All about them soldiers were fairly hurling themselves into the dugouts, and the boys would have done the same had they not for the instant been too dazed,—too bewildered to make a move.
And as they stood there, open-mouthed, with staring eyes, gazing straight ahead, they saw a tremendous column of smoke rising menacingly; and mingling with it were tons and tons of earth, rocks and branches—a fear-inspiring, terrible, yet grand and majestic spectacle.
Higher and higher rose the mass; wider and wider it kept spreading out at the base, until a great space of the blue sky became entirely blotted from view. And branching out from the rounded form of the great column of smoke were spurts and jets furiously lashing, twisting and darting about in every conceivable direction.
The terror which held Don and Dunstan fast in their tracks was but momentary, and very fortunate indeed it was for them that this proved to be the case; for they had scarcely dived into a dugout close by before the surroundings were deluged by an avalanche of descending missiles, which fell with terrifying, smashing force, filling the air with the sounds of vicious thuds, crashes and bangs.
Huddled in the darkness, the inmates of the dugout, their frames trembling from the shock, and half expecting to be blown to pieces, awaited the outcome in silence. A limb of a tree clattered down near the entrance; clods of earth shot beside it. And then the faint light which had been coming in through the opening suddenly disappeared, and dense, impenetrable blackness followed—a flood of earth and rocks could be heard pouring into the interior.
The ambulanciers and the soldiers were entombed. And scarcely had this startling fact been impressed upon their minds than a tremendous shower of smaller particles, making a din like the heaviest kind of hail, began to descend. And although the noise was very great they could faintly hear the reports of more rifles than they had ever before heard at any one time in their lives. A tremendous fusillade was going on.
"The Boches have mined the trench, and are attacking!"
These words were yelled from somewhere in the darkness—a poilu had spoken.
"Mined the trench and are attacking!" echoed Don, huskily.
After all, their visit had not been so very well timed, he thought.
Both ambulanciers possessed their full share of courage, but, nevertheless, they were very much alarmed. Visions of the many dreadful things that might happen filled their brains. Their situation was one of the gravest peril; even should they escape injury or death it might mean that their careers as Red Cross drivers were over and that they would be obliged to await the great war's termination in some prison camp.
The poilus, three of them, were now making a determined effort to remove the obstruction at the entrance to the dugout. It was hard work. As fast as they dislodged the yielding soil, the opening filled up again. But finally the hot, excited Frenchmen succeeded, and, with yells expressive of satisfaction and defiance, first one and then another clambered up the ladder and crawled into the trench.
Only a moment or two had elapsed when the sharp cracking of rifles apprised Don and Dunstan of the fact that these soldiers of the Republic were doing their part in helping to check the enemy.
The first impulse of the ambulanciers was to get out of the dismal darkness, but the loud explosion of a hand grenade, which landed almost outside, made them hastily reconsider.
"Something doing up there!" shouted Dunstan, his face close to Don's.
"Awful!" cried the aviator's son. He shuddered. "Here we are—caught—almost as helpless as rats in a trap. The trench is so far in advance of the support lines that the Germans may succeed in cutting us off. Whew! Just listen!"
The cracking of rifles—of machine guns—was simply terrific. But occasionally the keen ears of the boys caught other sounds even more terrible, more sinister than these ceaseless reports—the human voice raised as if in uncontrollable fury—as if in the greatest desperation and pain. The Red Cross men, listening, with every nerve at the keenest tension, knew what was going on—the hostile forces had come together and in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict were fighting with all the savagery and ferocity of wild animals of the jungle.
At last the howls and shouts and yells abruptly ended.
Had the French lines broken before the attack? Were the Germans in the trench?
Unable to bear the suspense, Don Hale sprang for the ladder. Cautiously, he began to mount; anxiously, he poked his head above the opening.
Then he drew a long thankful breath. The blue line had held.
French soldiers were still on the firing-step, sending volley after volley toward the east. Ahead a great portion of the trench had been utterly demolished; there was no longer any parapet or parados, but a mass of earth jumbled and piled together in the most extraordinary confusion. Nearer at hand débris choked up the passageway.
Don Hale allowed his gaze to rest on this evidence of destruction for only a moment. Something else had attracted the boy's attention and drawn an exclamation from his lips. Thick, impenetrable clouds of smoke were rolling slowly across the narrow strip of "No Man's Land," and he realized at once the reason for it—the Germans had created a curtain by means of smoke bombs in order to conceal their movements. Perhaps at that very instant they were ready to launch another attack.
Never at any time since his entrance into the war zone had the aviator's son felt peril to be so imminent. Should he and Dunstan venture forth they would expose themselves to the chance of being hit by some of the flying bullets; should they remain there was the possibility of capture.
A prey to the keenest apprehension and fears, he dropped back into the gloom and shadow of the dugout.
"This is worse than the 'Chemin de Mort,'" he cried.
"Very much so, Don, old chap," shouted Dunstan in reply.
Crouching against the wall, the ambulanciers vainly tried to gain some indication of the trend of events.
Sometimes, mingling in with the firing, they heard the voices again, and though fainter than before distance could not rob the sounds of their forbidding nature.
An hour passed—an hour such as neither had ever before experienced. It was filled with every sort of alarm. Veritable streams of shot and shell were crashing over the trench, and at times it seemed to the boys as if the crucial moment had at last arrived and that the host of gray-uniformed invaders must be sweeping down upon them through the smoke clouds.
And then, when both least expected it, there came a second cessation in the violence of the battle; the mitrailleuses and other machine guns stopped their fire altogether, while the sharp, vicious snapping of the rifles was heard only at intervals.
"Great Cæsar! can it be possible that the attack has been repulsed?" cried Don, inexpressible relief and hope in his voice.
"Let's take a look! Let's take a look!" shouted Dunstan.
Without an instant's hesitation Don Hale ran up the ladder; without an instant's hesitation he climbed outside the dugout.
Yes, there could be no doubt about it—the blue line still held. And the smoke cloud over "No Man's Land" had vanished.
A wave of joy surged through the aviator's son.
"Ils ne passeront pas!" he exclaimed in a fervent voice to Dunstan, who was now standing beside him.
"No—'ils ne passeront pas!'"
The air they breathed was impregnated with the odor of burning gunpowder; smoke drifted through the trench, and everywhere they looked a bluish haze filled the atmosphere.
Joyous as the ambulanciers were at their deliverance, they could not help but feel saddened at the thought of the many casualties which certainly must have occurred, not only through the great mine explosion itself but on account of the desperate nature of the assault which followed. Though both were intensely anxious to know just what had happened they realized that it was not a time to seek information from the stern-faced soldiers on the firing-step. On looking about, however, they discovered a poilu not much older than themselves leaning heavily against the rear wall.
Don, walking forward, ventured to address him.
"Did the Germans get anywhere near the trench?" he queried, eagerly.
