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D 640 D2b 1918
01120175R

3NI0103W JO AMVa9ll 1VNOI1VN

aNiDiaaw jo Aavaan ivnouvn

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A WAR AMBULANCE.

BEHIND THE WHEEL

OF A

WAR AMBULANCE

Robert Whitney Imbrie.

NEW YORK

ROBERT 3VL McBRIDE & CO.
1918

LIBRARY

J3Z£
\9|8

Printed in the
United States of America.

Published November, 1918

TO THE MEN
In mud-grimed uniforms of horizon blue,

THE MEN
Who, at hand-grips with death, smile,

TO THE MEN
IV ho face and suffer agony that Freedom and Right
may not perish from the earth,

WHO

With nothing of hero in garb or pose,
Yet shelter a hero's soul,

TO THE MEN
I have carried,
A vous, mes vieux, je leve mon verre
and

TO YOU
I dedicate these lines.

Monastir, Serbia.
April 18, 1917.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Clutch is Thrown In . . i

II Back of the Front ... 9

III Off to the Front .... 21

IV In Action — The Aisne ... 29
V The Somme ..... 51

VI The Somme Continued . . 70

VII The Trek to the Vortex . . 82

VIII The Vortex 95

IX Repos 108

X Encore Verdun .... 120

XI The Argonne .... 129

XII On Board the "Madeira" . -134

XIII Into Salonika .... 145

XIV Into the Balkans . . .156
XV "Where the Best is Like the

Worst" 164

XVI Monastir : Hell's Capital . .178

XVII "Down Valleys Dreadly Desolate" 212

XVIII "The Wild Disharmony of Days" 228

XIX The Clutch is Thrown Out . 238

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Ambulance Squad Lined Up at Atten-
tion While One of the Drivers Was
Decorated with the Croix de Guerre .

Frontispiece
"In Scores — Hundreds — of Places There
Remained but a Pile of Stones and a
Yawning Hole" 62

During Heavy Engagements the Stretcher
Bearers Eat When and Where They
Can IIO

In This Boyau or Communicating Trench,

One of the Squad Was Killed . . .142

When the Road Ahead Was Being Shelled
It Became Necessary to Make a Detour
Along This Sunken Way . . .158

American Ambulance Drivers Snatch a

Hard-Earned Rest by the Wayside . 172

The B. E. F. Ambulances Have Both Upper

and Lower "Berths" . . . .172

Headquarters Were Established in Any

Building That Offered Protection . 198

One of the Cars That Bucked Its Way
Through the "Impassable" Mountain
Roads of Albania . . . .198

"All the Comforts of Home" Are Not
More Appreciated Than These Crude
Eating Places ..... 206

Mustard Gas Cases With Protecting Com-
presses Over the Eyes Are Awaiting
the Ambulance ..... 206

PREFACE.

Lest those who have read the bombastic accounts of
American journals be misled, let it be stated: the men
of the American Amoulance have not conducted the
Great War nor been its sole participants. Nor would
France have lapsed into desuetude but for their aid.
They have but assisted in a useful work. So far from
desiring to pose as heroes, none realize better than they
how insignificant has been their part compared to the
real hero of this war — the obscure soldier in the
trench.

The Americans have received far more than they
have given. No man can have served in this war with
the French without having grown stronger through
their courage, gentler through their courtesy, and
nobler through their devotion. Yet the serving of the
Republic of the Tri-color has not made us love less the
Republic of the Stars and Stripes. Always it was of
the States we thought when the chorus rose :
"Here's to the land that gave us birth,

Here's to the flag she flies,

Here's to her sons, the best of earth,

Here's to her smiling skies,"

PREFACE.

thought, mayhap, some merry-eyed Parisienne mar-
raine was visioned as the song continued :

Here's to the heart that beats for me,

True as the stars above,

Here's to the day when mine she'll be,

Here's to the girl I love.
As to the pages which follow, may it be offered in
excuse for their egocentricity that they are in the nature
of a journal based on personal experiences. And in
apology for their crudity may it be advanced that they
were written under abnormal and often uncomfortable
conditions, sometimes humped up in an ambulance,
wrapped in a blesse blanket, while outside the snow
came down, sometimes in a dugout as the shells whis-
tled overhead, sometimes in a "flea-bag" when it was
necessary to lay down the pen frequently and blow on
numbed fingers or, mayhap, at night, in a wind-swept
barn, by the light of a guttering candle.

