VII“Raising Hell Down at Epernay”Sir Philip Sidney, for whom I believe I was more or less hopefully named, gained immortal fame by giving his last drop of water to a dying comrade on the field of battle. I desire to mention that I gave my last cigarette to a perfectly live stretcher bearer while under shell fire. For twenty-four hours I had been stationed at the dug-out in the canal bank in front of the Esperance farm; the place where I had been the first time I went to post. Several time since I had gone there and now felt quite at home in those surroundings.During the last twenty-four hours shells had been coming in with a fair regularity. The Germans were endeavoring to drive out a battery which evidently had given them some annoyance. In a comparatively short period I counted more than a hundred shells, shrieking over my head, striking and bursting a hundred yards in front of me, throwing the earth in every direction, the rocks and pieces of shell spattering around close to where I stood. Several trees were cut down by the bombardment and they fell like so many twigs.I had been alone during those twenty-four hours and had begun to realize that waiting for a run was quite as trying as the run itself, particularly as I could observe that when I did start I would be obliged to pass uncomfortably close to the corner where the shells were hitting. Toward the end of the afternoon some wounded came straggling in. After twenty-four hours under whistling shells I was glad to start back to Ludes and to a cigarette.I spent the early evening at the little Swiss chalet. About nine o’clock I received a call to carry two wounded officers back to the town of Epernay. It was a beautiful, cool, moonlight evening and I enjoyed the prospect of the peaceful drive away from the sound of the war, not realizing that there was a rather interesting evening in store for me. I drove across the Marne into the town of Epernay at about eleven o’clock and took one of the wounded officers to the principal hospital there. The other officer I was instructed to take on to another hospital, located at the top of a hill on the outskirts of the town. Epernay is an old town and the streets are narrow, winding, and quite as confusing as Boston, particularly when driving at night without lights.As I pulled up the hill out on an open road in sight of the hospital, I saw a flash of light in the sky, followed by a sharp report—then there was a shower of lights much like rockets followed by a series of reports. As I stopped the car in the hospital grounds and was assisting stretcher bearers to lift out the wounded officer, I could hear the droning of several aeroplanes overhead but could not see them. Hospital aides, half dressed in white trousers, and in bare feet, were crowded in the doorway. Everyone understood what was happening. The Germans had come over in numbers for one of their periodical raids.Incendiary bombs were now dropping down in the heart of the town where I had just passed. Church bells were ringing as a warning for all civilians to take to their caves—a warning which seemed quite superfluous. There was a terrific explosion, followed by a burst of flames which lighted up the sky. A building had been set on fire. Standing beside my car, I took off my fatigue cap and substituted my steel helmet, which I always carried with me when not actually wearing it. Steel helmets have saved many lives. The bombardment became more furious as time went on—bombs were dropping on various parts of the city. Several powerful searchlights began to sweep the heavens and two broad shafts of light crossed, and in the cross they held in view a German plane. It was flying low and not far overhead from where I stood. The two searchlights followed the movement of the plane and held it in the cross while the anti-aircraft guns opened fire. I could see the shells bursting underneath the plane but none hit and quickly the plane flew out of range and disappeared from sight. But the raiders continued the bombardment.Having waited for some time for the firing to cease I decided to start back for post at Ludes. Unless there was very good reason for not doing so, we were expected to return to post as soon as we had finished the errand which had taken us away. To drive back it was necessary for me to return through the heart of the town were the bombs had fallen and were still falling. So far as possible I kept on the “shady” side of the street out of the moonlight, pausing at every corner for a moment. Sometimes there would be a deafening crash near by. I would stop—put my head down and my arms over my face, then would drive quickly into the next street. I passed the postoffice just after it was hit—pieces of shutters, doors and glass were littered about the street and I feared for punctured tires. I drove on a short distance, turned around and went back, pausing in front of the demolished building, but could hear no sound. The street was absolutely deserted. As I continued my drive over the deserted streets the only sign of humanity I would see was an occasional soldier with his gun standing in the comparative shelter of a doorway.Before leaving the town I stopped for a moment at the hospital where I had first been and an officer who could speak a little English asked me to stay all night in the “cave.” “It is a bad night to be out,” he said. The invitation was alluring, but I decided to push on to Ludes.To get out of the town I must recross the bridge over the Marne, close to the railroad station, and I had been informed that raiders were making a particular effort to hit the station. As I shot out across the bridge in the broad moonlight, in full view from above, I could see some freight cars burning. I wished that some friend were sittting beside me, but I often wished that on these lonely nerve-racking night drives.When I drew out into the open country I felt no inclination to turn on my lights, for I had heard of a staff car just a short while before driving over the same road. The driver had turned on his lights. The target was seen from an aeroplane—a bomb was dropped with accurate aim, demolishing the car and killing all the occupants.Reaching Ludes some time in the middle of the night, I stepped over the form of Curtis, who, curled up in his blankets, was asleep on the floor. He awoke and sleepily inquired: “Who’s there?” I told him. “Anything going on?” he inquired still sleepily.“Seem to be raising hell down at Epernay,” I told him quietly, so as not to awaken anyone who might be sleeping.“That so?” muttered Curtis, and with no more show of interest went back to sleep.The next day I learned that many houses had been destroyed. Five wounded soldiers had been killed in the hospital where I had been invited to spend the night.
