VIThe “Crusader”It was some time after nine o’clock and growing dark when a French soldier came up and handed me a slip of paper bearing a message which had just come over the telephone. The message conveyed instructions for me to drive down the road a couple of miles to a front line dressing station, where I would find wounded who had just been carried in. I was informed that the call was urgent. Though I am not fearless by any means, I did not feel frightened as I walked out to my car and started the engine; but I noticed that my heart was beating rapidly.A few French soldiers waved to me and called “Au ’voir” as I got in the seat and was off down the road, first to the left, then to the right, then straight ahead as fast as I dared drive. The road took me directly in front of the French batteries, and in the growing darkness the flashes of fire from the guns and the concussion in my face made it seem as if they were firing directly at me, not over me. I drove on till I reached the post to which I had been sent, then backed up my ambulance around near the entrance to the dug-out and stopped. An officer stepped up and shook hands with me and in English said: “The American drives fast.”He explained to me that the wounded were being cared for and would soon be ready for the journey. A small group of silent stretcher bearers were standing near the entrance to the dug-out. The firing increased in intensity—the battle of the night was on. The officer remarked to me: “The Germans are very angry.” I handed the officer a cigarette and lighted one myself. I have found that tobacco is a great solace to the nerves when under fire. We continued our broken conversation. “Do you come from New York?” he asked.“Near New York,” I replied. Every place east of Chicago is near New York when you are over three thousand miles away.“Do you like champagne?” he inquired. It was not an invitation, he was merely getting my point of view. We were standing within a few miles of the richest champagne producing vineyards in the world. Then I looked in the direction of the dug-out, into the dimly lighted entrance, and I saw stretcher bearers slowly coming out bearing a wounded soldier and I braced myself for the first shock of the horrors of war. Gently the wounded soldier was lifted into my ambulance, then two more wounded were carried out. I closed and fastened the back curtain of the car, started the engine and climbed into the seat. “Drive gently,” said the officer, shaking hands with me. “Thank you, good-night,” and I started on the return trip, in the dark without lights.As I drove back to the town of Ludes, troops were moving to the front under the cover of darkness and I was obliged to blow my whistle continually. Now and then a large camion would loom up suddenly in the darkness directly in front of me—a little blacker than the darkness itself—that is how I could see it. I would turn quickly to avoid being hit. We always drove without lights at the front. Half way up the long hill leading to the town of Verzenay the water was boiling in the radiator and the engine was hitting on three cylinders—I wondered if I would make the heavy grade; I wondered if a bursting shell would sweep the road; I wondered if I would get the wounded safely back; I wondered about many things in those moments on my first night drive in the dark. On through the dark winding narrow streets of the town of Verzeney, at one place driving with difficulty through a flock of sheep, on in safety to the town of Ludes to the building which served as a field hospital. I felt a great sense of relief when I drew up at the entrance safely back with my wounded.Then I drove back to the little Swiss chalet to await my next call. Before turning in for a little sleep I stood in the entrance listening to the continual firing along the front and watching the signal rockets, the star shells, and the flashes of the guns. Then I went inside, climbed over a sleeping companion, found a vacant space on the floor, rolled up in my blanket, put my coat under my head and went to sleep.I had not been sleeping long when the telephone bell rang. It was my turn out again. This time I received instructions to drive over into another direction to a château which served as the headquarters of a French General. Château Romont it was called. There I was to await further instructions. So I parked my car in the courtyard and was led down into the dark cellar of the château. As I entered I could hear heavy breathing—evidently some one was sleeping there. A light was made and I was shown a rough cot where I might sleep until needed. Again I curled up in my blanket and was quickly asleep. I had only been asleep for a few minutes when some one touched me on the shoulder and awakened me. This time I was to drive over to the shell wrecked town of Sillery. It was then about four in the morning, the dawn was grey and then a streak of red in the east over the line of German trenches. The firing had subsided to some extent.Into the shell wrecked town of Sillery I drove, and I could see in the growing light that many houses had been levelled to the ground and there were none at all that did not bear the marks of battle. I drove into a court yard, inside the gate of which there was a large shell hole. Stretcher bearers were waiting for me—there was no delay this time. Two men were lifted into the car. They were suffering very great agony but I could see no marks of blood. I understood at once—they were victims of poison gas.This time there was no need to drive slowly back again to the town of Ludes to the hospital. It was broad daylight when I reached there. A sleepy stretcher bearer came out carrying a lantern, which was not needed. The two men were lifted out of the car and lowered to the ground. They were writhing in agony—one of them rolled off his stretcher into the gutter, and died at my feet. That was my first night on duty at the front—that was my baptism of fire.