R. W. I.

xii

Behind the Wheel of a War Ambulance.

CHAPTER I

THE CLUTCH IS THROWN IN

ifc'VfOU will," said the officer, "drive this ambu-
Jl lance to Rue Pinel and there report for your
military number. Follow the convoy." Save for the
fact that I did not catch the name of the rue, that the
convoy was already out of sight, and that this was
only the second time in my life I had ever driven a
car of this type, the matter looked easy. So I saluted,
said "entendu," threw in the clutch and cast off.

Quite evidently the first thing to do was to over-
take the convoy. I gave her gas ; whirled around the
corner on something less than the usual number of
wheels and streaked through Neuilly in entire disre-
gard of traffic regulations and the rights of pedes-
trians. It was a lawless start, but like many other
acts sui generis it was successful, for at Porte Maillot,
outside the ancient walls of Paris I came up with the
other cars. Down towards the center of the City our
course lay; out upon the Champs Elysees, across the

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

Place Concorde and then through a maze of narrow
streets which the convoy leader seemed to choose be-
cause of the density of their traffic. The pace, I sup-
pose, was reasonable, but to one who did not have a
driving acquaintance with his car it seemed terrific.
It had never before been forced upon my attention
that the streets of Paris are largely populated with
infirm and undecided old ladies and baby buggies.
Once my engine stalled. Though I swarmed out of
that car in a few seconds less than no time, the con-
voy was out of sight by the time the motor was crank-
ed and I had regained the driving seat. The car had
an electric hooter and with my finger on this I hit a
pace which made the side streets look like windows
in one continuous wall. Once a gendarme waved his
arms, but I felt we could have little in common and I
passed him so fast it seemed as though he were be-
ing jerked in the other direction. In the months to
come I was to experience some tense and trying mo-
ments, but just then I felt that being under shell fire
must seem a positive relaxation compared with what
I was undergoing, or rather going through. At last
I glimpsed the convoy, caught it and drove across the
Seine, down the Boulevard St. Germain, through an-
other tangle of streets, finally coming to a halt in front
of a pile of gray dull-looking stone buildings, about
which was a high stone wall. Presently a sentry, who
stood in front of a gate in the wall, signaled us and
we drove through into an enclosure lined with build-

A WAR AMBULANCE

ings. We were at Rue Pinel — headquarters for the
Automobile Service of the Armies.

Every military car in use by the French from the
largest camion to the smallest voiture Ugbre must have
its registered military number, painted on its hood, its
body and on the stern and it was for this our cars had
come to headquarters.

While my ambulance was thus receiving its official
identity I had a chance to examine it. Of American
make, the car had a small but amply efficient motor
and standard chassis. Upon this chassis was mounted
a long, box-like body which, extending some distance
aft the rear axle gave the effect of a lengthened wheel
base. On the starboard side, forward, were lashed
four cans of reserve gas, a can of oil and one of kero-
sene. The corresponding position on the port side was
taken up with a locker, in which were stored a com-
plete set of field tools, extra tubes, pump, canvas
bucket, and tinned emergency rations of biscuit and
chocolate. In smaller lockers on either side of the
driving seat, were stored other articles, such as spark-
plugs, tire chalk, chains and a coil of rope, and affixed
to one of these lockers was a small steel envelope in
which were carried the "ship's papers" — in this case
an ordre de mouvement, permit to enter and remain
in the Army Zone and identification card, written in
three languages, and authorization to commandeer
gasoline. On the car's running board was strapped a
tin containing reserve water. Access to the interior

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

was had by two swinging doors aft. Within there
were two seats, each capable of holding two persons.
These seats could be folded back against the sides,
thus giving room for three stretchers, which when not
in use were carried on the floor of the car and held
in place by braces. The inside was furnished also
with a lantern. The car was painted a "war gray"
and on either side was a crimson cross. From the
top another cross looked upward to greet the war
planes. On the body, on either side, just above the
wheel appeared the legend, AMERICAN AMBU-
LANCE.

