Part 3

Inside there is an equal variety of sounds. There are _poilus_ snoring in seven different octaves, there is the splutter of the candle overhead, and from one corner an occasional moan from some wounded man, growing more frequent as the night wears on. We may not take him in until we have enough for a load. Soon there is the sound of feet on the stairs, and a _brancardier_ stumbles in leading a man raving wildly, with his head swathed in fresh bandages rapidly staining with the oozing blood. Some one moves, and he is seated and given a cup of _Pinard_ and a cigarette, which he accepts gratefully. We get ready to go out to the ambulance, but the doctor shakes his head—we have not a load yet. Some of the regulations perplex us; but it is not our business, so we light up our pipes again and snuggle down into our fur coats, dozing and listening to the whine of the shells outside and the moans inside. Then, after a while, another _blessé_ is brought to the door and the doctor nods. Two of us jump up, snatch our _musettes_, run to the car, and assist the _brancardiers_ in shoving in the third man, who is unconscious. Then we crank up, and after some minutes of manœuvring in the deep mud reach the road and start for the hospital.

* * * * *

THE black of the night, split by the star-shells and the batteries, has given place to the grey of the dawn. All is still and quiet, with the rare crash of a battery or an _arrivée_ alone breaking the silence. There is no sign of the sun, and it will be some hours before it breaks through the early mist to smile upon us for a few brief moments before the never-ending rain envelops us again,—for it is the _mauvais temps_.

After lying for two hours in one of the bunks in the _abri_, and vainly endeavoring to keep warm with two _blessé_ blankets, I arise stiffly and crawl out into the fresh air. The _blessé_ blankets are single blankets quartered and, as they are assigned for use in the ambulances and _abris_ for the wounded, often bring little visitors.

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

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

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.

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.