IIIN ACTION

VILLE-SUR-COUZANCES is also at this time the headquarters of SectionXXIX, which has just lost two men, and SectionLXIX, which is a gear-shift section,—we are quite proudly Fords. SectionXIX, French, whom we are relieving, examines us critically, but makes no audible comments. To the six of us chosen for the first “roll” there is but one impatient thought. We hear “Napoleon”—a French private attached to our section forravitaillementbecause he could do nothing else—telling the cook and several unwilling assistants how to dispose of the field range. In the French manner, instead of ignoring him, the stove is discarded, and a Latin argument follows much to the amusement if not to the edification of the onlookers. This does not concern us, and as soon as we get the order to roll we are blithely off.

It is only a few minutes’ run to Brocourt, where thetriage, or front hospital, is located. This is like a giant hangar in shape, but, instead of the mottled green, blue, and greycamouflageof the latter, it is brilliantly white with a red cross fifty feet square surmounting it. Despite this fact, it is bombed and shelled regularly by the “merciful” Hun. We pass through the shattered town, its church tower still standing, by a miracle, and pointing its scarred and violated finger to the heavens with the silent appeal—“Avenge!”

Thesous-chef, who is sitting beside me, tells me to put on my helmet and to sling my mask over my shoulder. From here on men “go west” suddenly, and in their boots. We pass over a short rise in sight of the Germansaucisses, and down a steep and long hill into Récicourt. Of that hill there is much to remember—but today it is just steep, and green, and has many trees by the roadside loaded down with much unripe fruit. Past the sentry, over the bridge which the Boche hit yesterday with an eight-inch shell—which failed to explode and bounced into the muddy river—and we are at the relay station. It is a barn with half the roof and a goodly portion of the walls missing. We use this to screen the cars from the eyes of raiding enemy aeroplanes, of which there are many.

Two of us are at once assigned to run to theposte de secours, P 2, where just now we are to keep two cars, the other four remaining at the relay station. Again luck is with me, and I am in the first car to roll. Our run is entirely through the woods, in the Hesse Forest, and as the enemy will not be able to see us we rejoice—but we soon learn not to rejoice prematurely. There is hardly a man in sight as we struggle along through the mud, but beside the road everywhere, often spilling into it, lie piles of shells, 75’s, 155’s, andtorpillesby the thousand, apparently arranged haphazardly. Thetorpilleis a winged and particularly deadly shell, first cousin to the Germanminniewerfer, and differing essentially only in range. Themaréchal des logisinforms us encouragingly that the one lying in the middle of the road which we just ran over was a Boche which did not explode when it landed, and has not—yet.

Everything is wrapped in the silence of the grave except for an occasional crash as some battery sends its message into Germany. We arrive at P 2, which is distinguished from the rest of the world by a foot square of white cotton and the universal red cross. There is room inside the gate—a log dyke against the mud—to park the cars: “Room sideways or deep,” as one member of the section described it as he watched his boots sink steadily into the mud.

Thesous-chefcalls us around him and gives us our detailed instructions, for he is going back by the first car. Suddenly, as we are listening to him attentively, there is a piercingzz-chung, and a 250 lands within a hundred yards with a dull crash and a geyser of trees, dirt, and black smoke. We look at him inquiringly and he points to theabri. We nod and adjourn to it. A few more shells follow, then all is peaceful again, while the French batteries around us hammer away at the Germans in their turn. We take lunch on a rustic table under the trees and thoroughly enjoy having our tin plates rattled by the concussion of the guns, while a Frenchman explains to us the difference in sound between anarrivéeand adépart.

Such is the initiation. Then while we, as yet mere amateurs, eat peacefully, relishing the novelty of the situation, and buoyed up by our first excitement, a short procession passes. It is a group of men carrying stretchers on which are what were men a few minutes before, who, standing within talking distance of us, were blown out of existence by the shells which whistled over our heads and, bursting, scatteredéclatsand dirt on the steel roof that sheltered us. It is a side of the front which has not touched us deeply before, a side which in the first few days of the ordeal by fire impresses itself more and more on the novice, until he learns to temper the realization with philosophy and the so-called humor of the front. Then is the veteran in embryo.