The young soldier nodded.
"I think so," he replied. "Some were almost on top of us before we stopped them. But now that it's all over I can scarcely recall anything clearly. My head's in a whirl. But they tell me that wave after wave of the Boches rolled up, and then thinner waves rolled back again. It was terrible—awful!"
A perceptible shudder shook the young soldier's frame.
"Come on, Dunstan!" shouted Don, suddenly.
The art student instantly discovered what had attracted his companion's attention. Stretcher bearers were making their way over the heaps of débris ahead in search of the wounded. Don was already hurrying toward them, and Dunstan sprang to join him.
The nerves of the ambulanciers had on many occasions been put to pretty severe tests, so they were now rapidly recovering from the effects of their thrilling experience; but they were still in a situation of the gravest danger, for shells were every now and again screeching overhead.
Quickly reaching the brancardiers, the two were face to face with a scene which but for their experiences as Red Cross drivers would have perhaps made them falter and turn pale. The attack had exacted its full toll of dead and wounded. Many of both lay about, and the stretcher bearers were busily engaged in carrying the wounded to the dressing station just behind the lines.
Two, close at hand, were feverishly trying to release a wounded, half-unconscious poilu pinned down by a supporting timber of the trench.
The Red Cross men at once leaped to their assistance, though each had the uncomfortable realization that there was no shelter to protect them from the enemy's fire.
No words were exchanged by any of the four. The brancardiers used their spades while Don and Dunstan laid hold of the timber. By their united efforts it was at last raised and dragged aside. The two Red Cross drivers helped to place the soldier on the stretcher, and as they did so he opened his eyes and exclaimed, weakly:
"Well, I thought the Boches had got me that time—but they didn't."
"You are mighty fortunate," commented Don.
With a grave face, the boy looked over the ghastly battle-field and at the bodies of the blue-clad soldiers who had faced the Germans for the last time and died for their country. Harrowing as the scene was, however, he realized that at such a time emotions must be held in check; the duty of all was to the living.
Accordingly, he was glancing around, in order to see where he might be of help, when an officer approached. In sharp, authoritative tones, he commanded them to get away from that immediate vicinity with all possible speed.
"You are lucky not to have been killed," he declared.
"That's just how we feel about it," remarked the aviator's son, grimly.
"We have plenty of men here to do the work," continued the officer. "There's no use of your taking any chances. The Red Cross needs you."
The two, obeying his mandate, climbed down into the trench and started back the way they had come.
A little further along a communication trench opened out before them, and, swinging into this, they kept up a lively pace—or at least as lively as they could with so many soldiers constantly moving about in both directions.
No stops were made, however, for every now and then the cannonading started up afresh. The reports of rifle-firing in the trenches, too, carried over the air with unpleasant distinctness.
"I reckon when Chase hears our story he'll be mighty glad he didn't come along," declared Don.
"I reckon you're right about that," chuckled Dunstan. "By the way, old chap, it's becoming kind of sultry. To my mind, a storm is brewing."
"I wish I thought you were mistaken, but I don't."
"And both of us are on call to-night."
"Yes; and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they'd need us at the outpost."
Following the devious wanderings of the boyau, the two finally emerged upon a recently-constructed military road which led up over the slope of a hill. From that time on they made rapid progress, and both were well pleased indeed when, hot, dusty and perspiring, they reached the headquarters of the Ambulance unit.
Naturally the story Don and Dunstan had to relate proved very interesting to the members of the section. But it did not create a sensation; in fact it would have required something very wonderful indeed to create a sensation among those young but seasoned drivers of the Red Cross. At any rate, however, it furnished a good topic of conversation for the rest of the day.
"If you will pull chestnuts out of the fire you must expect to get burnt," declared Chase on one occasion, as Don and Dunstan were busily at work in the courtyard overhauling and cleaning Number Eight.
"I suppose so," said the aviator's son, smilingly.
After supper the crowd gathered outside the old hotel, and while they were taking things easy on the roadside the rapid firing of anti-aircraft guns came to their ears. Following this they heard the whirring, musical sound of airplane propellers, and presently a fleet of German planes on a reconnoitering expedition was seen approaching.
Pale and gossamer-like, and flying in groups of three, they presented a very beautiful appearance. As the shells burst uncomfortably close the machines began to separate, some veering directly toward the road on which the Red Cross men had gathered.
Burst after burst of whitish smoke kept pace with them, and the boys could not help admiring the courage of the airmen, as they maneuvered their machines this way and that in order to escape the explosives.
"The planes are perfectly delightful to see," said "Peewee." "I'd almost like to be an airman myself."
"It's too high a calling for you," grinned Chase.
Suddenly the anti-aircraft guns to the east ceased firing and others to the west began to send forth reports.
And while the drivers stood there, craning their necks and regarding the spectacle with the utmost interest, a curious sort of whistling and pattering began to sound close at hand. "Peewee" was the first to realize what it meant.
With a loud yell of alarm he made a dash for the hotel.
And the others immediately left that particular spot with the same ludicrous haste.
The distance of a dozen yards or so to the entrance was covered just in time. The spent anti-aircraft projectiles were dropping from the sky; and the way they thudded and banged on the roof of the Hotel de la Palette and upon the roadway just outside made the crowd feel devoutly thankful that they were under shelter.
"A pretty narrow escape, I should say!" chirped "Peewee," pleasantly, when the flurry had subsided.
"You bet! But for our record-breaking sprint we might have been caught," said Chase.
"Ha, ha!" laughed "Peewee." "Oh, my! Oh, my! Won't things be dull when we get away from here! It will seem so awfully odd not to have to shake in one's shoes and tremble every little while."
"I'd like to see a motion picture of ourselves crossing the road," chuckled John Weymouth.
"I wouldn't," giggled "Peewee."
Having satisfied themselves that the danger was all over, the crowd made a sortie. They saw the German airplanes sweeping around, preparatory to returning to their own lines. And as several of the machines reached a certain position in the sky the rays of the sun, now low in the west, streaming through an opening in the clouds, caught the wings, and for one brief instant they flashed and sparkled with a golden reflection.
Now flying at a much higher altitude, shells failed to reach their level, and very soon the airplanes became but faint purplish specks in the distance.
"I guess the war-birds are skimming back home fast so as not to get caught in the rain," laughed "Tiny" Mason.
Great masses of cumulus clouds were piling up in the west and the air which blew in their faces came in hot, fitful gusts. As time went on the whole aspect of the sky became more ominous and threatening, and at last lightning glimmered faintly just above the horizon.
"It's going to be Heaven's artillery pitted against man's to-night," remarked the art student, thoughtfully.
"Which impels me to say that I hope to thunder we won't have to go out," declared Chase.