At that time, December, 191 5, the American Ambu-
lance, an off-spring of the American Hospital at
Neuilly, maintained in the field four "Sections," be-
sides one section in Paris for service in connection
with the hospital. These field sections, besides auxili-
ary cars, consisted of twenty ambulances of a uniform
type, the gifts of Americans, and were driven by
volunteer Americans serving without compensation
and furnishing their own equipment and uniforms of
a pattern prescribed by regulations. Each Section
was commanded by a French officer, under whom was
an American Section Chief. The status of these driv-
ers at this time was not clearly defined. Later the
whole Service was militarized and we became mem-
bers of the French Army. Prior to this we certainly
were not French soldiers, for we wore none of the
army's insignia. Neither were we civiles for we were

A WAR AMBULANCE

subject to military discipline and served within the
Zone of the Armies. I suppose we might best have
been described by the term "almost privates."

It was to one of these Field Sections, Section I, or
to give it its military designation S. S. U. I., Convois
Automobiles, that I was now bound. Section i is the
oldest foreign Section — Section etranger — attached to
the Armies. It had its origin in September 1914,
when a number of cars, donated and manned by Amer-
icans, served in the Marne campaign. Though not
then organized as a Section, it subsequently became so
and in January 1915, went to the front, a fully or-
ganized, self -containing unit. Already it had an envi-
able record. It had served on the Yser and at Ypres, in
the bombardment of Dunkirk and had received the at-
tention and commendation of those high in com-
mand. It had the reputation of never having failed
and of never quitting.

It was close to mid-day when the cars had received
the numbering and had been registered. There was
only one other car destined for Section 1. And this
was driven by "Freddie," an Oxford Rhodesman. The
other cars of the morning's convoy were either for the
remaining field Sections or for the Paris Service.
The numbering was barely completed before we were
joined by an officer, a Lieutenant, an affable chap who
spoke excellent English and who informed us that he
was to act as our guide to the City of Beauvais, where
we would join our Section. As he was ready, we

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

started at once and again drove across Paris. Before
reaching the City gate we drew up in front of a Duval
and had luncheon — last meal for some months to
come that Freddie and I should eat from a white table
cloth. Then with cigars lighted— hereafter we should
smoke pipes — we cranked up and got under way. At
the city gate a sentry challenged but the officer lean-
ing out, spoke the magic word "Ambulance" and we
passed. Gradually the houses grew less imposing and
more scattered. Farther on we crossed the traffic-
burdened Seine. Open spaces, surrounded by walls
appeared ; the smooth streets gave way to cobbles and
we left Paris behind. Along roads lined with tall
graceful poplars we spun. Occasionally through an
arched gate-way we could catch glimpses of a wind-
ing, tree-lined drive leading up to some stately
chateau, the windows of which were generally shut-
tered.

Now and then we would pass through a small,
somnolent village. The absence of traffic was notice-
able ; a high wheeled market cart, a wagon piled with
faggots and drawn by a sad-faced donkey, perhaps an
ancient gig. These were all, save when once or twice
a high-powered car, showing staff colors flashed by.
Once we met a convoy of camions. The roads, while
not as perfect as one finds in peace times, were, on the
whole, good. Several times we passed groups of
middle-aged men — territorials — clad in blue, before-
the-war red trousers and kepi and blue tunic, hard at

A WAR AMBULANCE

work breaking rocks and repairing the surface.

As the afternoon wore on, the mist which had all
day hung low over the hills, thickened and rain set
in. The short winter's day was well spent when we
reached a good sized town. A sentry challenged, but
after inspecting our ordre de monvement, saluted and
permitted us to proceed. The road was now entirely
deserted. The lights streaming ahead showed only
the red cross on the back of Freddie's car. And so
we drifted through the night. Finally "Qui vive"
rang out of the gloom and we drew up at another
sentry post. "This is Beauvais," the officer remarked.
We made our way through some ill-lighted streets,
stopping every now and then to inquire the direction
to the barracks, and at last reached a large, open space
in which were parked many motors of various types.
Along one side of this park our lights flashed on a
row of ambulances. We had reached our Section.