The ambulance sections are divided into two classes—gear-shift and Ford. The gear-shift sections are composed of Fiats, Berliets, or some other French car. They carry fivecouchésor eightassis, and have two men to a car. The French Army ambulances are all gear-shift, and the gear-shift sections included in the American Field Service all originally belonged to the French Government. Before the American Government took over the Ambulance Corps, the American Field Service, in addition to sending out Ford sections as quickly as they were subscribed in America, had been gradually absorbing the French Ambulance System, relieving with its own men the French drivers who could then serve in the trenches, and including those sections among its own.

The Ford sections carried threecouchésor fourassis, and had one driver, although many sections had extra men to help out. A Ford section then, when complete, consisted of twenty ambulances, one Fordcamionnetteor truck, which went for food and carried spare parts and often baggage, one Frenchcamionnette, a one-ton truck, which carried tools, French mechanics, and other spare parts, one large White truck with kitchen trailer, one Ford touring-car for thechef, and a more or less high-powered touring car for the lieutenant. The personnel was one French lieutenant, who was the connecting link between the organization and the government, and was responsible to the latter for the actions of the section; onechef, who was an American chosen by the organization from thesous-chefsof one of the sections in the field; one or twosous-chefs, chosen by thecheffrom the members of his or some other section; twenty drivers, often an odd number of assistant drivers, an American paid mechanic, and an odd number of French mechanics, cooks, and clerks.

The lieutenant received the orders and was responsible to the army for their execution. The lieutenant gave thechefhis orders, and thechefwas responsible to him for their execution by the section. Thesous-chefswere thechef’sassistants.

The routine when at work is for a certain number of cars to be on duty at one time, the number depending on the work. The section is divided into shifts of the number of cars required. When on duty a man must always have his car and himself ready to “roll,” and when off duty, after putting his car in condition, must rest so as to be in shape for his next turn. When the work is heavy, the cars on duty are rolling all the time with very little opportunity for food or rest for the driver; consequently, for a man not to get himself and his car ready in this period of rest means that the service is weakened; and that, if other cars goen panneunavoidably, it is possibly crippled—and lives may be lost. When the work is light, men are usually twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off; when moderate, twenty-four on and twenty-four off; when stiff, forty-eight on and twenty-four off, and during an attack almost steadily on. The longest stretch that my section kept its men continuously at work was seven days and nights in the Verdun sector during an attack, and we were compelled to cease then only because too few of our cars were left able to roll to carry the wounded.

From headquarters the day’s shift is sent to the relay station, and from there cars go as needed to thepostes de secours. Thepostesare as near the trenches as it is possible for the cars to go, and some can be visited only at night. The wounded are brought to these by thebrancardiersthrough theboyaux, or communication trenches, and usually have their first attention here. After first aid has been administered, and when there are enough for a load, or there is a serious case, the car goes to thetriage, stopping at the relay station, from which a car is sent to theposteto replace the first, which returns to the relay station directly from the hospital.

The hospitals also are divided into two main classes, thetriages, or front hospitals in the zone of fire, and the H.O.E.’s, hospitals of evacuation, anywhere back of the fines. The hospital of evacuation is the third of the four stages through which a wounded man passes. The first is the front-line dressing station, theabri; the second, if the wound is at all serious, is thetriage; the third, if serious enough, is the hospital of evacuation; and the fourth, if the soldier has been confined to the hospital for ten or more days, is the ten-daypermissionto Paris, Nice, or some other place of his choice. Then these classes, in some cases, are subdivided into separate hospitals forcouchés,assis, andmalades.

