X

APPROACHING THE HIGH-WATER MARK

"POILUS" AND AMERICANS SHARING THEIR LUNCH

The trip to Toul was without incident, and when we drew up at thecaserne, which proved to be our future home, we reported as ready for immediate work. The next day five cars were sent to a secondaryposte de secoursabout ten kilometres from the lines and twocars farther forward to a first-lineposte de secours. The rest of the ambulances formed a reserve at our base to relieve daily those cars and take care of such emergency calls as might come in day or night. Then as soon as we proved our worth, we were given other similar points on the lines, and gradually took over the work of the French Section working with the next Army Division.

To-day we have our full measure of shell adventures, night driving, and long hours at the wheel. But these are, of course, only the usual incidents of life at the front. We, too, the whole Section feels, will have our Second Battle of the Yser, or our attack on Hartmannsweilerkopf, and we are as eager as any soldier to prove what our men and cars can do in the face of such emergencies.[9]

George Rockwell

[9]Shortly after this was written, the Section was sent to the Verdun sector, where for five months it has worked in the vicinity of Mort Homme and Hill 304. During this period one of its members, Edward J. Kelley, was killed, and another member, Roswell Sanders, was gravely wounded. (November, 1916.)

End of Chapter Decoration.

UN BLESSÉ À MONTAUVILLE

"Un blessé à Montauville—urgent!"Calls the sallow-facedtéléphoniste.The night is as black as hell's black pit,There's snow on the wind in the East.There's snow on the wind, there's rain on the wind,The cold's like a rat at your bones;You crank your car till your soul caves in,But the engine only moans.The night is as black as hell's black pit;You feel your crawling wayAlong the shell-gutted, gun-gashed road—How—only God can say.The 120's and 75'sAre bellowing on the hill;They're playing at bowls with big trench-minesDown at the Devil's mill.Christ! Do you hear that shrapnel tuneTwang through the frightened air?TheBochesare shelling on Montauville—They're waiting for you up there!"Un blessé—urgent?Hold your lantern upWhile I turn the damned machine!Easy, just lift him easy now!Why, the fellow's face is green!""Oui, ça ne dure pas longtemps, tu sais.""Here, cover him up—he's cold!Shove the stretcher—it's stuck! That's it—he's in!"Poor chap, not twenty years old."Bon-soir, messieurs—à tout à l'heure!"And you feel for the hell-struck road.It's ten miles off to the surgery,With Death and a boy for your load.Praise God for that rocket in the trench,Green on the ghastly sky—Thatcamionwas dead ahead!Let theravitaillementby!"Courage, mon brave!We're almost there!"God, how the fellow groans—And you'd give your heart to ease the joltOf the ambulance over the stones.Go on, go on, through the dreadful night—How—only God He knows!But now he's still! Aye, it's terribly stillOn the way a dead man goes."Wake up, you swine asleep! Come out!Un blessé—urgent—damned bad!"A lamp streams in on the blood-stained whiteAnd the mud-stained blue of the lad."Il est mort, m'sieu!""So the poor chap's dead?"Just there, then, on the roadYou were driving a hearse in the hell-black night,With Death and a boy for your load.O dump him down in that yawning shed,A man at his head and feet;Take off his ticket, his clothes, his kit,And give him his winding-sheet.It's just anotherpoiluthat's dead;You've hauled them every dayTill your soul has ceased to wonder and weepAt war's wild, wanton play.He died in the winter dark, alone,In a stinking ambulance,With God knows what upon his lips—But on his heart was France!

"Un blessé à Montauville—urgent!"Calls the sallow-facedtéléphoniste.The night is as black as hell's black pit,There's snow on the wind in the East.

"Un blessé à Montauville—urgent!"

Calls the sallow-facedtéléphoniste.

The night is as black as hell's black pit,

There's snow on the wind in the East.

There's snow on the wind, there's rain on the wind,The cold's like a rat at your bones;You crank your car till your soul caves in,But the engine only moans.

There's snow on the wind, there's rain on the wind,

The cold's like a rat at your bones;

You crank your car till your soul caves in,

But the engine only moans.

The night is as black as hell's black pit;You feel your crawling wayAlong the shell-gutted, gun-gashed road—How—only God can say.

The night is as black as hell's black pit;

You feel your crawling way

Along the shell-gutted, gun-gashed road—

How—only God can say.

The 120's and 75'sAre bellowing on the hill;They're playing at bowls with big trench-minesDown at the Devil's mill.

The 120's and 75's

Are bellowing on the hill;

They're playing at bowls with big trench-mines

Down at the Devil's mill.

Christ! Do you hear that shrapnel tuneTwang through the frightened air?TheBochesare shelling on Montauville—They're waiting for you up there!

Christ! Do you hear that shrapnel tune

Twang through the frightened air?

TheBochesare shelling on Montauville—

They're waiting for you up there!

"Un blessé—urgent?Hold your lantern upWhile I turn the damned machine!Easy, just lift him easy now!Why, the fellow's face is green!"

"Un blessé—urgent?Hold your lantern up

While I turn the damned machine!

Easy, just lift him easy now!

Why, the fellow's face is green!"

