos_, the _brancardiers_ stay at their posts, going out into No Man’s Land every hour to bring in a countryman or an enemy. When, standing by the car at P 3, I see two _brancardiers_ carrying a man up from the _abri_ and, after noticing that both his arms are broken, one in two places, that both legs are broken, that a bloody bandage covers his chest, and that the white band around his head is staining red, I see them drop him when a shell screams overhead, I curse them. But I forget that for the past two nights, with their _abri_ filled with chlorine gas, these same men have toiled faithfully in suffocating gasmasks, bringing in the wounded, caring for them, and loading them on our cars. I forget that these men have probably not had an hour’s consecutive sleep for weeks and that it may be weeks before they have again; that it is months since they last saw a dry foot of ground, or felt that for a moment they were free of the ever present expectation of sudden death. It is something to remember, and it is to wonder rather how they do these things at all than why they seem at times a little careless or a bit tired.

Would the _brancardier_ tell you this? When he sees you he asks after your comrades. He takes you in and gives you a cigarette and some _Pinard_ in a battered cup, and tries to find you a place to rest, all the time telling you cheerful stories and amusing incidents.

The Staff is the brains of the army; Aviation, the eyes; the Artillery, the voice; the Infantry and Cavalry, the arms; the Engineers, the hands; the Transportation, the legs; the People behind it, the body; but the _Brancardier_ is the soul.

* * * * *

THERE are sounds outside of a klaxon being worked vigorously. However, we have several dozing Frenchmen inside the _abri_ who are making similar noises, so nothing dawns upon our sleepy senses for some minutes while the owner of the klaxon searches for the _abri_. This is dangerous business, because on all sides are barbed wire, shell-holes, and other _abris_. Also, as this one is located in the corner of a graveyard, there is danger that the searcher will wander on and uproot a dozen or more wooden crosses in the search. At last he discovers the right one by falling down the pit we called stairs before the rain set in. A violent monologue arouses us from our dozing comfortlessness, and we learn that a car is wanted at P 2. I am next on call, so I slowly and painfully unwind myself from a support and two pairs of legs, and, with the man who rides with me, make my way into the outer darkness.

We get the car and start off down the road with no lights anywhere, and pray that everything coming the other way keeps to its side of the road and goes slowly. There is always something coming the other way—and your way, a steady succession of _camions_ in the centre of the road, and of artillery trains on the side. The _camions_ are mostly very heavy and very powerful, and have no compunction at all about what they run into, as they know that it cannot harm them. The ammunition trains consist of batteries of 75’s, little framework teams with _torpilles_ fitting in small compartments like eggs, and other such vehicles in tow of a number of mules, with the driver invariably asleep. The traffic, however, in spite of the pitch darkness, would be endurable if it were not for the mud which often comes up to the hubs. It is a slimy mud, and if spread thinly is extremely slippery. On the roads it is rarely spread thinly, and when one gets out to push he often sinks in up to the knee. Then of course there is always the whine of _arrivées_ and _départs_ passing overhead, and the occasional crump of a German 77 or 150 landing near at hand.

The French and the German gunners play a little game every night with supply trains and shells. The shells are trumps. The object is to see who can play the more “cards” without being trumped. An artillery train counts one, a _camionnette_ two, a _camion_ five—because it blocks the road for some time when hit, and gives the enemy time to trump more cards—two ambulances give a win, and if a gun is hit the enemy is disqualified. The game is very interesting—for the artillery.

This modernized blindman’s buff is carried on at its best in the early hours of the morning before the game becomes too free-for-all to score carefully, and most of the cars are returned to the “pack”—out of the zone of fire—to wait for the next evening’s fun. At this time the roads are crowded, and the game is at its height. As the fun increases for the judges, however, it decreases for the players,—that is to say the “cards.” The prospect of being trumped is not a pleasant anticipation, although it keeps up the interest and prevents _ennui_. After an hour or so of sport the going becomes very bad, as there are always many horses killed, and when the fighting is at all severe there is no time to bury them. Then, too, the narrow gauge railway crossing the road every few rods is often hit, and left, like a steel octopus, with its twisted tentacles stretching out in all directions. These add to the sport hugely, and our chief consolation is to imagine the Boche over on his side having fully as bad if not a worse time than we.

“This or the next?” inquires my companion in reference to a cross-road which appears on our right.

Having no idea I answer, “This one,” and we turn. An unaccountable number of jounces greets us as we continue.

“They must have strafed this road a good bit since our last roll,” my friend comments.

The going is worse, and we stop to get our bearings. We shout and presently a form rises from the darkness. At any hour of the day or night it is possible to rouse by one or more shouts any number of men anywhere. You can see no one, as the world, for obvious reasons, lives underground in the rabbit burrows of _abris_, but when needed comes forth in force. This is very convenient, as often when driving at night one finds his car stuck in the middle of a new and large shell-hole, and help is necessary. We ask our location.

“_Ah, oui, M’sieu, P-trois!_”

We have come by error to the artillery _poste_ and must retrace our way. We exchange cigarettes with the friendly _brancardier_ and set off again. At last we get back on the right road, and after making another turn are nearing the _poste_. In the last gleams from a star-shell ahead we see something grey by the side of the road. As we are in the woods I take a quick look with my flash. It is one of our ambulances. My friend and I look at each other, and are mutually glad that it is too dark to see each other’s face. A careful survey of the surroundings yields nothing, and we press on—in silence. We jolt into the _poste_ with racing motor and wheels clogged with mud, and go down into the very welcome _abri_. Our friends there know nothing about the ambulance, so we hope for the best.