These subdivisions sometimes make complications, as in the case of one driver who was given what appeared to be a serious case to take to thecouchéhospital. While on the way, however, the serious case revived sufficiently to find his canteen. After a few swallows he felt a pleasant warmth within, for French canteens are not filled with water, and sat up better to observe his surroundings and to make uncomplimentary remarks to the driver. Arrived at the hospital, thebrancardierslifted the curtain at the rear of the car, and seeing the patient sitting up and smoking a cigarette, apparently in good health, they refused to take him, and sent the car on to theassishospital. Overcome by his undue exertion, the wounded man lay down again, and by the time the ambulance had reached the other hospital was peacefully dozing on the floor. Thebrancardiersshook their heads, and sent the car back to thecouchéhospital. Somewhat annoyed by this time, theambulancierdid not drive with the same care, and the jolts aroused the incensedpoilu, who sat up and began to ask personal questions. The driver, not wishing to continue his trips between the two hospitals for the duration of the war, stopped the car outside thecouchéhospital, and, seeing his patient sitting up, put him definitely to sleep with a tire tool, and sent him in by the uncomplainingbrancardiers.

WE spend a good part of our time in theabri. Just now the Boche appears to have taken a particular dislike to this part of the sector, for he is strafing it most unmercifully. We do not doubt at all that it is because we are here. The fact that there are six thousand French guns massed in the woods, so near together that you cannot walk a dozen feet without tripping over one, may, of course, have something to do with the enemy’s vindictiveness, but that does not occur to us.

After taking an hour or two of interrupted sleep in theabri, we step out in the early morning to get a breath of fresh air and to untangle our cramped muscles. A shell or two whines in uncomfortably near, and we are convinced that the enemy knows our every move by instinct. When we sit in theabriduring the day, and there is never a second that we do not hear the whine of at least one shell overhead, and the intervals between shells striking near enough to shake theabriand rattleéclatson its steel roof grow less, we are convinced the Boche is searching forour dugout. When I am making a run to P 2, and, rounding Dead Horse Corner, start on the last stretch, and a shell knocks a tree across the road a hundred feet ahead, blocking us completely, and two more shells drop on the road by the tree, two more strike ten yards on our right, and another lands within fifteen feet on our left, there is no doubt in my mind that the enemy is after me.

In reality, of course, the enemy has no idea where theabrisare located, and just now is simply taking a few chance shots at a likely corner—but every manknowsthat every shell he hears is meant for him personally,—all of which goes to prove how egotistical we really are.

AS one man remarked, “Our life out here is just one d—brancardierafter another.” Thebrancardiers, or stretcher-bearers, include the musicians—for the band does not play at the front,—the exchanged prisoners who are pledged to do no combatant work, and others who volunteer for or are assigned to this work. These men are in the front-line trenches, where they bandage wounded men as they are hit, and carry them to the frontabri, where themajor, army doctor, gives them more careful attention. At the frontabriare otherbrancardiers, who then take charge of these men and load them into our cars. We arrive at the hospital, andbrancardiersthere unload the ambulances and carry in the wounded. Inside the hospital otherbrancardiersnurse the wounded, as no women nurses are allowed in thetriagehospitals.

BRANCARDIERS LOADING AN AMBULANCECOPYRIGHT—INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE CO., INC.

A callous, hardened, dulled class of men, absolutely lacking in sentiment, yet doing a noble and heroic work. Who could do their work without becoming callous—or insane? We curse them often when they put a man in the car upside down or drop him, but we forget that when the infantry goesen repos, thebrancardiersstay at their posts, going out into No Man’s Land every hour to bring in a countryman or an enemy. When, standing by the car at P 3, I see twobrancardierscarrying a man up from theabriand, after noticing that both his arms are broken, one in two places, that both legs are broken, that a bloody bandage covers his chest, and that the white band around his head is staining red, I see them drop him when a shell screams overhead, I curse them. But I forget that for the past two nights, with theirabrifilled with chlorine gas, these same men have toiled faithfully in suffocating gasmasks, bringing in the wounded, caring for them, and loading them on our cars. I forget that these men have probably not had an hour’s consecutive sleep for weeks and that it may be weeks before they have again; that it is months since they last saw a dry foot of ground, or felt that for a moment they were free of the ever present expectation of sudden death. It is something to remember, and it is to wonder rather how they do these things at all than why they seem at times a little careless or a bit tired.