"Oui, ça ne dure pas longtemps, tu sais.""Here, cover him up—he's cold!Shove the stretcher—it's stuck! That's it—he's in!"Poor chap, not twenty years old.

"Oui, ça ne dure pas longtemps, tu sais."

"Here, cover him up—he's cold!

Shove the stretcher—it's stuck! That's it—he's in!"

Poor chap, not twenty years old.

"Bon-soir, messieurs—à tout à l'heure!"And you feel for the hell-struck road.It's ten miles off to the surgery,With Death and a boy for your load.

"Bon-soir, messieurs—à tout à l'heure!"

And you feel for the hell-struck road.

It's ten miles off to the surgery,

With Death and a boy for your load.

Praise God for that rocket in the trench,Green on the ghastly sky—Thatcamionwas dead ahead!Let theravitaillementby!

Praise God for that rocket in the trench,

Green on the ghastly sky—

Thatcamionwas dead ahead!

Let theravitaillementby!

"Courage, mon brave!We're almost there!"God, how the fellow groans—And you'd give your heart to ease the joltOf the ambulance over the stones.

"Courage, mon brave!We're almost there!"

God, how the fellow groans—

And you'd give your heart to ease the jolt

Of the ambulance over the stones.

Go on, go on, through the dreadful night—How—only God He knows!But now he's still! Aye, it's terribly stillOn the way a dead man goes.

Go on, go on, through the dreadful night—

How—only God He knows!

But now he's still! Aye, it's terribly still

On the way a dead man goes.

"Wake up, you swine asleep! Come out!Un blessé—urgent—damned bad!"A lamp streams in on the blood-stained whiteAnd the mud-stained blue of the lad.

"Wake up, you swine asleep! Come out!

Un blessé—urgent—damned bad!"

A lamp streams in on the blood-stained white

And the mud-stained blue of the lad.

"Il est mort, m'sieu!""So the poor chap's dead?"Just there, then, on the roadYou were driving a hearse in the hell-black night,With Death and a boy for your load.

"Il est mort, m'sieu!""So the poor chap's dead?"

Just there, then, on the road

You were driving a hearse in the hell-black night,

With Death and a boy for your load.

O dump him down in that yawning shed,A man at his head and feet;Take off his ticket, his clothes, his kit,And give him his winding-sheet.

O dump him down in that yawning shed,

A man at his head and feet;

Take off his ticket, his clothes, his kit,

And give him his winding-sheet.

It's just anotherpoiluthat's dead;You've hauled them every dayTill your soul has ceased to wonder and weepAt war's wild, wanton play.

It's just anotherpoiluthat's dead;

You've hauled them every day

Till your soul has ceased to wonder and weep

At war's wild, wanton play.

He died in the winter dark, alone,In a stinking ambulance,With God knows what upon his lips—But on his heart was France!

He died in the winter dark, alone,

In a stinking ambulance,

With God knows what upon his lips—

But on his heart was France!

Emery Pottle

End of Chapter Decoration.

CHRISTMAS EVE, 1915

In one of the most beautiful countries in the world, the Alsatian Valley of the Thur runs to where the Vosges abruptly end in the great flat plain of the Rhine. In turn a small valley descends into that of the Thur. At the head of this valley lies the small village of Mollau where is billeted the Section Sanitaire Américaine No3. It has been through months of laborious, patient, never-ceasing trips from the valley to the mountain-tops and back, up the broadened mule-paths, rutted and worn by a thousand wheels and the hoofs of mules, horses, and oxen, by hobnailed boots and by the cars of the American Ambulance (for no other Section is equipped with cars and men for such service), up from the small Alsatian towns, leaving the main valley road to grind through a few fields of ever-increasing grade on into the forest, sometimes pushed, sometimes pulled, always blocked on the steepest slopes by huge army wagons deserted where they stuck, rasping cart-loads of trench torpedoes on one side, crumbling the edge of the ravine on the other,—day and night—night and day—in snow and rain—and, far worse, fog—months of foul and days of fair,—up with the interminable caravans ofravitaillement, supplies withwhich to sustain or blast the human body (we go down with the human body once blasted), up past small armies of Alsatian peasants of three generations (rather two—octogenarians and children), forever repairing, forever fighting the wear and tear of all that passes,—up at last to the little log huts and rudely madepostes de secoursat the mouth of the trench "bowels,"—a silent little world of tethered mules, shrouded carts and hooded figures, lightless by night, under the great pines where is a crude garage usually filled with grenades into which one may back at one's own discretion.

Day after day, night after night, wounded or no wounded, the little ambulances plied with their solitary drivers. Few men in ordinary autos or in ordinary senses travel such roads by choice, but all that is impossible is explained by a simpleC'est la guerre. Why else blindly force and scrape one's way past a creaking truck of shells testing twenty horses, two abreast, steaming in their own cloud of sweaty vapor, thick as a Fundy fog? Taking perforce the outside, the ravine side, the ambulance passes. More horses and wagons ahead in the dark, another blinding moment or two, harnesses clash and rattle, side bolts and lanterns are wiped from the car. It passes again;C'est la guerre. Why else descend endless slopes with every brake afire, with three or four human bodies as they should not be, for cargo, where a broken drive-shaft leaves but one instantaneous twist of the wheel for salvation, a thrust straight into the bank, smashingthe car, but saving its precious load?C'est la guerre.