The village street now presented quite a lively appearance; for little groups of reserves here and there surrounded field kitchens, while others were sitting about eating their evening meal. Occasionally a military car, enveloped in a cloud of dust, whizzed by, and as the twilight slowly deepened a couple of camions, one close behind the other, appearing huge and impressive in the gloom, rumbled ponderously over the cobbled road, the first of a long line which, under the protection of darkness, would soon be going toward the front.
Slowly, the shades of night crept over the landscape; the distance became blurred; only the objects that rose against the sky could be seen with any distinctness, and these, too, finally became lost to view in the gathering gloom.
There was nothing very inviting about out-of-doors, so the ambulanciers at length gathered in the dining-room of the hotel, where Dunstan began to amuse himself, as well as the others, by making sketches. Then came the inevitable story-telling and the discussion of various topics, prominent among the last being the mystery of the Château de Morancourt and the strange incident which had occurred during Don, Dunstan and Chase's visit.
"Still an unfinished story!" sighed "Peewee." "When will finis be tacked on to the end, I wonder!"
"Let me ease your misery," grinned Bodkins, taking out his banjo. "I'll play a variation on Shubert's unfinished symphony."
"A variation!" jeered "Peewee." "That's a good name for an unrecognizable collection of tinkles and scraping sounds. Boys, what do you say to tacking the finis sign on that old banjo—instrument of torture, I should say—to-night? All in favor of——"
"Aye, aye, aye!"
A hearty chorus rang through the room.
A HEARTY CHORUS RANG THROUGH THE ROOM.
A HEARTY CHORUS RANG THROUGH THE ROOM.
A HEARTY CHORUS RANG THROUGH THE ROOM.
"The ayes have it," chortled "Peewee." "An axe! An axe! My kingdom for an axe!"
"And while the execution is taking place I'll seize the opportunity to take an observation on the weather," laughed the aviator's son.
Then, as a good-natured scuffling began for the possession of Bodkins' much discussed banjo, he left the cheerfully-lighted room and climbed up a dark stairway to the second floor.
Very soon he was groping his way toward the room formerly occupied by the "patron," or proprietor of the hotel. The window faced to the west, and the boy, presently reaching it, threw up the sash and looked out. Everything was intensely black; his eyes searched in vain for any of the familiar details, but not even the faintest silhouette of a roof or the outlines of a tree could be distinguished.
He had been at his post only a moment or two when there came a bluish flash of lightning which cast a weird glare over the landscape. For the briefest interval of time he had a view of the road and a procession of slowly-moving vehicles. The sweeping outlines of the hills, too, stood out grimly against the sky. Then came the blackness and gloom again, only to be broken by other vivid flashes, one quickly following another.
"It's going to be a wild night, all right," reflected the aviator's son, as he heard the booming of thunder mingling in with the roar of the distant cannon.
He was at an impressionable age, and these successive glares, which revealed the rounded, piled-up masses of storm-clouds and continually brought into view vistas of the surrounding country, impressed him strangely. Occasionally the peals of thunder grew louder, but they were not yet loud enough to drown the never-ending grind and rumble of wheels, the faint rattle of harness and clinking of chains, or the voices of drivers yelling commands to their skittish horses. He wondered if he and Dunstan would be called out at such a time. Don did not shrink from any task which he might be called upon to perform, but nevertheless he could not help heartily wishing that the night might pass without a summons.
"It will be a positive wonder, though, if there isn't something doing," he muttered. "The firing is growing heavier and heavier, and guns of all calibers seem to be at it."
He heard the sound of a step and a cheery voice calling:
"Hello, Don! Where are you?"
"At the observation post," returned the aviator's son.
"And I'll be there in another moment."
Dunstan, after colliding with several pieces of furniture, at length reached the window.
"Humph!—pitch black!" he exclaimed.
"Yes—except when it isn't," exclaimed Don, with a faint chuckle.
"Quite correct!" agreed the art student. "By George! How weird and solemn it all seems! And what curious impressions and thoughts it brings to one's mind!"
"And creepy sensations, too," said Don.
"Very true! To my mind, it is only the very stolid or the unemotional who fail to be impressed by such manifestations of nature."
For a long time the ambulanciers remained at the window and watched the lightning growing steadily brighter. The thunder rolled and reverberated, sounding more and more ominous and menacing.
At length the noise made by several of the boys tramping up to their rooms made them realize that the hour was growing rather late. Making their way to the stairway, they descended to the first floor, and were glad to get back to a region of light and good cheer.
"Ah, how beautiful nature must have looked!" piped "Peewee." "I suppose, mon cher Dunstan, you could see a whole lot of wonderful colors and tones denied to us poor, ordinary mortals?"
"I hope so," laughed Dunstan.
"And I can hear a wonderful lot of beauty in my banjo playing, even if no one else does," giggled Bodkins, who still had the instrument in his possession. "Just let me illustrate what I mean."
"If you do any illustrating by means of sound I will give a very good illustration of the fact that there are limits to even the most amiable of dispositions," said "Peewee." "I hope if the Germans ever capture this town they'll capture that banjo with it."
"Tut, tut, my boy!—another feeble attempt!" chirped the musician. "Let me tell you, gently but firmly, that clever remarks and bright, scintillating touches of wit and humor which lift conversation from the dull and commonplace are not in your line."
"I'll bet you wrote that out and committed it to memory," jeered "Peewee," "and——"
At this instant "Tiny," leaning over the table, blew out the lamp, while John Weymouth, taking Mason's action as his cue, extinguished the other; and with the sudden and unexpected advent of total darkness the colloquy between the two came to an abrupt termination.
"The fact has now been satisfactorily demonstrated that there is a limit even to the most amiable disposition of all," laughed Mason.
Then, with much chuckling and good-natured pushing and jostling, the ambulanciers made a break for the door, and in another moment or two emerged into the "Bureau."[10]There they found the sous chef, Gideon Watts, seated behind the long counter where, in the days long past, the former patron of La Palette had been accustomed to extend a greeting to his guests.
"Sounds like the sortie of a kindergarten," grinned the sous chef. "Nothing doing as yet, mes camarades."
"I guess you do well to emphasize the 'as yet,'" commented Chase, seating himself on a bench.
"We might as well hit the planks, fellows," put in Dunstan. "I declare—whenever I'm on call I feel more sleepy than at any other time."
"The same with me," confessed Weymouth. "But by the sound of things a fellow wouldn't be able to get much sleep no matter how hard he tried. Whew! That real, bona-fide thunder is going to be a winner over the imitation kind."
A deep, booming reverberation, winding up with a succession of crashes, was the occasion of Weymouth's remark.
Of course the drivers who were on call always remained fully dressed, and in order that there might not be an instant's delay in starting, as a rule they got what rest they could on the benches with which the bureau was supplied.
Perceiving that Watts was hard at work on a report, and no doubt being unconsciously affected by the solemnity and grandeur of the warring sounds of nature, the spirit of levity soon left the boys, and, one after another, they spread their blankets and lay down.