Would thebrancardiertell you this? When he sees you he asks after your comrades. He takes you in and gives you a cigarette and somePinardin a battered cup, and tries to find you a place to rest, all the time telling you cheerful stories and amusing incidents.

The Staff is the brains of the army; Aviation, the eyes; the Artillery, the voice; the Infantry and Cavalry, the arms; the Engineers, the hands; the Transportation, the legs; the People behind it, the body; but theBrancardieris the soul.

THERE are sounds outside of a klaxon being worked vigorously. However, we have several dozing Frenchmen inside theabriwho are making similar noises, so nothing dawns upon our sleepy senses for some minutes while the owner of the klaxon searches for theabri. This is dangerous business, because on all sides are barbed wire, shell-holes, and otherabris. Also, as this one is located in the corner of a graveyard, there is danger that the searcher will wander on and uproot a dozen or more wooden crosses in the search. At last he discovers the right one by falling down the pit we called stairs before the rain set in. A violent monologue arouses us from our dozing comfortlessness, and we learn that a car is wanted at P 2. I am next on call, so I slowly and painfully unwind myself from a support and two pairs of legs, and, with the man who rides with me, make my way into the outer darkness.

We get the car and start off down the road with no lights anywhere, and pray that everything coming the other way keeps to its side of the road and goes slowly. There is always something coming the other way—and your way, a steady succession ofcamionsin the centre of the road, and of artillery trains on the side. Thecamionsare mostly very heavy and very powerful, and have no compunction at all about what they run into, as they know that it cannot harm them. The ammunition trains consist of batteries of 75’s, little framework teams withtorpillesfitting in small compartments like eggs, and other such vehicles in tow of a number of mules, with the driver invariably asleep. The traffic, however, in spite of the pitch darkness, would be endurable if it were not for the mud which often comes up to the hubs. It is a slimy mud, and if spread thinly is extremely slippery. On the roads it is rarely spread thinly, and when one gets out to push he often sinks in up to the knee. Then of course there is always the whine ofarrivéesanddépartspassing overhead, and the occasional crump of a German 77 or 150 landing near at hand.

The French and the German gunners play a little game every night with supply trains and shells. The shells are trumps. The object is to see who can play the more “cards” without being trumped. An artillery train counts one, acamionnettetwo, acamionfive—because it blocks the road for some time when hit, and gives the enemy time to trump more cards—two ambulances give a win, and if a gun is hit the enemy is disqualified. The game is very interesting—for the artillery.

This modernized blindman’s buff is carried on at its best in the early hours of the morning before the game becomes too free-for-all to score carefully, and most of the cars are returned to the “pack”—out of the zone of fire—to wait for the next evening’s fun. At this time the roads are crowded, and the game is at its height. As the fun increases for the judges, however, it decreases for the players,—that is to say the “cards.” The prospect of being trumped is not a pleasant anticipation, although it keeps up the interest and preventsennui. After an hour or so of sport the going becomes very bad, as there are always many horses killed, and when the fighting is at all severe there is no time to bury them. Then, too, the narrow gauge railway crossing the road every few rods is often hit, and left, like a steel octopus, with its twisted tentacles stretching out in all directions. These add to the sport hugely, and our chief consolation is to imagine the Boche over on his side having fully as bad if not a worse time than we.

“This or the next?” inquires my companion in reference to a cross-road which appears on our right.

Having no idea I answer, “This one,” and we turn. An unaccountable number of jounces greets us as we continue.

“They must have strafed this road a good bit since our last roll,” my friend comments.

The going is worse, and we stop to get our bearings. We shout and presently a form rises from the darkness. At any hour of the day or night it is possible to rouse by one or more shouts any number of men anywhere. You can see no one, as the world, for obvious reasons, lives underground in the rabbit burrows ofabris, but when needed comes forth in force. This is very convenient, as often when driving at night one finds his car stuck in the middle of a new and large shell-hole, and help is necessary. We ask our location.