The men in time grow tired as do the machines. A week before Christmas they rested quietly in their villages—a week of sun and splendid moon, spent tuning up their motors and gears and jogging about afoot after all their "rolling." A lull in the fighting, and after three weeks of solid rain, nature smiles. The Section had been ordered to leave shortly, and it was only held for a long-expected attack which would bring them all together for once on the mountains in a last great effort with the Chasseurs Alpins and the mountains they both loved.

On December 21st the mountain spoke and all the cars rolled upwards to theposteof Hartmannsweilerkopf,—taken and retaken a score of times,—a bare, brown, blunt, shell-ploughed top where before the forest stood, up elbowing, buffeting, and tacking their way through battalions of men and beasts, up by one pass and down by another unmountable (for there is no going back against the tide of what was battle-bound). From one mountain slope to another roared all the lungs of war. For five days and five nights—scraps of days, the shortest of the year, nights interminable—the air was shredded with shrieking shells—intermittent lulls for slaughter in attack after the bombardment, then again the roar of the counter-attack.

All this time, as in all the past months, Richard Nelville Hall calmly drove his car up the winding, shell-sweptartery of the mountain of war,—past crazed mules, broken-down artillery carts, swearing drivers, stricken horses, wounded stragglers still able to hobble,—past long convoys ofBocheprisoners, silent, descending in twos, guarded by a handful of men,—past all thepersonnelof war, great and small (for there is but one road, one road on which to travel, one road for the enemy to shell),—pastabris, bomb-proofs, subterranean huts, to arrive at thepostes de secours, where silent men moved mysteriously in the mist under the great trees, where the cars were loaded with an ever-ready supply of still more quiet figures (though some made sounds), mere bundles in blankets. Hall saw to it that those quiet bundles were carefully and rapidly installed,—right side up, for instance,—for it is dark and thebrancardiersare dull folks, deadened by the dead they carry; then rolled down into the valley below, where little towns bear stolidly their daily burden of shells wantonly thrown from somewhere in Bocheland over the mountain to somewhere in France—the bleeding bodies in the car a mere corpuscle in the full crimson stream, the ever-rolling tide from the trenches to the hospital, of the blood of life and the blood of death. Once there, his wounded unloaded, Dick Hall filled his gasoline tank and calmly rolled again on his way. Two of his comrades had been wounded the day before, but Dick Hall never faltered. He slept where and when he could, in his car, at theposte, on the floor of our temporary kitchen at Moosch—dry blankets—wetblankets—blankets of mud—blankets of blood; contagion was pedantry—microbes a myth.

At midnight Christmas Eve, he left the valley to get his load of wounded for the last time. Alone, ahead of him, two hours of lonely driving up the mountain. Perhaps he was thinking of other Christmas Eves, perhaps of his distant home, and of those who were thinking of him.

Matter, the next American to pass, found him by the roadside halfway up the mountain. His face was calm and his hands still in position to grasp the wheel. Matter, and Jennings, who came a little later, bore him tenderly back in Matter's car to Moosch, where his brother, Louis Hall, learned what had happened.

A shell had struck his car and killed him instantly, painlessly. A chance shell in a thousand had struck him at his post, in the morning of his youth.

Up on the mountain fog was hanging over Hartmann's Christmas morning, as if Heaven wished certain things obscured. The trees were sodden with dripping rain. Weather, sight, sound, and smell did their all to sicken mankind, when news was brought to us that Dick Hall had fallen on the Field of Honor. No man said, "Merry Christmas," that day. No man could have mouthed it. With the fog forever closing in, with the mountain shaken by a double bombardment as never before, we sat all day in the little log hut by the stove, thinking first of Dick Hall, thenof Louis Hall, his brother, down in the valley....

Gentlemen at home, you who tremble with concern at overrun putts, who bristle at your partner's play at auction, who grow hoarse at football games, know that among you was one who played for greater goals—the lives of other men. There in the small hours of Christmas morning, where mountain fought mountain, on that hard-bitten pass under the pines of the Vosgian steeps, there fell a very modest and valiant gentleman.

Dick Hall, we who knew you, worked with you, played with you, ate with you, slept with you, we who took pleasure in your company, in your modesty, in your gentle manners, in your devotion and in your youth—we still pass that spot, and we salute. Our breath comes quicker, our eyes grow dimmer, we grip the wheel a little tighter—we pass—better and stronger men.