Conversation, carried on in subdued tones for some time, at length ceased altogether, though no one had yielded to the inclination to sleep. There seemed to be a curious feeling of unrest, of tense anticipation, which affected all of the Red Cross men and prevented their eyes from closing for more than a few moments at a time.
Don Hale found himself mechanically studying the scene about him. The glow of light from the lamp which stood by the side of the sous chef spread far enough out to reveal the businesslike appearance of the bureau. Numerous bulletins hung on the walls. Some included a list of the members of the section, the squads to which they belonged and the order of the driver's turns. Then, giving a certain military atmosphere to the place, rules and regulations to be observed by "La Section Sanitaire Automobile Americaine" were posted up, as well as documents from the "Médicin divisionnaire" and other officers. But, somehow, the wandering glances of the aviator's son nearly always returned to the bent-over figure of Watts and the telephone close beside him. A spot of light on the instrument that gleamed and sparkled like a star of the first magnitude seemed to have a peculiar, almost annoying fascination for him. Whichever way he moved his head its assertive sparkle caught him in the eye.
"I was almost sure we'd get a call before this," he exclaimed at length.
"Oh, I don't know," returned Watts. "Wendell anticipated that there might be some big doings to-night, and he has six cars stationed at Montaurennes. I hope they will be able to handle all the work."
Chase seemed to give a sigh of relief.
"The storm will soon be here," he declared. "The thunder is steadily growing louder."
"And the artillery, as though to rival its efforts, is pounding away more vigorously than ever," came from a partly-recumbent and shadowy figure in a far corner of the room.
The voice belonged to Dunstan.
"Well, we can't help it," grunted Weymouth.
He eased himself off the bench and after yawning several times began pacing forth and back. The others, weary, with blinking eyes, yet unable to sleep, evidently coming to the conclusion that any sort of action was preferable to remaining still, got up and joined him.
Now the booming of the thunder was giving them an idea of the fury of the storm. When midnight came the almost continuous roar was jarring and shaking the old Hotel de la Palette to its foundation. Window panes and doors rattled noisily, and the ambulanciers, about as wide awake as they had ever been in their lives, listened with feelings of awe as the rushing wind howled and whistled past and drenching torrents of rain beat and splashed against the ancient structure.
"Some poor chaps are getting a mighty good soaking to-night," remarked Don.
"I should think both sides would call off the war while the storm lasts," declared "Tiny." "Now is the time I suppose we ought to hear that 'phone bell ringing."
"Don't mention such a thing," said Dunstan.
Then, as the tumult of the raging storm made conversation difficult, the ambulanciers relapsed into silence. Some again lolled on the benches, while others continued to exercise their limbs.
The crashing of the thunder soon became almost deafening, and through every crack of the windows and door the bluish flashes of lightning gleamed brilliantly. And for hour after hour, with scarcely a lull, the storm kept up its violence.
Glad indeed were the Red Cross men when at length the force of the downpour began to lessen, the wind to quiet down and the lightning to come at longer intervals.
About twoA. M.the last volley of nature's artillery boomed majestically overhead, the last heavy patter of rain-drops was heard, and the tempest, passing on, left the village serene and peaceful, except for the sound of the distant guns.
"Ah, mes amis, I breathe freely again," cried Dunstan. He laughed. "To tell the truth, I had dreadful visions of taking Number Three along that water-soaked road. It shows the folly of borrowing trouble. Be a philosopher. Being a philosopher prevents wrinkles from creasing the brow. It holds the gray hair at bay. It——"
Ting-a-ling! Ting!
With startling clearness, with startling suddenness, the 'phone bell began to ring.
No one uttered an exclamation; no one spoke. But every head was turned on the instant toward Gideon Watts, whose loud "Hello!" sounded simultaneously with the ending of the ringing of the bell.
Every one stepped nearer the counter; every one waited with the utmost eagerness—the utmost interest—to hear the words which would presently fall from the sous chef's lips.
And only an instant elapsed before they came.
"All right, Monsieur le Médecin," he cried. "We'll attend to it right away." Then facing the aviator's son, he added: "A hurry call from Montaurennes, Don—'tres pressé,' too, says the Médecin Savoye. Sorry, old chap. I guess you'll find it isn't any joke, either, getting to the post."
But Don Hale did not wait even to make a reply. Rushing to the bench, he picked up his gas mask and steel helmet, suspended one over his shoulders and slapped the other upon his head.
"Quick, Chase!" he called. "So-long, fellows!"
Then the boy dashed out of the room and in another moment reached the courtyard.
By the aid of his pocket flash-light he cranked the car. The explosive roar and hum of the motor suddenly started up, and, as it began to subside into a series of soft rhythmic notes, Don sprang to his seat. He heard the sound of a door slamming shut and the patter of rapid footsteps—Chase was hurrying over.
Without a word the young chap from Maine climbed up beside him.
"We're off!" exclaimed Don, in a low voice, as he threw in the clutch.
A loud warning blast of the horn went over the air, and ambulance Number Eight began to move slowly forward.
As the Red Cross car rolled under the archway the driver supplemented the work of the horn with a lusty yell.
Even to join the line of moving convoys was a mighty difficult task, and would have been almost impossible but for the fact that ambulances had practically the right of way.
Don Hale, alert, watchful, with a firm hand on the steering wheel, guided Number Eight slowly out into the roadway. The darkness was so intense that he could not see even the wagons passing directly in front—everything, indeed, was swallowed up in a void of blackness, but he knew by the sounds and the shouts of the drivers that an effort was being made to find a place in the line for the Red Cross car.
And then, just at that instant, there came a vivid flash of lightning. Another storm was approaching. And that particular glare served a good purpose. It enabled the boy to discover an opening, and without the slightest hesitation he increased the speed of the car. It swung past the foremost camion, the wheels grazing the front as it passed. Then an abrupt turn, and Ambulance Number Eight, splashing streams of water and mud in every direction, was in the middle of the road, hemmed in by vehicles.
It was risky, nerve-racking work. Now and again wagons lurched unpleasantly close, and horses, rendered skittish and hard to manage by the storm, swung directly in the path of the machine. Then, the young driver was ever mindful of the fact that cars coming from the poste de secours might be encountered at any minute hastening with all speed between the moving walls of vehicles. Don had the prime requisite of a good driver—a cool head and steady nerves—but these were only an aid, and by no means a passport to safety; for in the human element all about him were tired, overworked drivers, and men who sometimes combined recklessness with a lack of skill.
The lightning was again darting from cloud to cloud, or, in forked tongues, crashing earthward; and with each flash the surroundings were revealed with almost startling clearness—the long line of vehicles of every description, the muddy, water-soaked road, full of rivulets, splashing and rushing from pool to pool and reflecting the vivid, blinding illumination, and, on both sides, wrecked, forlorn-looking houses and trees.