“Ah, oui, M’sieu, P-trois!”

We have come by error to the artilleryposteand must retrace our way. We exchange cigarettes with the friendlybrancardierand set off again. At last we get back on the right road, and after making another turn are nearing theposte. In the last gleams from a star-shell ahead we see something grey by the side of the road. As we are in the woods I take a quick look with my flash. It is one of our ambulances. My friend and I look at each other, and are mutually glad that it is too dark to see each other’s face. A careful survey of the surroundings yields nothing, and we press on—in silence. We jolt into thepostewith racing motor and wheels clogged with mud, and go down into the very welcomeabri. Our friends there know nothing about the ambulance, so we hope for the best.

Friendships at the front are for the most part sincere—but sometimes short.

IT is about ten o’clock in the evening. We have been given a load at P 2 and are returning to the hospital. We turn from the battered Bois d’Avocourt into the Bois de Récicourt, and passing through the Bois de Pommiers roll into the valley. We cross through the town, and when the sentry lifts the gate pull slowly up the hill towards Brocourt. Punctually at five-thirty this evening twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and struck the hill, but fortunately not the road.

This hill makes a perfect target for the Boche, for if he falls short he hits the town, if he overshoots he will probably hit the hospital, and if he hits what he aims at he may get the road. Consequently there are intermittent bombardments at all hours of the day and night—preferably at night as there is more traffic on the roads. There is one time that the Boche never fails to greet us. That is five-thirty. Every day while I was there, as the hour struck, or would have struck had the clock been left to strike it, twelve shells whistled over Récicourt and knocked fruit from the orchard on the hill. If the Boche were sentimental, we would say it was the early twilight that made him do this, but as we remember Belgium we call it habit. There are several bigrôtisset up by the roadside like kilo-stones to remind us that to roll at five-thirty isverboten.

For some unexplained and mysterious reason many of the German shells do not explode. Whether this is from faulty workmanship or defective fuses or materials we do not know, but it causes thepoilusmuch amusement. There will be the whine of anarrivéeand a dull thud as it strikes the ground, but no explosion. Every Frenchman present immediately roars with laughter and shouts, “Rôti! Rôti!”

We crawl up the hill, the road luckily having escaped injury during the afternoon, and at length reach the hospital. Then, much lightened, we start back. Coasting slowly down the hill we have a perfect opportunity to observe the horizon.

The sky tonight is softly radiant, a velvety black with myriads of brilliant stars in the upper heavens. Opposite us is another hill, crowned with trees which break gently into the skyline. Above these the sky flashes and sparkles in iridescent glory. The thundering batteries light up everything with brilliant flashes, and the star-shells springing up over No Man’s Land hang for an instant high in the air with dazzling brilliancy, and then fading, drift slowly earthward. The artillery signals (Verrey Lights, rockets carrying on their sticks one, two, three, and four lights) dart up everywhere. A raider purrs overhead, and golden bursts of shrapnel crack in the sky. All merge together, first one, then another standing forth to catch the eye for a brief second, the kaleidoscopic brilliancy lifting one up out of the depths of the mire to forget for a moment why these lights flare—treacherous will o’ the wisps leading men on to death—and one sees only the wonderful beauty of the scene: a picture impressed on the memory which makes all seem worth while. One sight of these causes the discomforts and dangers of the day’s work to fade, and they become a symbol—a pillar of fire leading on to the victory that is coming when Right shall have conquered Might, and the tortured world can again breathe freely.

IT is night, and the chill mist has settled close to the ground. It is cold and damp, but the front is always cold and damp so no one comments on it. We are several feet underground and that augments the chill somewhat, but as here one lives underground he does not think of that. There is a little breeze outside, for the burlap that hangs at the foot of the stairs leading to the outer world quivers, and the lone candle flickers uncertainly, casting weird shadows from the black steel roof on the sleeping forms. The sides of theabriare lined with bunks, wooden frames covered with wire netting, upon which lie sprawledbrancardiers,poilus, and in one an American has managed to locate himself quite comfortably. Theabriis short, and the few bunks are at a premium.