RICHARD HALL

Richard Hall was buried with honors of war in the Valley of Saint-Amarin, in the part of Alsace which once more belongs to France. His grave, in a crowded military cemetery, is next that of a French officer who fell the same morning. It bears the brief inscription, "Richard Hall, an American who died for France." Simple mountain people in the only part of Germany where foreign soldiers are to-day brought to the grave many wreaths of native flowers and Christmas greens. The funeral service was held in a little Protestantchapel, five miles down the valley. At the conclusion of the service Hall's citation was read and the Cross of War pinned on the coffin. On the way to the cemetery sixteen soldiers, belonging to a battalion on leave from the trenches, marched in file on each side with arms reversed. Themédecin chefspoke as follows:—

Messieurs—Camarades—

C'est un suprême hommage de reconnaissance et d'affection que nous rendons, devant cette fosse fraîchement creusée, à ce jeune homme—je dirais volontiers—cet enfant—tombé hier pour la France sur les pentes de l'Hartmannsweilerkopf.... Ai-je besoin de vous rappeler la douloureuse émotion que nous avons tous ressentis en apprenant hier matin que le conducteur Richard Hall, de la Section Sanitaire Américaine No3, venait d'être mortellement frappé par un éclat d'obus, près du poste de secours de Thomannsplats où il montait chercher des blessés?

A l'Ambulance 3/58, où nous éprouvons pour nos camarades américains une sincère amitié basée sur des mois de vie commune pendant laquelle il nous fut permis d'apprécier leur endurance, leur courage, et leur dévouement, le conducteur Richard Hall était estimé entre tous pour sa modestie, sa douceur, sa complaisance.

A peine sorti de l'université de Dartmouth, dans la générosité de son cœur d'adolescent, il apporta à la France le précieux concours de sa charité en venant relever, sur les champs de bataille d'Alsace, ceuxde nos vaillants soldats blessés en combattant pour la patrie bien-aimée.

Il est mort en "Chevalier de la Bienfaisance"—en "Américain"—pour l'accomplissement d'une œuvre de bonté et de charité chrétienne!

Aux êtres chers qu'il a laissés dans sa patrie, au Michigan, à ses parents désolés, à son frère ainé, qui, au milieu de nous, montre une si stoique douleur, nos hommages et l'expression de notre tristesse sont bien sincères et bien vifs!

Conducteur Richard Hall, vous allez reposer ici à l'ombre du drapeau tricolore, auprès de tous ces vaillants dont vous êtes l'émule.... Vous faites à juste titre partie de leur bataillon sacré!... Seul, votre corps, glorieusement mutilé, disparait—votre âme est remonté trouver Dieu—votre souvenir, lui, reste dans nos cœurs, impérissable!... Les Français n'oublient pas!

Conducteur Richard Hall—Adieu![10]

RICHARD HALL'S GRAVE

[10]"Translation"Messieurs—Comrades:—"We are here to offer our last, supreme homage of gratitude and affection, beside this freshly dug grave, to this young man—I might well say, this boy—who fell yesterday, for France, on the slopes of Hartmannsweilerkopf. Do I need to recall the painful emotion that we all felt when we learned yesterday morning that Driver Richard Hall, of the American Sanitary Section No3, had been mortally wounded by the bursting of a shell, near the dressing-station at Thomannsplats, where he had gone to take up the wounded?"In Ambulance 3/58, where we cherish for our American comrades a sincere affection based upon months of life in common, during which we have had full opportunity to estimate truly their endurance, their courage, and their devotion, Driver Richard Hall was regarded with peculiar esteem for his modesty, his sweet disposition, his obligingness."Barely graduated from Dartmouth College, in the noble enthusiasm of his youth he brought to France the invaluable coöperation of his charitable heart—coming hither to gather up on the battlefields of Alsace those of our gallant troops who were wounded fighting for their beloved country."He died like a 'Chevalier de la Bienfaisance,' like an American, while engaged in a work of kindness and Christian charity!"To the dear ones whom he has left in his own land, in Michigan, to his grief-stricken parents, to his older brothel who displays here among us such stoicism in his grief, our respect and our expressions of sorrow are most sincere and heartfelt."Driver Richard Hall, you are to be laid to rest here, in the shadow of the tri-colored flag, beside all these brave fellows, whose gallantry you have emulated. You are justly entitled to make one of their consecrated battalion! Your body alone, gloriously mutilated, disappears; your soul has ascended to God; your memory remains in our hearts—imperishable!—Frenchmen do not forget!"Driver Richard Hall—farewell!"

"We are here to offer our last, supreme homage of gratitude and affection, beside this freshly dug grave, to this young man—I might well say, this boy—who fell yesterday, for France, on the slopes of Hartmannsweilerkopf. Do I need to recall the painful emotion that we all felt when we learned yesterday morning that Driver Richard Hall, of the American Sanitary Section No3, had been mortally wounded by the bursting of a shell, near the dressing-station at Thomannsplats, where he had gone to take up the wounded?

"In Ambulance 3/58, where we cherish for our American comrades a sincere affection based upon months of life in common, during which we have had full opportunity to estimate truly their endurance, their courage, and their devotion, Driver Richard Hall was regarded with peculiar esteem for his modesty, his sweet disposition, his obligingness.

"Barely graduated from Dartmouth College, in the noble enthusiasm of his youth he brought to France the invaluable coöperation of his charitable heart—coming hither to gather up on the battlefields of Alsace those of our gallant troops who were wounded fighting for their beloved country.

"He died like a 'Chevalier de la Bienfaisance,' like an American, while engaged in a work of kindness and Christian charity!