"This is the worst ever!" groaned Chase. "It's bad enough here—what will it be when we get to climbing the hill! Don, I don't believe we'll ever make it."
The aviator's son did not reply, because the slightest incautious move might have brought disaster. Occasionally there was barely enough room between the huge, towering camions in which to guide Number Eight in safety.
Now and then the vehicle floundered and jolted from side to side, as one wheel or another slipped into the ruts. Just as they turned a bend in the road and the ancient ports suddenly rose to view—a black, grim pile against an instantaneous glare of bluish light—the rain again started to descend, first in a flurry of big drops splattering noisily against the canvas covering of the ambulance, then in a vicious, lashing downpour which pelted the two in the driver's seat with stinging force. And accompanying the deluge came sweeping blasts of wind that almost took their breath away.
"Awful—awful!" muttered Chase, holding tightly to his seat, while the vehicle, rocking like a boat in a storm, plunged heavily across a torn-up section of the road.
The noise of the wind and rain almost drowned the loud, rough voices of drivers yelling to their horses. Sometimes a heavily-loaded camion became stalled in the mud—then the entire convoy behind it was brought to a standstill, and perhaps held up for minutes at a time.
Don Hale during his service with the Red Cross had been out on many a stormy night, but never on such a wild night as this, and the dangers and difficulties which beset them promised to become far greater. Notwithstanding the weather conditions, both the French and German bombardments steadily grew in intensity. Marmites were continually landing in the fields, both to the right and left of the highway, and the young ambulance driver could not help reflecting on the dangers which awaited them along the Chemin de Mort and at the crossroads.
"Well, we haven't got to take any more chances than the rest," he muttered.
Though his face and eyes were smarting from the wind and rain and he was obliged to bend far over the steering wheel to protect himself from the blasts, Don made a determined effort to drive Number Eight rapidly ahead, but the pace seemed exasperatingly, fearfully slow. The vehicle, exposed to the full force of the elements, shook, staggered and wobbled and sometimes slipped and slid on the mud until it certainly appeared as if Chase's prediction must be fulfilled and the journey come to a disastrous end.
Zigzag streaks of lightning tore the gloom asunder; the peals of thunder crashed and roared with appalling force, following one another so closely as to fill the air with a continuous series of reverberations. And mixed in with all this commotion of nature's forces was the heavy booming of the big guns and the éclats of the dreaded marmites—all forming an awesome combination which would have created a tension in the nerves of the bravest. Struggling hard to keep his wits and faculties about him, Don wondered what the thoughts of his companion might be.
"Poor chap! It's pretty hard on him," he reflected.
Every glare from the heavens disclosed the dripping Chase huddled up in his seat, with a curious, strained expression resting on his face. His appearance suggested that of a person who, finding himself in a terrible situation, has lost every particle of hope.
Don Hale's reflections concerning Manning, however, abruptly ceased.
A bright gleaming flash of light close to the ground, instantly followed by a terrific concussion, made his heart fairly leap. A high-explosive shell had fallen not a hundred yards away. It was only what might have been expected, yet, nevertheless, it both startled and frightened him.
But the aftermath proved even more startling; the lead horses of a six-horse team attached to a returning "empty" began to rear, buck and plunge, in spite of the most strenuous efforts of the postilion driver to control them.
Even above the noises of the storm the ambulanciers could hear the animals' quick, terrified snorts and their iron-shod hoofs crashing down in the mud and water. Instinctively, Don Hale realized that they were turning across the road.
The Red Cross car came to a halt with a jerk. Quick action alone had prevented a collision.
Across the inky heavens darted another forked tongue of electric flame; another and another followed, and in the sustained, blinding glare the boys saw the horses pawing the air in dangerous proximity to the front of the machine. Momentarily Don Hale expected a crash.
"I told you! I told you!" shouted Chase.
A few instants of anxiety—of keen suspense—then came the opportunity for which the boy was looking—the fractious steeds swerved to one side. Ambulance Number Eight shot forward on the second, violently grazed the body of the nearest horse and continued, while the shouts of the postilion driver became quickly drowned in the roar of the rain.
"Adventure number one!" muttered Don, with a great sigh of relief.
In the narrow and rugged passageway he dared not put on many bursts of speed, though at times he shot past several vehicles in quick succession. Presently, however, he was forced to pause—there was not sufficient room to pass between the teams. A series of loud yells, a few vigorous, aggressive blasts of the horn, and the transports on either side began hugging the edge of the road. But still it continued to be slow work. "Tres pressé," the doctor had said, and Don Hale felt that upon his shoulders lay a tremendous responsibility.
"At any rate, we're getting nearer, old chap!" he yelled to Chase.
The crouched-up figure made no reply.
During moments in which the storm lessened the terrific din of the French batteries became more apparent. In every direction, both near and far, they seemed to be pouring forth streams of missiles, and the Germans on the hills beyond were returning a furious fire. Shells passed overhead in both directions, and even the roar of storm and cannon could not drown their sinister whistle—their awe-inspiring shriek. Every now and again they burst startlingly near, the resounding blasts echoing over the air, and as Ambulance Number Eight neared the Chemin de Mort the tension on Don Hale's nerves became so acute that sometimes an involuntary tremor shook his frame.
Now, by means of the lightning, he caught sight of the bend in the road. One of the most critical stages in their whole journey had been reached. For the first time Chase Manning aroused himself, and, sitting erect, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Cautiously, Don Hale took the ambulance around the curve. He heard his companion exclaim:
"The Chemin de Mort!"
"Yes!" cried Don,—"the Chemin de Mort!" He wondered how it happened that the convoys had not yet been halted along that shell-swept road.
"Once we get by I'll feel a bit easier in my mind," he muttered, "or, at least, I shall until old Number Eight draws up to the crossroads."
Would the Chemin de Mort justify its name?
Any speed would have seemed too slow to the youthful driver of the Red Cross ambulance, but the pace at which he was obliged to move tried him to the utmost. He took chances he would scarcely have dared before, and frequently the car was violently jolted and shaken as the hubs of wheels ground against one another in passing.
Don Hale fairly counted the yards; and doubtless every other driver along that section experienced sensations of just such an unpleasant nature as those which affected him.
Possibly it could only be a question of time when some of the projectiles were going to land squarely on the road, as they had often done before. Still, he reflected, a kind fate might protect them. The aviator's son realized, too, that dread and fear meant a lessening of his capacity to act with coolness and judgment, so he strove hard to cast both aside.
Very often the Chemin de Mort and the surrounding hills shot out from the dense obscurity, to become, for the instant, almost as clearly defined as in the broad light of day. They formed a weird—a most impressive spectacle; but each flash brought into view something else that was even more impressive—huge, low-hanging clouds of black smoke which told of the explosions of the marmites.