Two of our men are asleep,—one on the floor, another in a bunk. The rest of us wrap our coats around us and smoke pensively. We think of home, and wonder what our friends there are doing just now. It is August and slightly after midnight. The time difference makes it a few minutes past six in the States. At the seashore they are coming in from canoeing and swimming, sitting around before dinner, discussing the plans for the evening and the happenings of the day. At the mountains they are finishing rounds of golf or sets of tennis, and the pink and gold of the sunset is crowning the peaks with a fading burst of glory. Soon the fights of the hotel will shine brightly forth into the gathering gloom, and the dance music will strike up.

Each tells the others just what he would be doing at the moment were he in the States, and comments. It is all done in an absolutely detached manner, just as one describes incidents and chapters in books. We think we would like to be home now, but we know that we would rather not. We are perfectly contented to be doing what we are doing, and do not envy those at home. Nor do we begrudge any of them the pleasant times they may be having. In fact, if we thought they were giving them up we would be miserable. One cannot think about this war for long at a time, and when one meditates it is to speculate on what is happening at home. One gloats over imaginary dances, theatres, and all varieties of good times. I have often enjoyed monologue discussions with my friends, or imagined myself doing any one of the many things I might have been doing. It is the lonesome man’s chief standby to five by proxy.

Outside there is continually the dull thunder of the guns. They are evidently firingtir de barrage, for there is a certain regularity in the wave of sound that rumbles in on us. Perhaps the barrage is falling on the roads behind the enemy lines, cutting off and destroying his supply trains. Perhaps it is trying to sweep some of his batteries out of existence, or perhaps it is falling on his trenches, taking its toll of nerve and life. Again we can only conjecture. There is the continual whine of his shells rushing overhead, and thecrump-crumpof their breaking in the near distance. Then the enemy starts a little sweeping of his own, and thearrivéesbegin to fall in an arc which draws steadily nearer, until a thunder clap just outside and the rattling oféclats, dirt, and tree fragments on the roof, make you rejoice in your cover, and you chuckle as abrancardiersleepily remarks, “Entrez!” You wonder curiously, and listen expectantly to see if the next will fall on you; then you doze again or say something to the man beside you.

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

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

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

AN ABRI

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

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

The trees are twice decimated, but the birds have stayed, and now they are waking and, overflowing with high spirits, sing their message of good cheer. They answer each other from different parts of the wood, and by closing one’s eyes one seems to be in the country at home. Never has the song of birds seemed more beautiful or more welcome, and, gladdened, we listen while we may, before the slowly swelling thunder of the guns, beginning their early morning bombardment, drowns out all other sound. We go down again into theabriand pray for a load soon to take us down to the hospital and breakfast at headquarters.

WE have been ordereden repos, and after turning in our extra gas masks—we carry ten in the car for the wounded in addition to the two on our person—ourblesséblankets, and stretchers, we start in to load the cars with our friends, and our own baggage. As for some time our baggage has been lyingen massein the “drawing-room” of Tucker Inn, as some humorousconducteurstyled the roofless pen in Récicourt, where our belongings were left while we were rolling, or in the surroundingabris, one could not be at all certain that he was putting the right things in the right duffles, and it was not surprising if a stray jar or two ofconfituremost unaccountably found its way into one’s own duffle.

The section in formation, we roll off with the sun shining brightly on grimy cars and drivers, down the roads, passing ruin after ruin, with a burst of speed past a corner in view of the German trenches, and we again begin to see familiar ground. The green hill back of Erize, with shadows of the woods and the scars of the old trenches, appears in the distance, and my friend looks at me and chuckles.

Back in the same little town, parked in the same ruins with the same quietness, peace, and relaxation from the tenseness of the past days, which is so welcome this time, my friend and I walk into a littleestaminet, pledge each other in glasses of French beer, and taking off our helmets for almost the first time in what seems an age, survey them and each other in placid contentment.

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