"To the dear ones whom he has left in his own land, in Michigan, to his grief-stricken parents, to his older brothel who displays here among us such stoicism in his grief, our respect and our expressions of sorrow are most sincere and heartfelt.

"Driver Richard Hall, you are to be laid to rest here, in the shadow of the tri-colored flag, beside all these brave fellows, whose gallantry you have emulated. You are justly entitled to make one of their consecrated battalion! Your body alone, gloriously mutilated, disappears; your soul has ascended to God; your memory remains in our hearts—imperishable!—Frenchmen do not forget!

"Driver Richard Hall—farewell!"

End of Chapter Decoration.

Start of Chapter Decoration.

THE INSPECTOR'S LETTER BOX

This chapter is made up of excerpts from letters and diaries written by men in the Field Service, which, in one way or another, have found their way into Mr. Andrew's office. They are presented as a series of snapshot views taken by men in the course of daily work and no attempt has been made to weave them into a connected narrative.

Soldier Writing.

Our Ambulances

A word about the structure of the small motor ambulances as perfected by our experience during the war. Upon the chassis as received from the States is built a strong, light ambulance body of tough wood and canvas. The design provides for the utmost economyof space, and although the cubical contents are perhaps not more than half of that of the body of an ordinary ambulance of the kind constructed to carry four stretchers, the typical cars of the American Ambulance can carry three. Two stretchers stand on the floor of the car and the third is supported under the roof by a simple and ingenious contrivance designed by one of the Section leaders to meet the special needs of the service. When not in use this mechanism folds up and rests flat against the sides of the ambulance, and with a couple of seats added, which can be fixed in position immediately, the car is transformed in a moment into an ambulance for four sitting cases. In addition to these room has been found, by means of specially constructed seats placed by the driver, for three more sitters, making a total of three lying and three sitting cases for each trip. In emergency as many as ten wounded men have been carried at one time, the inside of the car being crowded to its capacity, and the foot-plates and mud-guards serving as extra seats.

An ambulance loaded like this is an interesting sight. The driver seems almost buried under his freight; he has not an inch of room more than is necessary for the control of his car. Covered with mud, blood-stained, with startlingly white bandages against their tanned skin; with puttees loose and torn, heavy boots, shapeless uniforms gray from exposure, and with patient, suffering faces still bearing the shock and horror of bombardment, the wounded roll slowly from thepostesde secoursto shelter and care, shivering, maybe, in the cold and grayness of dawn, but always with a hand to help each other and a word of thanks to the driver.

A. P. A.

Soldier Standing.

How the Cars reach Paris

Towards the end of February three of us went down to Havre to unpack eight cars which had just arrived. In three days the work was done, and as I was one of the first drivers to get to work, I was able to choose the car I liked best for the trip down to Paris. Unfortunately it rained steadily during our passage through Normandy, so that we could not appreciate to the full one of the most beautiful countries in the world. After spending the night in Rouen, we set out for Paris, which was reached in good time, my only mishap being a puncture.

In Paris I drove the little car, with its soap-box body, as a light delivery wagon to do odd jobs in town, to give driving lessons, to carry fellows going to the front as far as the station, and other similar tasks, for some two weeks, when it went to the carriage-builders. As it happened, this particularcarrossier, who had not been employed by the American Ambulance before, turned out the best and strongest bodies for the five cars I was interested in, among which was the one presented by St. Paul's School.

Henry M. Suckley

Soldier in North-African Uniform.

En route for the Front

It appeals to the French people that so many Americans are standing by them in their tragic hours. The little that we in America have actually done seems small, indeed, compared with the size of the situation,but its main object and its main effect are to show to the people of France that we believe in them and in the justice of their cause; that we still remember what they did for us in the darkest hour of our own history; and that, as members of a great sister Republic, our hearts and hopes are with them in this most unnecessary war. All day long, wherever we have stopped, people have come out and offered us flowers and fruit and food and friendly greetings, very much as our ancestors of a hundred and forty years ago must have offered them to the compatriots of Lafayette.

AN INSPECTION TRIP IN ALSACELieut. Duboin Mr. Andrew Mr. Bacon Dr. Gros Mr. Hill

Our trip has been full of touching and appealing impressions crowding one upon the other. As our picturesque convoy ran through the little villages, and we stopped here and there for some one to clean a spark-plug or mend a tire, children crowded around us, and asked questions about America, and we often got them to sing the "Marseillaise" or some of the topical songs of the moment about "Guillaume" and the "Boches" (people in France seldom speak of the Germans as such, they call them simply "Boches" which seems to mean "brutal, stupid people"). After a long, hard drive we reached Saint-Omer about eleven. The hotels were full, the restaurants were closed, and no provision had been made either for our food or our lodging. So we wheeled into the public square and slept on the stretchers in our ambulances—without other food than the chocolate and crackers we had in our pockets. All day yesterday, as weran past the quaint towns and villages, we could hear the great cannon on the front booming like distant thunder. It is hard to realize that for five hundred and more miles these cannon are booming day after day all day long, and often throughout the night.

A. P. A.

Soldier Standing.

First Impressions

After a few more short delays (inseparable from times and states of war), the Section at last found itself within a mile of one of the most stubbornly contested points of the line. In a little town not far from the front they came in swift progression into hard work, bombardment, and appreciation by the army.