We had barely shut off our engines when a figure
appeared through the gloom. It proved to be "the
chief," the American Sous-Commander of the Squad.
He bade us welcome and informed us that we would
be quartered for the night in the barracks opposite.
So, having aligned our cars with the others, we shoul-
dered our "flea-bags," as sleeping sacks are known in
the army, and stumbled across a muddy road and
pitch dark parade ground, up a twisting flight of
stairs and into a long room, faintly illuminated by a
single lantern. Upon the plank floor was scattered a

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

quantity of straw bedding. We were pretty well
fagged, having been up since day-break, and after
some bread and chocolate in the canteen below, were
glad to crawl into our bags. From somewhere came
the tramp, tramp of a sentry. The monotony of his
footfalls lulled us. Then, distantly through the night
sounded "le repos" and we dozed. My first day in
the Service was over.

CHAPTER II

BACK OF THE FRONT

L£ REVEILLfi roused us out next morning and
after coffee and rolls at a nearby cafe, the cars
were put in motion and the convoy wound out in a
long gray line. We had not far to go, for beyond the
outskirts of Beauvais we came to a halt. Ahead, a
winding muddy road pushed its way up a hill, upon the
top of which, like a sentinel, stood a crumbling, hoary
church. About, were a number of two-storied houses
with wall-surrounded gardens, a few modest cafes.
Such is the village of Maracel and here we were des-
tined to spend the next few weeks.

Immediately on arrival, everyone in the Squad had
shouted, "Is this Moscow? Moscow, is this Mos-
cow?" This ritual, which it seemed was invariably
gone through on reaching any new place, had its origin
no one knew where, but somewhere back in the re-
mote past of the Section. This inquiry was immedi-
ately followed by a "gathering of the brethren" and
the rolling chorus of "She wore it for a lover who
was far, far away" was sung with fanatical fervency.
This also was a fixed custom and as long as I remained

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

a member of the Section, I never knew the Squad to
arrive in any new place without this solemn program's
being religiously adhered to. These matters having
been accomplished — as Caesar would express it — the
Squad would be ready for anything.

A deserted, one-room schoolhouse, not far from
the church, was assigned to us for sleeping quarters,
and the large room of the cafe was commandeered
for our mess, the cook installing his galley in a small
hut in the rear. The cars, for the moment, were al-
lowed to remain lined up by the side of the road.

It was now for the first time I had the opportunity
to mix with and judge of my fellow squad members.
At the outbreak of the war the restless ones of the
earth flocked to France, drawn there by prospect of
adventure and a desire to sit in the game. The Am-
bulance attracted its share of these characters and a
stranger, more incongruous melange, I dare say, was
never assembled. There was an ex-cowboy from
Buffalo Bill's Congress of Rough Riders, big game
hunters, — one of the most famous in the world was
at one time on Section i's roster — a former 4th Cav-
alryman, a professional Portuguese revolutionist, a
driver of racing cars, a Legionary who had fought
in Senegal, an all-American football center, two pro-
fessional jockeys, one of whom had carried the
Kaiser's colors, an Alaskan sweep-stakes dog driver,
Rhodesmen, Yale, Harvard, and Princeton men, a
prospector from New Mexico, the author of a "best

A WAR AMBULANCE

seller" — you would recognize his name in an instant
if I were to give it — a New York undertaker, a Har-
vard professor of dead languages, a Maine lumber-
jack; a hardy, reckless, restless crowd, — they faced
life carelessly and death indifferently. Many of these
men I had met in Paris before coming to the field and
involuntarily they had called to mind Service's lines:

"We have failed where slummy cities overflow,

But the stranger ways of earth

Know our pride and know our worth
And we go into the dark, as fighters go.

Yet we're hard as cats to kill

And our hearts are reckless still
And we've danced with death a dozen times or so."

As the war went on these "characters" grew less
in the ranks of the Ambulance, as the tendency be-
came to recruit the Corps almost wholly from college
men who became typal. But when I joined Section
i, it still had some interesting specimens, and though
even at that time five colleges were represented in the
Squad there was no snobbery and the work was done
with a democratic esprit which spoke well for its
Americanism.

It was on the 24th of December that we reached
Maracel. "All hands and the cook" at once turned
to and began transforming our mess quarters into
something of a Christmas aspect. A nearby wood

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yielded plenty of greens and splendid bunches of
mistletoe. Alas, that the third element which goes
to make mistletoe the most attractive of plants should
have been lacking. By evening the shabby little room
had assumed a festive appearance. The place already
boasted of — it really should have apologized for —
a decrepit billiard table with three almost round balls
— rounder at least than the average potato. From
somewhere a venerable piano was dragged forth from
a well-deserved seclusion and though it had a number
of "sour" notes and when pressed too hard was in-
clined to quit altogether, all things considered, it did
nobly. By the time those things were accomplished
and evening mess over we were "ready for the hay,"
though in this case it was straw.