It was some time after nine o’clock and growing dark when a French soldier came up and handed me a slip of paper bearing a message which had just come over the telephone. The message conveyed instructions for me to drive down the road a couple of miles to a front line dressing station, where I would find wounded who had just been carried in. I was informed that the call was urgent. Though I am not fearless by any means, I did not feel frightened as I walked out to my car and started the engine; but I noticed that my heart was beating rapidly.
A few French soldiers waved to me and called “Au ’voir” as I got in the seat and was off down the road, first to the left, then to the right, then straight ahead as fast as I dared drive. The road took me directly in front of the French batteries, and in the growing darkness the flashes of fire from the guns and the concussion in my face made it seem as if they were firing directly at me, not over me. I drove on till I reached the post to which I had been sent, then backed up my ambulance around near the entrance to the dug-out and stopped. An officer stepped up and shook hands with me and in English said: “The American drives fast.”
He explained to me that the wounded were being cared for and would soon be ready for the journey. A small group of silent stretcher bearers were standing near the entrance to the dug-out. The firing increased in intensity—the battle of the night was on. The officer remarked to me: “The Germans are very angry.” I handed the officer a cigarette and lighted one myself. I have found that tobacco is a great solace to the nerves when under fire. We continued our broken conversation. “Do you come from New York?” he asked.
“Near New York,” I replied. Every place east of Chicago is near New York when you are over three thousand miles away.
“Do you like champagne?” he inquired. It was not an invitation, he was merely getting my point of view. We were standing within a few miles of the richest champagne producing vineyards in the world. Then I looked in the direction of the dug-out, into the dimly lighted entrance, and I saw stretcher bearers slowly coming out bearing a wounded soldier and I braced myself for the first shock of the horrors of war. Gently the wounded soldier was lifted into my ambulance, then two more wounded were carried out. I closed and fastened the back curtain of the car, started the engine and climbed into the seat. “Drive gently,” said the officer, shaking hands with me. “Thank you, good-night,” and I started on the return trip, in the dark without lights.
As I drove back to the town of Ludes, troops were moving to the front under the cover of darkness and I was obliged to blow my whistle continually. Now and then a large camion would loom up suddenly in the darkness directly in front of me—a little blacker than the darkness itself—that is how I could see it. I would turn quickly to avoid being hit. We always drove without lights at the front. Half way up the long hill leading to the town of Verzenay the water was boiling in the radiator and the engine was hitting on three cylinders—I wondered if I would make the heavy grade; I wondered if a bursting shell would sweep the road; I wondered if I would get the wounded safely back; I wondered about many things in those moments on my first night drive in the dark. On through the dark winding narrow streets of the town of Verzeney, at one place driving with difficulty through a flock of sheep, on in safety to the town of Ludes to the building which served as a field hospital. I felt a great sense of relief when I drew up at the entrance safely back with my wounded.
Then I drove back to the little Swiss chalet to await my next call. Before turning in for a little sleep I stood in the entrance listening to the continual firing along the front and watching the signal rockets, the star shells, and the flashes of the guns. Then I went inside, climbed over a sleeping companion, found a vacant space on the floor, rolled up in my blanket, put my coat under my head and went to sleep.
I had not been sleeping long when the telephone bell rang. It was my turn out again. This time I received instructions to drive over into another direction to a château which served as the headquarters of a French General. Château Romont it was called. There I was to await further instructions. So I parked my car in the courtyard and was led down into the dark cellar of the château. As I entered I could hear heavy breathing—evidently some one was sleeping there. A light was made and I was shown a rough cot where I might sleep until needed. Again I curled up in my blanket and was quickly asleep. I had only been asleep for a few minutes when some one touched me on the shoulder and awakened me. This time I was to drive over to the shell wrecked town of Sillery. It was then about four in the morning, the dawn was grey and then a streak of red in the east over the line of German trenches. The firing had subsided to some extent.
Into the shell wrecked town of Sillery I drove, and I could see in the growing light that many houses had been levelled to the ground and there were none at all that did not bear the marks of battle. I drove into a court yard, inside the gate of which there was a large shell hole. Stretcher bearers were waiting for me—there was no delay this time. Two men were lifted into the car. They were suffering very great agony but I could see no marks of blood. I understood at once—they were victims of poison gas.
This time there was no need to drive slowly back again to the town of Ludes to the hospital. It was broad daylight when I reached there. A sleepy stretcher bearer came out carrying a lantern, which was not needed. The two men were lifted out of the car and lowered to the ground. They were writhing in agony—one of them rolled off his stretcher into the gutter, and died at my feet. That was my first night on duty at the front—that was my baptism of fire.