At length half the distance was covered, and still nothing had happened. Don Hale's spirits took an upward trend.
"So far we're getting along famously, old chap!" he cried to Chase.
"Number Eight has a long way to go yet," responded the young chap from Maine, in a strained voice.
Don sadly missed the companionship of Dunstan—Dunstan, the care-free, the courageous and the hopeful, who by his strength of character helped to impart strength to those around him. And yet he could not blame Chase. His nature was cast in a different mould.
As the ambulance rolled and bumped steadily along, the boy, in spite of all the dangers that surrounded them, could not help but be impressed by the grandeur—the sublimity of the situation. Now the wind was soft and low, now it rose to heights of almost tumultuous fury, and intermingling with its cadences were the sounds of booming guns—of thunder—of pelting rain and exploding shells, all combining to form in his mind a strange, weird symphony—a symphony expressive of terror and tragedy.
Three-quarters of the greatly feared Chemin de Mort were passed in safety. Don Hale's spirits rose still higher. The rain was finally beginning to slacken, for which he felt profoundly thankful. The water was running off his khaki uniform in streams; but discomfort held no place in his mind; all his thoughts were on that bend ahead which would take them into a safer zone.
And, suddenly, he almost jumped from his seat. Again a terrible blast had sounded—not ahead but to the rear.
Where had that shell landed? Was it on the road?
Chase was sitting bolt upright.
"By George! That's the time we nearly caught it!" he shouted.
Don nodded.
"A few moments, more or less, play a great part in this kind of game," he exclaimed, grimly.
But now the bend in the road was right before them, and presently Don gave an exclamation expressive of the keenest satisfaction. The ambulanciers need have no further concern, for the present at least, about the Chemin de Mort—at last, it lay behind them.
The young driver was becoming so much easier in his mind that he began to think of a letter he intended to write to his chum, George Glenn. And wouldn't a description of this wild ride in the stormy night make good reading! The boy thought so—he even chuckled softly to himself, as his mind continued to dwell on the subject.
And then, just as he was about to mention the matter to Chase, there came another appalling roar—a roar and crash so terrific, so frightful in its intensity that the two ambulanciers were almost hurled from their seats.
A perfect deluge of flying mud and stones struck the car.
Ambulance Number Eight came to an abrupt halt. Although almost stunned—almost overwhelmed by the shock—Don Hale had managed to prevent it from crashing into a camion close ahead. He knew what had happened—a shell had landed on an ammunition wagon and fairly blown it to atoms. The lightning showed a huge, towering column of smoke spreading across the road; it also revealed horses lying prostrate in the mud, struggling desperately to rise, and other horses, wild and panic-stricken, kicking, plunging and endeavoring to break away from their restraining traces.
It took some moments before Don Hale could recover the use of his faculties sufficiently to stir from his inaction. His head was aching; his pulse throbbed and jumped; he felt as if he had been almost deafened by the explosion. A frightened horse which had managed to tear itself loose from the wreckage came running madly—furiously along, dragging a part of the traces and barely missing the ambulance as it clattered by.
"Come on, Chase!" yelled Don, springing to the ground.
The road was blocked, and drivers of all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity were hurrying as fast as they could through the mud and water toward the wreck ahead.
Without waiting to see whether Chase intended to join him or not, the boy started off. But he had only gone a dozen yards or so when another tremendous concussion caused him to stagger toward the nearest wagon. And in the grip of a fear he had never known before—a fear that robbed him of his strength—he leaned heavily against it. Half stunned and gasping, Don felt as though the end of all earthly things had come.
And now additional shells began bursting close to the road. Don had a vague, confused impression of seeing men dashing this way and that, but he himself, his faculties for the moment almost paralyzed, was held fast to the spot. And while he stood there in that helpless condition, his form shaking violently, the whole air seemed filled with pandemonium—a hideous whirring, screeching, screaming series of sounds, mingling in with terrific, thunderous blasts that sent violent tremors through the earth and made the huge camions rock and lurch as though they were about to topple into the roadway. Flashing jets of flame from the exploding shells cast a weird, unnatural light over the surroundings, and as if some mighty convulsion of nature was upheaving them, giant geysers of earth, mud and débris shot high in the air, while streams of iron and steel created havoc and destruction on every hand.
The terrified Don Hale heard the thud of bullets and fragments of shells all about him. He seemed to be no longer living in the world but in the midst of some awful inferno from which there was no possibility of escape. But though it was unbelievably, fearfully appalling, he managed to keep his wits about him. Faint, weak, every instant expecting utter annihilation, the boy made an effort to walk forward and just then there came a bright, wicked-looking flash, accompanied by a detonation that seemed fairly to crack his ear-drums. The concussion was great enough to hurl him backward; and while his senses were still reeling from the shock, a veritable stream of earth, thrown up as if from the crater of a volcano in eruption, descended upon him and in a moment he was almost buried beneath a mass of mud.
For a time he remained in a state that was neither consciousness nor yet a lack of consciousness—a state wherein the terror of the situation seemed to be softened to such a degree as to make it easy to bear. When the dull, dazed sensations did finally depart, however, leaving him with a clear understanding of the realities, he gave a gasp of wonderment—of almost stupefaction.
A strange calmness had come into the world—of course only a relative calmness, for the batteries had not ceased to fire; yet the contrast between the present and the immediate past was so remarkable as to make it appear as though such a thing could not be. Was it possible that the bombardment was over? Was it possible that he had gone through such peril and remained unscathed?
With a cry expressive of gladness—of the thankfulness he felt, Don Hale endeavored to regain his feet. But a heavy weight was pinning him down to the earth. He kicked and struggled to free himself from the soft, though tenacious grip of the mud. Now, after a valiant effort, he sat up and jerked one leg out of the mire. It was hard work in his weakened condition. The mud was in his eyes—in his hair. The boy happened to recall the officer's description of life in the trenches during rainy weather, and for the first time since leaving headquarters Don smiled, though the smile was grim and set. At any rate, it served to still further relieve his pent-up, overwrought feelings.
Again he exerted all the strength he possessed and presently the other leg slipped out of the mud. And as he struggled up, unstable on his feet, a great throbbing was in his temple. Like a man on the point of swooning, he clutched the nearest object for support.
Then Don suddenly thought of Chase. A terrible fear that his companion had not been so fortunate as himself took possession of him.
A thick pall of smoke hung over the road; and when the lightning came again he caught a faint, shadowy image, a mere silhouette, of Number Eight standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, but he could see no signs of Chase Manning, indeed, no human beings were in view. The road was deserted—he was alone.
What was to be done? Should he, too, seek some abri by the roadside?
"No—no!" he muttered—"no!"
Though almost choking with the smoke and fumes, he nevertheless raised his voice in a loud cry of:
"Chase—Chase!"
No answer.