Christmas came in with fog and smatterings of
rain, weather typical of what the next six weeks would
produce. In the "big car" a dozen or so of us went
into Beauvais for church, greeting everyone we met
en route with "bon no'el" The church was cold, the
service of course entirely in French. Therefore, we
were glad when it was over, but also rather glad we
had gone. Noon mess was a meager affair as most
of the food was for the evening "burst." The cars
which Freddie and I had brought up from Paris had
been stocked with good things and when we sat down
down that night it was to turkey with cranberry sauce
and, thanks to the thoughtful kindness of an Ameri-
can woman, there was even mince pie.

A WAR AMBULANCE

It was at this dinner that I met for the first time
our Commanding Officer, the C. O., or as he was
generally known "the Lieut." A well-assembled,
handsome man who spoke English perfectly, having
lived for some years in the States, he had a merry
eye and a reckless nerve which gave his men confi-
dence, for they always knew that, however exposed
a poste might be, the "Lieut." would be there. He
was a man to whom danger was a tonic, an ideal
leader for a volunteer unit such as ours. Afterwards
in the tense days the Squad experienced at Verdun
it was his smilingly imperturbable front which helped
us through. On the side of the Boers, he had fought
through the South African War, purely from love of
adventure, and had the distinction of having had a
thousand pound reward offered for him by the British.
In one of the few speeches I ever heard him make,
Lieutenant de Kersauson that night outlined our
probable future program. The section which had
been on active service in the field for nearly a year,
had been sent back of the line to Beauvais, where
there was a motor pare, for the general overhauling
and repair of the cars. He hoped, the Lieutenant
stated, that we should be in Beauvais no longer than
a fortnight by which time the cars should be in shape
and he promised us that then we should "see action."

The day following Christmas we received word
that Dick Hall of Section III had been killed by shell
fire on Christmas eve, news which had a sobering in-

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

fluence upon us all and brought a more intimate reali-
zation of the conditions we should face.

Now commenced the work for which the Section
has been sent to Beauvais. Twelve of the cars were
driven to the army automobile pare, there to undergo
renovation ; the remaining eight were placed in a
walled yard near quarters, where was established our
atelier. These eight cars were to be repaired by our-
selves and we at once got to work on them. It was
here I first made the acquaintance of "Old Number
Nine," the car assigned to me and which I was des-
tined to command for the next five months. She was
the gift of Mr. Cleveland H. Dodge of New York
City, and had already seen eight months service at
the front. Caked all over with an inch thick coat
of mud, with battered hood and dilapidated lockers
and guards, certainly she was not a "thing of
beauty" and, after listening to the gasp and grunts
which issued from her protesting motor, I had serious
doubt as to her ever being a "joy forever." There
was about "Old Number Nine," however, an air of
rakish abandon and dogged nonchalance that gave
promise of latent powers, a promise she well fulfilled
in the months to come.

It is difficult for one who had not led the life to
appreciate just what his car means to the ambidan-
cier. For periods of weeks, mayhap, it is his only
home. He drives it through rain, hail, mud and dust,
at high noon on sunshiny days, and through nights so

A WAR AMBULANCE

dark that the radiator cap before him is invisible. Its
interior serves him as a bedroom. Its engine furnishes
him with hot shaving water, its guards act as a dresser.
He works over, under and upon it. He paints it and
oils it and knows its every bolt and nut, its every
whim and fancy. When shrapnel and shell eclat fall,
he dives under it for protection. Not only his own
life, but the lives of the helpless wounded entrusted to
his care depend on its smooth and efficient function-
ing. Small wonder then that his car is his pride. You
may reflect on an ambulancier's mechanical knowledge,
his appearance, morals, religion, or politics, but if
you be wise, reflect not on his car. To him, regard-
less of its vintage or imperfections, it is not only a
good car, it is the best car. No millionaire in his
$10,000 limousine feels half the complacent pride of
the ambulance driver when, perhaps after days of
travel, he has at last succeeded in inducing it to "hit
on four" and with its wobbly wheel clutched in sympa-
thetic hands he proudly steers its erratic course.