WITHIN SIGHT OF THE GERMAN TRENCHES(On the hill in the background)

Pont-à-Mousson is in a district in which low hills, many of them covered with thick woods, lie along the valley of the Moselle. Down towards the river, onboth banks and at right angles to it, stretch the interminable lines of trenches, east and west; batteries of guns crown the adjacent hills for two or three miles back from the trenches, alike in the enemy's country and that of the French; and intermittently, day and night, these batteries defy and seek to destroy each other, the valleys echoing with the roar of their guns and the sharp scream of shells high overhead. Back of the trenches for several miles every village is full of soldiers resting or in reserve; the roads are filled with marching troops, horses, mule trains, baggage wagons, guns and ammunition carts. At every crossroad stand sentries with bayonets. After sunset the whole country is dark, no lights being permitted, but the roads are more crowded than by day, as it is under cover of night that troops and guns are generally moved. The whole country near to the active lines is one great theatre of war. Everywhere are sights and sounds forbidding a moment's forgetfulness of the fact. Yet—and it is one of the most curious and touching things one sees—the peasant life goes on but little changed. Old men dig in their gardens, women gather and sell their vegetables, girls stand in the evenings at their cottage doors, children run about and play in the streets. Often, not more than two miles away, a desperate attack may be in progress. Between the concussions of the cannon throwing their missiles from the hills over the village can be heard the rattle of rifle-fire and the dullpop-pop-popof themitrailleuses. In an hour or two, scores, maybehundreds, of wounded men, or lines of prisoners, will file through the village, and at any moment shells may burst over the street, killing soldiers or women indifferently, but the old man still digs in his garden, the girl still gossips at the door.

J. Halcott Glover

The Daily Programme

About 6 o'clock those sleeping at thecaserneget up and dress, rolling up their blanket-rolls, and coming into the dining-room for coffee at about 6.30. Towards 7, the men who have slept at the differentpostesarrive. After coffee, ambulances which are to be stationed elsewhere for service as required, leave thecaserne. Men on day duty see to their cars and await calls by telephone which are received by our French assistant. Particulars are entered by him upon a printed slip and given to the driver next in turn to go out. On the driver's return, this slip is handed in with the number of wounded carried and the figures are entered in our record book. At 11 o'clock everybody comes in fordéjeuner. The dining-room—a large apartment capable of holding three times our number—has been pleasantly decorated with festoons and flags by our orderly, Mignot. The afternoon is taken up in evacuating wounded to Belleville, bringing in fresh wounded as required, or, in slack moments, in reading, writing, or sleeping. We have a little garden and easy-chairs, and, consideringthe state of war and the very close proximity of the enemy, it is remarkable that we should have so many luxuries. At 6 we have dinner, after which men who are to sleep at Dieulouard go off for the night. By 9 the rest of us have generally turned in. One car every night waits at Montauville, and, should there be too many wounded for one car to convey, as many more are as required are summoned by telephone. During severe attacks, all cars may be called for: in which case one man is appointed to take charge of arrivals and despatches at Montauville, leaving drivers free to come and go with as little delay as possible.

J. H. G.

Handling the Wounded

STRETCHERS SLUNG BETWEEN TWO WHEELS ON THEIR WAY FROM THE TRENCHES

The wounded are brought by the armybrancardiersdirect from the trenches to one or other of thepostes de secoursestablished in the villages behind the trenches and are carried on stretchers slung between two wheels. Two men convey them. They usually come two or three kilometres over rough tracks or open fields from the lines where they fell. The work of thebrancardiersis exhausting and dangerous, and enough cannot be said in their praise. This war being one of barbarous weapons, the condition of the wounded is often terrible. Shells, shrapnel, hand-grenades, and mines account for most of the injuries, and these are seldom clean wounds and often very serious. The wounded arrive, after rough dressing onthe field, sometimes so covered with blood and dirt as to be unrecognizable. Often they are unconscious, and not unfrequently they die before adequate help can be got. One hears few utterances of pain, and no complaints. Stretchers are carried into theposte de secours, where a doctor examines the wound and re-dresses it if necessary; theblesséis then brought out and given to us. Our cars can carry three stretcher cases or five or six sitting; only the most seriously injured can be allowed the luxury of lying down. Our business then is to convey them gently, and as fast as is consistent with gentleness, to hospitals. Here the wounded receive further treatment; or, if their case is hopeless, are allowed peacefully to die. The following day, or perhaps several days afterwards, if the wounded man is not fit to travel, he comes into our hands again, to be carried to thetrains sanitairesfor evacuation to one of the many hospitals throughout France.