Again and again he shouted, and then, as still no response came to his keenly-attuned ears, the boy was filled with dreadful forebodings, and in his anxiety he seemed to momentarily forget all else.
Shells were coming that way again. At any instant the road might be swept by another deadly stream. But Don Hale, whose mental faculties and strength began to return, paying not the slightest heed, started toward the ambulance, often splashing through great pools and puddles. The thunder still rolled and boomed overhead. There were longer intervals, however, between the flashes of lightning and it was not until he arrived quite abreast of the car that the landscape once more sprang into view.
Chase Manning was not in the driver's seat nor was he anywhere to be seen.
"Hello, Chase! Hello!" yelled Don.
Many times he repeated the cry, and if Chase had been uninjured and anywhere near he must have heard the strained, anxious voice of his comrade.
Had a tragedy occurred?
As Don Hale stood there in the middle of the road, with the wind and rain still sweeping against him, he shivered at the thought and at the recollection of the awful moments through which he had passed. It seemed to him a most marvelous thing that any one in that vicinity could have escaped alive.
Putting all the force of his lungs in a final effort, he shouted:
"Chase!—Chase!"
And then, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he made a despairing gesture and hurried away—not in search of an abri, however, but toward the scene of destruction ahead. He felt shocked, depressed and disheartened.
But, all at once, he recalled the words of Doctor Savoye—"Tres pressé." His paramount duty was to take the car to the outpost, if such a thing was possible. He must get there. He would get there. And with this thought, which for the time being drove all doubts, perplexities and worries from his mind, he broke into a run.
Then, very soon, he began hearing voices and footsteps—the drivers of the convoys were returning.
Presently the aviator's son almost stumbled over the prostrate form of a horse. Its body quivered; its iron-shod hoofs flew in all directions. Recovering his balance, the boy, with a startled gasp, leaped aside and continued on, in another moment finding himself close upon a scene of extraordinary confusion. A flash of lightning revealed wagons wrecked and débris strewn along the road. A number of horses were lying about, those which still remained alive, as a result of their furious struggles, having become completely entangled in the harness. Several on their feet immediately started to rear and plunge anew as the men arrived among them.
"Great Julius Cæsar! This is another dangerous game," murmured the aviator's son.
The wild and fear-stricken animals had to be set free, and unless extraordinary care and precautions were used they might stampede along that narrow passageway and perhaps cause either serious injury or death.
The adventurous Don Hale had no intention of standing idly by. He watched his chance, and, taking advantage of a succession of brilliant flashes of lightning, groped his way cautiously past several of the prostrate horses—a very dangerous proceeding. Hoofs were continually on the move and every now and again one or another of the animals managed to struggle to its knees, remain in that awkward position for an instant or two, and then fall back with a dull and heavy thud.
It was a strange, awe-inspiring situation for a boy to be placed in—close to the battle-front, with the storm-clouds overhead, in the midst of wreckage and frantic horses, and facing the possibility of a tragic end. Yet, though all these things were vaguely impressed on Don Hale's mind, his thoughts were not upon them. The words "Tres pressé—tres pressé" continually sounded in his ears.
He advanced boldly, right into the midst of the prancing, pawing animals. Hoofs were thudding down hard all about him; streams of liquid mud often splashed against his figure. The movements of the ponderous bodies made Don forcibly realize that one false step, one moment's lack of thought, might cause the most disastrous results. Again the lightning proved a friendly aid. A horse stood directly in front of him. Its mate lay stretched in the mud. Originally the team had been one of eight horses, but how many were still on their feet Don could not tell. He did know, however, that the drivers, in the darkness, in the slippery road, were having a mighty hard time to control the fractious beasts.
A man brushed roughly past him and seized the bridle of the fallen horse.
"Quick!—if you've got a knife, comrade, cut the traces!" he yelled. "Fast now! We've got to get them out of this. And watch yourself, or it's good-night!"
"I know it," muttered Don.
He took out his knife. A sharp, quick slash, and one of the leather traces was cut in two. Then the keen-bladed instrument ripped its way through another. And from that moment the aviator's son was constantly in the midst of the greatest excitement and danger.
Now he was cutting the traces; now helping to urge the horses to one side; now tugging hard at a bridle, jerked this way and that, or lifted bodily off his feet, perhaps to get a fleeting glimpse by means of a bluish glare of lightning of a great head with foaming mouth, distended nostrils and glaring eyes rearing high above him and to feel the hot breath of the animal upon his cheek. More than once he was violently bumped and almost sent to his knees.
The constant shuffling of feet, the pounding of hoofs, the loud rough voices of men raised in harsh yells and commands and the accompaniment of rolling, booming thunder and bursting shells seemed in Don Hale's mind to form a part of some strange, wild fantasy rather than of actual reality.
At last, however, the war in the roadway was at an end; one by one the horses capitulated to superior intelligence and skill and were led aside. Only those which lay helpless where they had fallen remained to be attended to.
The aviator's son, quite exhausted, his head still throbbing violently, felt compelled to rest. Every joint and muscle in his body seemed to be aching. A dull pain caused by the repeated concussions was in his ears. And then:
"Tres pressé! Tres pressé!"
The words, shaping themselves in his mind again, fell from his lips.
Their appeal could not be disregarded. With an energy born of an earnest desire to fulfil his duties to the uttermost, he resolutely cast aside every thought of physical discomfort or of fatigue and once more lent his efforts to the work of clearing the road.
Never had he toiled harder than he did during the next three-quarters of an hour, and by that time the last uninjured horse was up and the wreckage and débris sufficiently cleared away to permit the passage of Ambulance Number Eight.
It was a joyful moment to the weary Don Hale when he climbed aboard the car, yet, withal, a very sad one. Where was Chase? How lonely—how depressing it seemed without him!
"Hello, Chase—hello!" he called.
He heaved a great sigh, as no answering hail was received, and, murmuring, "Well, such is war!" put the vehicle into motion. There was no help for it—he must continue on to the outpost alone.
For a few seconds after Don Hale had jumped down from his seat on Number Eight Chase Manning sat motionless. His brain was in a tumult and all power over his muscles seemed to have vanished. There was no escape—there could be no escape, he thought, from such a horrible situation; and when after a few moments had passed and he found himself still alive it came as a matter of great surprise. Then, suddenly, a reaction set in; the benumbing sensations which had robbed him of strength and courage disappeared, and in their stead came a wild, a feverish desire to run—to run in any direction so long as it led away from the vicinity of that terrible road.
He heard Don Hale call, and by a flash of lightning discovered him hastening away. To his mind his fellow ambulancier was seeking safety in flight, and to act in any other way he thought would have been sheer madness—almost like offering oneself up as a sacrifice to the God of War.
He sprang to the ground, and, in a state of the utmost panic and excitement, lunged heavily through the mud, seeking for a passageway between the vehicles.
Those were terrible moments to Chase Manning. He felt cold shivers coursing through him; his heart was throbbing painfully.