Sir Philip Sidney, for whom I believe I was more or less hopefully named, gained immortal fame by giving his last drop of water to a dying comrade on the field of battle. I desire to mention that I gave my last cigarette to a perfectly live stretcher bearer while under shell fire. For twenty-four hours I had been stationed at the dug-out in the canal bank in front of the Esperance farm; the place where I had been the first time I went to post. Several time since I had gone there and now felt quite at home in those surroundings.
During the last twenty-four hours shells had been coming in with a fair regularity. The Germans were endeavoring to drive out a battery which evidently had given them some annoyance. In a comparatively short period I counted more than a hundred shells, shrieking over my head, striking and bursting a hundred yards in front of me, throwing the earth in every direction, the rocks and pieces of shell spattering around close to where I stood. Several trees were cut down by the bombardment and they fell like so many twigs.
I had been alone during those twenty-four hours and had begun to realize that waiting for a run was quite as trying as the run itself, particularly as I could observe that when I did start I would be obliged to pass uncomfortably close to the corner where the shells were hitting. Toward the end of the afternoon some wounded came straggling in. After twenty-four hours under whistling shells I was glad to start back to Ludes and to a cigarette.
I spent the early evening at the little Swiss chalet. About nine o’clock I received a call to carry two wounded officers back to the town of Epernay. It was a beautiful, cool, moonlight evening and I enjoyed the prospect of the peaceful drive away from the sound of the war, not realizing that there was a rather interesting evening in store for me. I drove across the Marne into the town of Epernay at about eleven o’clock and took one of the wounded officers to the principal hospital there. The other officer I was instructed to take on to another hospital, located at the top of a hill on the outskirts of the town. Epernay is an old town and the streets are narrow, winding, and quite as confusing as Boston, particularly when driving at night without lights.
As I pulled up the hill out on an open road in sight of the hospital, I saw a flash of light in the sky, followed by a sharp report—then there was a shower of lights much like rockets followed by a series of reports. As I stopped the car in the hospital grounds and was assisting stretcher bearers to lift out the wounded officer, I could hear the droning of several aeroplanes overhead but could not see them. Hospital aides, half dressed in white trousers, and in bare feet, were crowded in the doorway. Everyone understood what was happening. The Germans had come over in numbers for one of their periodical raids.
Incendiary bombs were now dropping down in the heart of the town where I had just passed. Church bells were ringing as a warning for all civilians to take to their caves—a warning which seemed quite superfluous. There was a terrific explosion, followed by a burst of flames which lighted up the sky. A building had been set on fire. Standing beside my car, I took off my fatigue cap and substituted my steel helmet, which I always carried with me when not actually wearing it. Steel helmets have saved many lives. The bombardment became more furious as time went on—bombs were dropping on various parts of the city. Several powerful searchlights began to sweep the heavens and two broad shafts of light crossed, and in the cross they held in view a German plane. It was flying low and not far overhead from where I stood. The two searchlights followed the movement of the plane and held it in the cross while the anti-aircraft guns opened fire. I could see the shells bursting underneath the plane but none hit and quickly the plane flew out of range and disappeared from sight. But the raiders continued the bombardment.
Having waited for some time for the firing to cease I decided to start back for post at Ludes. Unless there was very good reason for not doing so, we were expected to return to post as soon as we had finished the errand which had taken us away. To drive back it was necessary for me to return through the heart of the town were the bombs had fallen and were still falling. So far as possible I kept on the “shady” side of the street out of the moonlight, pausing at every corner for a moment. Sometimes there would be a deafening crash near by. I would stop—put my head down and my arms over my face, then would drive quickly into the next street. I passed the postoffice just after it was hit—pieces of shutters, doors and glass were littered about the street and I feared for punctured tires. I drove on a short distance, turned around and went back, pausing in front of the demolished building, but could hear no sound. The street was absolutely deserted. As I continued my drive over the deserted streets the only sign of humanity I would see was an occasional soldier with his gun standing in the comparative shelter of a doorway.
Before leaving the town I stopped for a moment at the hospital where I had first been and an officer who could speak a little English asked me to stay all night in the “cave.” “It is a bad night to be out,” he said. The invitation was alluring, but I decided to push on to Ludes.
To get out of the town I must recross the bridge over the Marne, close to the railroad station, and I had been informed that raiders were making a particular effort to hit the station. As I shot out across the bridge in the broad moonlight, in full view from above, I could see some freight cars burning. I wished that some friend were sittting beside me, but I often wished that on these lonely nerve-racking night drives.
When I drew out into the open country I felt no inclination to turn on my lights, for I had heard of a staff car just a short while before driving over the same road. The driver had turned on his lights. The target was seen from an aeroplane—a bomb was dropped with accurate aim, demolishing the car and killing all the occupants.
Reaching Ludes some time in the middle of the night, I stepped over the form of Curtis, who, curled up in his blankets, was asleep on the floor. He awoke and sleepily inquired: “Who’s there?” I told him. “Anything going on?” he inquired still sleepily.
“Seem to be raising hell down at Epernay,” I told him quietly, so as not to awaken anyone who might be sleeping.
“That so?” muttered Curtis, and with no more show of interest went back to sleep.
The next day I learned that many houses had been destroyed. Five wounded soldiers had been killed in the hospital where I had been invited to spend the night.