J. H. G.

The Wounded

EVACUATING A HOSPITAL

TRANSFERRING THE WOUNDED TO THE TRAIN

One would like to say a little about the wounded men, of whom we have, by this time, seen some thousands. But it is difficult to separate one's impressions: the wounded come so fast and in such numbers, and one is so closely concerned with the mechanical part of their transportation, that very soon one ceases to have many human emotions concerning them. Andthere is a pitiful sameness in their appearance. They are divided, of course, into the two main classes of "sitting" and "lying." Many of the former have come down on foot from the trenches; one sees them arrive in the street at Montauville looking round—perhaps a little lost—for theposte de secoursappointed for this particular regiment or company. Sometimes they help one another; often they walk with an arm thrown round some friendly shoulder. I have seen men come in, where I have stood waiting in theposte de secours, and throw themselves down exhausted, with blood trickling from their loose bandages into the straw. They have all the mud and sunburn of their trench life upon them—a bundle of heavy, shapeless clothes—always the faded blue of their current uniform—and a pair of hobnailed boots, very expressive of fatigue. They smell of sweat, camp-fire smoke, leather, and tobacco—all the same, whether the man be a peasant or a professor of mathematics. Sometimes, perhaps from loss of blood, or nervous shock, their teeth chatter. They are all very subdued in manner. One is struck by their apparent freedom from pain. With the severely wounded, brought in on stretchers, it is occasionally otherwise. If it is difficult to differentiate between man and man among the "sitting" cases, it is still more so with the "lying." Here there is a blood-stained shape under a coat or a blanket, a glimpse of waxy skin, a mass of bandage. When the uniform is gray, men say "Boche" and draw round to look. Then one sees theclosely cropped bullet head of the German. One might describe the ghastliness of wounds, but enough has been said. At first, they cause a shudder, and I have had gusts of anger at the monstrous folly in man that results in such senseless suffering, but very soon the fatalism which is a prevailing tone of men's thoughts in this war dulls one's perceptions. It is just anotherblessé—the word "gravement," spoken by theinfirmier, as they bring him out to the ambulance, carries only the idea of a little extra care in driving. The last we see of them is at the hospital. At night we have to wake up the men on duty there. The stretcher is brought into the dimly lighted, close-smelling room where the wounded are received, and laid down on the floor. In the hopeless cases there follows the last phase. The man is carried out and lies, with others like himself, apart from human interest till death claims him. Then a plain, unpainted coffin, the priest, a little procession, a few curious eyes, the salute, and the end. His grave, marked by a small wooden cross on which his name and grade are written, lies unnoticed, the type of thousands, by the roadside or away among the fields. Everywhere in the war zone one passes these graves. A great belt of them runs from Switzerland to the sea across France and Belgium. There are few people living in Europe who have not known one or more of the men who lie within it.

J. H. G.

Night Duty

A few days after our arrival at the front I had my first experience of a night call. It was very dark and we had to feel our way forward. Nothing gives one a stronger sense of the nearness of war than such a trip. The dark houses, deserted streets, the dim shape of the sentry at the end of the town, the night scents of the fields as one passes slowly along them, are things not to be forgotten. We strained our eyes in the darkness to avoid other vehicles, all, like our own, going without lights. In those days, not being so well known as we are now, the sentries challenged us: their "Halte-là" in the darkness brought us frequently to an abrupt stop. As we drew near the trenches we heard the guns very clearly, and saw over the crest of a hill the illuminating rockets with which both armies throw a glare over their attacks. They throw a greenish and ghastly light over the country, hanging in the air a few seconds before falling. At our destination everything was dark. We left the cars in the road and went up under the trees to theposte de secours. Here we found some men sleeping on straw, but had to wait close upon two hours before our wounded were ready. From time to time a battery of 75's startled us in the woods near by. At last in a drizzling rain we came back to quarters, passing several small bodies of soldiers marching silently up to the trenches. Another night, remaining near the trenches till half-past four in the morning, I saw the wounded brought in, in the gray of dawn, from a series of attacks andcounter-attacks. I had been waiting in one of thepostes de secours, where, by candlelight, particulars were being written down of the various wounded. The surgeon, in a long white linen coat, in many places stained with blood, was busy with his scissors. Many wounded lay on straw round the room, and at rare intervals one heard a groan. The air was warm and heavy, full of the smell of wounds and iodine. A window was opened, the light of morning making the candles dim and smoky, and it was pleasant to go out into the cool air. The wounded being brought in looked cold and wretched. There were many who had been hit in the face or head—more than one was blind.

I overheard a few words spoken between abrancardierand a wounded man who—rare sign of suffering—was weeping. "You will be safe now—you are going to your wife," spoken in tones of sympathy for comfort, and the reply: "No, no, I am dying."... Later, as the sun was rising and lifting the blue mist in the hollows of the hill, I watched some shells bursting in a field; a brown splash of earth, a ball of smoke which drifted slowly away.

J. H. G.

Fitting into the Life

During the months of May, June, and July the Section, increased in number to twenty cars, broke all records of the American Ambulance. The work wasso organized and men brought such devotion to their duties that it may be said that, of all the wounded brought down from daily and nightly fighting, not one was kept waiting so much as ten minutes for an ambulance to take him to the hospital.