Shells began bursting with fearful force close about him and his overstrained nerves threatened to give way completely.
Men were dashing past, running with all that mad haste which characterizes the actions of those fleeing for their lives.
"It's all up! It's all up!"
The words fell stutteringly from Chase Manning's lips.
The flashing fire of the exploding projectiles, the thunderous concussions and the fumes which were wafted in his face appalled him. He began to experience a feeling of rage—of bitter rage against those who were responsible for the engines of destruction on the opposite hills.
He soon found a narrow passageway between the transports and then, with lowered head, began running across a muddy, uneven field—a field that one moment was swallowed up in pitchy blackness and the next illuminated with a dazzling glare of lightning. In his panic and confusion of mind, he entirely forgot the shelters that might have been found along the road.
As he plunged and staggered ahead his feet often sank deeply into the soft, yielding soil, which held on to them with a sucking, tenacious grip that was hard to break. Although dazed—almost unable to think coherently—he never ceased to put forth his utmost exertions. The bursting projectiles were dropping to the right and left of him, ahead and behind, each with a gleam of flame, a stunning detonation and an enormous rounded pile of smoke, and now and then shrapnel shells exploding in the air sprayed the earth with bullets.
Despite the pains and aches which the strenuous exertion brought into his frame, Chase kept struggling on, in the midst of Heaven's storm and the far deadlier storm created by man. Many a time he had narrow escapes from falling headlong into the shell-craters that pitted the field; many a time he crawled around a rim to safety.
At length, after having been on the move for about five minutes, he began climbing the slope of a low ridge, and on arriving at the top, his forces being practically exhausted, he was obliged to come to an unwilling halt.
He had withdrawn, as it were, to the edge of the zone of falling marmites; and with this knowledge the turbulence of his emotions slowly subsided and he was better able to grasp the sense of things.
"Poor Don Hale!" he panted. "I'll bet he's 'gone West'![11]How terrible!"
Making no effort to protect himself from either the wind or rain, the young chap from Maine turned, and, with eyes that twitched with excitement, gazed in the direction from whence he had come. A portion of the road lay in full view, and as each flash gleamed in the sky, he could see the motionless transports vaguely defined against the background. Column after column of ugly-looking smoke was being swept along with the wind, sometimes clearly in front of the camions, sometimes clearly on the other side. Vaguely, he thought that the Chemin de Mort never could have received a worse baptism of fire.
What was he to do? Where should he go?
Able to reason clearly for the first time since the explosion, these questions presented themselves to his mind. And to neither could he find a satisfactory answer. Of one thing he was quite certain—it would have been beyond reason for him to return to the road.
And yet, in spite of his gratitude to Providence for having spared him, he felt a curious and ill-defined feeling of dissatisfaction with himself. Had he been guilty of deserting his post?
He could answer the question firmly with a "No!"
Had he acted with any degree of bravery?
He could also answer that question with a "No!"
Wet and miserable, Chase Manning passed through some very distressing moments.
And then something occurred which once more caused him to start with alarm. It was the familiar whistle of an "arrivé," a sound which never failed to send a series of tremors through him. He had time to wonder where it was going to land and whether he should throw himself flat on the ground when the explosion occurred. And it was so close at hand that for a few terrible moments Chase felt that he must certainly be struck by some of the flying fragments.
"By George, that was another narrow shave!" he exclaimed, in a hollow voice. "If I don't get away from here in a hurry one of those confounded things will get me yet."
For a second time Chase Manning began a flight, not so precipitous as the first, though none the less determined.
But for the lightning he would scarcely have been able to make any progress at all; for he was now in the midst of a patch of timber. The tall straight trees, mostly denuded of their branches and boughs, seemed more suggestive of a collection of gaunt telegraph poles than of monarchs of the forest. He did not succeed in getting through this woods, however, without receiving many painful jabs and bumps from various objects which impeded his progress.
A little farther along Chase stumbled upon a road at the crest of a hill, and after his weary march over the water-soaked, torn-up earth to be actually on a highway once more came as a most welcome relief.
"Well, only a little while ago I certainly never would have expected that I'd be standing here safe and sound!" he panted. "Now, what am I going to do? The bombardment along the road seems to be about over."
With the change in the situation the tension seemed to be lifted in a measure from the young Red Cross driver's mind. He had gone through the most frightful peril without anything more serious happening to him than a few minor bruises and scratches. And now that it was all over it scarcely seemed as if it ever could have happened. And what was the sequel to be?
To this self-propounded query the answer came at once:
"Return to the road and Ambulance Number Eight, or, at least, to the place where you left it."
But where was the ambulance? He had paid no attention to direction in his flight and hadn't the least idea now where the road lay. Thoroughly perplexed, Chase leaned against a tree trunk.
The storm had lessened, but of all the dreary and dismal situations it was possible to imagine this seemed about the worst. Here he was—alone, in utter blackness, with a few pattering drops of rain occasionally falling and little gusts of wind toying with the vegetation and making a weird symphony of sounds.
"The people who started this confounded war haven't my best regards," he growled. "It's——Oh—oh—hello! Who would have believed it!"
A flash of lightning had enabled him to make an interesting and surprising discovery. It was the tower of the Château de Morancourt, faintly visible in the distance.
"Great Julius Cæsar!" exclaimed Chase. "I said no more night visits to lonely châteaus for me, but, by Jove, I'm privileged to change my mind. After what I've gone through another visit would seem like a joyful picnic. Yes sir—why not? The château at present seems to be perfectly safe from German guns. So I'll just wait in the ancient stronghold of the De Morancourts for daylight to come."
Having decided upon something definite, Chase immediately felt very much better. He easily managed to persuade himself that it was the wisest course to pursue, though at times unpleasant doubts persisted in coming into his mind.
"Confound it! Nobody could be expected to take a chance of throwing his life away," he growled almost savagely. "Anyway—here goes!"
Traveling along the road, the young chap made rapid progress, even though the gloom was so intense that he often found himself plunging off into muddy fields at the side. Thoroughly drenched, he waded regardlessly through the pools and puddles, his sole thought being to reach the château, and, in quiet and safety, give his nerves and body the rest they required.
Arriving at the base of the hill, he found the entrance to the park of the Château de Morancourt right before him. How it brought back recollections of his previous visit! He thought of Don Hale, the youngest ambulance driver in the service, and his anxiety and forebodings concerning him increased, especially now that his thoughts were not upon his own immediate safety.
"Poor chap—poor chap!" he murmured many times. "How great a suspense I must endure! Ah!—war—war! What a terrible thing it is! Oh, but hang it all, I mustn't think too much!"
Chase, groping his way past the gate-posts, entered the grounds. Everywhere the surroundings were black and forbidding, for only an occasional gleam of lightning from the now rapidly-departing storm faintly illuminated the sky.