Friendships at the front are for the most part sincere—but sometimes short.

* * * * *

IT is about ten o’clock in the evening. We have been given a load at P 2 and are returning to the hospital. We turn from the battered Bois d’Avocourt into the Bois de Récicourt, and passing through the Bois de Pommiers roll into the valley. We cross through the town, and when the sentry lifts the gate pull slowly up the hill towards Brocourt. Punctually at five-thirty this evening twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and struck the hill, but fortunately not the road.

This hill makes a perfect target for the Boche, for if he falls short he hits the town, if he overshoots he will probably hit the hospital, and if he hits what he aims at he may get the road. Consequently there are intermittent bombardments at all hours of the day and night—preferably at night as there is more traffic on the roads. There is one time that the Boche never fails to greet us. That is five-thirty. Every day while I was there, as the hour struck, or would have struck had the clock been left to strike it, twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and knocked fruit from the orchard on the hill. If the Boche were sentimental, we would say it was the early twilight that made him do this, but as we remember Belgium we call it habit. There are several big _rôtis_ set up by the roadside like kilo-stones to remind us that to roll at five-thirty is _verboten_.

For some unexplained and mysterious reason many of the German shells do not explode. Whether this is from faulty workmanship or defective fuses or materials we do not know, but it causes the _poilus_ much amusement. There will be the whine of an _arrivée_ and a dull thud as it strikes the ground, but no explosion. Every Frenchman present immediately roars with laughter and shouts, “_Rôti! Rôti!_”

We crawl up the hill, the road luckily having escaped injury during the afternoon, and at length reach the hospital. Then, much lightened, we start back. Coasting slowly down the hill we have a perfect opportunity to observe the horizon.

The sky tonight is softly radiant, a velvety black with myriads of brilliant stars in the upper heavens. Opposite us is another hill, crowned with trees which break gently into the skyline. Above these the sky flashes and sparkles in iridescent glory. The thundering batteries light up everything with brilliant flashes, and the star-shells springing up over No Man’s Land hang for an instant high in the air with dazzling brilliancy, and then fading, drift slowly earthward. The artillery signals (Verrey Lights, rockets carrying on their sticks one, two, three, and four lights) dart up everywhere. A raider purrs overhead, and golden bursts of shrapnel crack in the sky. All merge together, first one, then another standing forth to catch the eye for a brief second, the kaleidoscopic brilliancy lifting one up out of the depths of the mire to forget for a moment why these lights flare—treacherous will o’ the wisps leading men on to death—and one sees only the wonderful beauty of the scene: a picture impressed on the memory which makes all seem worth while. One sight of these causes the discomforts and dangers of the day’s work to fade, and they become a symbol—a pillar of fire leading on to the victory that is coming when Right shall have conquered Might, and the tortured world can again breathe freely.

* * * * *

IT is night, and the chill mist has settled close to the ground. It is cold and damp, but the front is always cold and damp so no one comments on it. We are several feet underground and that augments the chill somewhat, but as here one lives underground he does not think of that. There is a little breeze outside, for the burlap that hangs at the foot of the stairs leading to the outer world quivers, and the lone candle flickers uncertainly, casting weird shadows from the black steel roof on the sleeping forms. The sides of the _abri_ are lined with bunks, wooden frames covered with wire netting, upon which lie sprawled _brancardiers_, _poilus_, and in one an American has managed to locate himself quite comfortably. The _abri_ is short, and the few bunks are at a premium.

Two of our men are asleep,—one on the floor, another in a bunk. The rest of us wrap our coats around us and smoke pensively. We think of home, and wonder what our friends there are doing just now. It is August and slightly after midnight. The time difference makes it a few minutes past six in the States. At the seashore they are coming in from canoeing and swimming, sitting around before dinner, discussing the plans for the evening and the happenings of the day. At the mountains they are finishing rounds of golf or sets of tennis, and the pink and gold of the sunset is crowning the peaks with a fading burst of glory. Soon the fights of the hotel will shine brightly forth into the gathering gloom, and the dance music will strike up.

Each tells the others just what he would be doing at the moment were he in the States, and comments. It is all done in an absolutely detached manner, just as one describes incidents and chapters in books. We think we would like to be home now, but we know that we would rather not. We are perfectly contented to be doing what we are doing, and do not envy those at home. Nor do we begrudge any of them the pleasant times they may be having. In fact, if we thought they were giving them up we would be miserable. One cannot think about this war for long at a time, and when one meditates it is to speculate on what is happening at home. One gloats over imaginary dances, theatres, and all varieties of good times. I have often enjoyed monologue discussions with my friends, or imagined myself doing any one of the many things I might have been doing. It is the lonesome man’s chief standby to five by proxy.

Outside there is continually the dull thunder of the guns. They are evidently firing _tir de barrage_, for there is a certain regularity in the wave of sound that rumbles in on us. Perhaps the barrage is falling on the roads behind the enemy lines, cutting off and destroying his supply trains. Perhaps it is trying to sweep some of his batteries out of existence, or perhaps it is falling on his trenches, taking its toll of nerve and life. Again we can only conjecture. There is the continual whine of his shells rushing overhead, and the _crump-crump_ of their breaking in the near distance. Then the enemy starts a little sweeping of his own, and the _arrivées_ begin to fall in an arc which draws steadily nearer, until a thunder clap just outside and the rattling of _éclats_, dirt, and tree fragments on the roof, make you rejoice in your cover, and you chuckle as a _brancardier_ sleepily remarks, “_Entrez!_” You wonder curiously, and listen expectantly to see if the next will fall on you; then you doze again or say something to the man beside you.