Where, before the coming of the American cars, ambulances came up to thepostes de secoursonly when called, and at night came after a delay occasioned by waking a driver sleeping some miles away, who thereupon drove his car to the place where he was needed, the American Section established a service on the spot, so that the waiting was done by the driver of the ambulance and not by the wounded. The effect of this service was immediate in winning confidence and liking, of which the members of the Section were justly proud. Their swift, light, easy-running cars were a great improvement on the old and clumsy ambulances which had served before them. In the early days, when these old ambulances were working side by side with ours, wounded men being brought from the trenches would ask to be carried by the Americans. That the latter should have come so far to help them, should be so willing to lose sleep and food that they should be saved from pain, and should take the daily risks of the soldiers without necessity or recompense seemed to touch them greatly. It was not long before the words "Ambulance Américaine" would pass a man by any sentry post. Themot, or password, was never demanded. And in their times of leisure, when others were on duty, men could eat withthe soldiers in theirpopotesand become their friends. Many of them have become known and welcomed in places miles apart and have formed friendships which will last long after the war.

J. H. G.

Paysages de Guerre

I went early one morning with one of our men, by invitation of an engineer whose acquaintance we had made, up to the part of the Bois-le-Prêtre known as the Quart-en-Réserve. We started at three, marching up with a party going up to identify and bury the dead. The sites of all the trenches, fought over during the winter, were passed on the way, and we went through several encampments where soldiers were still sleeping, made of little log houses and dug-outs, such as the most primitive men lived in. It was a gray morning, with a nip in the air; the fresh scents of the earth and the young green were stained with the smoke of the wood fires and the mixed smells of a camp. After a spell of dry weather, the rough tracks we followed in our course through the wood were passable enough; the deep ruts remaining and here and there a piece of soft ground gave us some idea of the mud through which the soldiers must have labored a few weeks before. And it is by such tracks that the wounded are brought down from the trenches! Small wonder that when the stretcher is laid down its occupant is occasionally found to be dead. In about halfan hour, nearing the top of the hill which the Bois-le-Prêtre covers, we noticed a change both in the scene and in the air. The leafage was thinner, and there was a look, not very definable yet, of blight. The path we were following sank deeper, and became a trench. For some hundreds of yards we walked in single file, seeing nothing but the narrow ditch winding before us, and bushes and trees overhead. With every step our boots grew heavier with thick, sticky mud. And a faint perception of unpleasant smells which had been with us for some minutes became a thing which had to be fought against. Suddenly the walls of our trench ended, and in front of us was an amazing confusion of smashed trees, piles of earth and rock—as though some giant had passed that way, idly kicking up the ground for his amusement. We climbed out of the remains of our trench and looked round. One had read, in official reports of the war, of situations being "prepared" by artillery for attack. We saw before us what that preparation means. An enlarged photograph of the mountains on the moon gives some idea of the appearance of shell-holes. Little wonder that attacks are usually successful: the wonder is that any of the defenders are left alive. The difficulty is to hold the position when captured, for the enemy can and does turn the tables. Here lies the whole of the slow torture of this war since the open fighting of last year—a war of exhaustion which must already have cost, counting all sides, more than a million lives. The scene we lookedround upon might be fittingly described by the Biblical words "abomination of desolation." Down in the woods we had come through, the trees were lovely with spring, and early wild flowers peeped prettily from between the rocks. Here it was still winter—a monstrous winter where the winds were gunpowder and the rain bullets. Trees were stripped of their smaller branches, of their bark: there was scarcely a leaf. And before us lay the dead. One of the horrible features in this war, in which there is no armistice, and the Red Cross is fired upon as a matter of course, is that it is often impossible to bury the dead till long after they are fallen. Only when a disputed piece of ground has at last been captured, and the enemy is driven well back, can burial take place. It is then that companies of men are sent out to pick up and identify. Of all the tasks forced upon men by war, this must be the worst. Enough to say that the bodies, which were laid in rows on the ground awaiting their turn to rest in the sweetness of the earth, were those of men who fought close on two months before. I pass over the details of this awful spectacle, leaving only two things: one of a ghastly incongruity, the other very moving. Out of a pocket of acadavrenear to me I saw protruding a common picture post-card, a thing of tinsel, strange possession for one passed into the ages. And between two bodies, a poppy startlingly vivid, making yet blacker the blackened shapes before us....

J. H. G.

Soldier Life

The main street of Montauville gives, perhaps, a characteristic glimpse of the life of the soldier on active service, who is not actually taking his turn in the trenches. He is under the shade of every wall; lounges in every doorway, stands in groups talking and laughing. His hands and face and neck are brown with exposure, his heavy boots, baggy trousers, and rough coat are stained with mud from bad weather. He laughs easily, is interested in any trifle, but underneath his surface gayety one may see the fatigue, the bored, the cynical indifference caused by a year of war, torn from every human relationship. What can be done to humanize his lot, he does with great skill. He can cook. Every cottage is full of soldiers, and through open doors and windows one sees them eating and drinking, talking, playing cards, and sometimes, though rarely, they sing. In the evening they stand in the street in great numbers, and what with that, the difficulty of making ears accustomed to shrapnel take the sound of a motor horn seriously, and the trains of baggage wagons, ammunition for the guns, carts loaded with hay, etc., it is not too easy to thread one's way along. In our early days here curiosity as to who and what we were added to the difficulty, crowds surrounding us whenever we appeared, but by this time they are used to us, and not more than a dozen at once want to come and talk and shake hands.

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