I had "Old Number Nine's" engine down, ground
her valves, decarbonized her motor, put in new bush-
ings, replaced a spring leaf, and inspected and tight-
ened every bolt and nut. Lastly I scraped, painted,
and re-lettered her. A carpenter fitted new lockers
and she was also supplied with a new canvas wind-
shield.

Permission had been granted us to secure indi-
vidual quarters within the village limits of Maracel.

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Freddie and I interviewed a garrulous old dame and
after considerable negotiation and expenditure of
countless "Mon Dieux" and "alors" succeeded in rent-
ing from her a one-room stone cottage down the road
from the mess. That cottage was undoubtedly the
coldest, clammiest place which ever served as head-
quarters for pneumonia and rheumatism. It had a
stone floor and possessed "a breath," which
want of ventilation rendered permanent. We con-
ceived that having originally been designed for a tomb
it had been found too damp and relegated to other
uses. After three days we gave it up, preferring a
less horrible death, and sought other "digs." George,
with whom I had crossed and who had been delayed
in Paris, had now joined the Squad and the three
of us combined to rent a palatial suite of one room
farther up the street. This room was on the second
floor and hence dryer. Also it possessed what the
landlady fondly regarded as a stove. At all events it
looked as much like a stove as it did anything else.
By dint of much stoking and blowing, this instrument
at times could be induced to assume an almost fever-
ish state and exude a small degree of warmth. Our
new quarters possessed a table and three chairs so
that altogether we were "bien installs." There was
one drawback, however, and that was the children.
We were prepared to concede that a reasonable number
of children — say thirty or forty — were alright about a
house, but when they oozed out of every corner, popped

A WAR AMBULANCE

from beneath beds, dropped over the transom, emerged
from clothes-closets, got themselves fallen over and
tramped upon, and appeared in all shapes, conditions
and sizes, in every conceivable and inconceivable place,
they got upon our nerves. We used to wonder, if by
any chance, we had engaged quarters in an orphan
asylum.

In the afternoon, we used to stroll into Beauvais.
We found it a quaint old place of about thirty thou-
sand inhabitants. Like so many of the French pro-
vincial towns it was built around a central place. It
had a number of very interesting wooden houses,
curiously carved and dating back to the Tenth Cen-
tury. Its most prominent structure is its incompleted
cathedral, a building of some architectural pretensions,
but owing its chief interest to the fact that it contains
the world's most wonderful clock. Standing forty or
more feet in height, this clock has the proportions
of a small house. Countless dials give the time of
the world's principal cities, record the astronomical
and weather conditions, and on the hour various horns
are blown, figures move, a cock crows and the Angel
of the Lord appears and with extended arms drives
Satan into the flames of hell. If the sea at Havre is
rough, a small boat is violently agitated on undulating
waves. If the sea is calm the boat remains motion-
less. The seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days,
the years and the centuries are shown and the mach-
inery which operates all this needs winding but once

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in three hundred years — surely an ideal occupation
for a lazy man.

If for no other reason, we shall always remember
Beauvais for its patisseries. Scattered all over the
town they are, showing in their windows row on row
of delicious, tempting gateaux. Cakes with cream
filling, cakes with chocolate icing, cakes square, oblong
and round, cakes diamond shape, tarts of cherry, apple
and custard, eclairs, both long and round, chocolate
and coffee. And how we used to "stuff" them. In
the months to follow, and many times in the long
Balkan winter, how often did we think of and long
for those pastries. Also there was a little restaurant
which will long flourish in our memory. It was not
a pretentious place, not even on the place, but down
a side street half-hidden by a projecting building.
There, when we were tired of army food, we were
wont to foregather, and there, served by a little
waitress who was in a perpetual state of giggles, evi-
dently considering us the funniest things in the world,
we used to consume the flakiest of omlettes aux rog-
nons, crisp pommes de terre f rites, tender salades,
delicious fricandeau de veau and frontages and other
delicacies the mere thinking of which makes my mouth
water.

Saturday was market day and the usually somno-
lent place would then waken into life. Booths sprang
up and the country people flocking in from round
about would offer their produce. Rows of stolid

A WAR AMBULANCE

looking cheeses were lined up like so many corpses
awaiting identification. Cabbages, cauliflowers and
apples were everywhere piled in heaps. The hot
chestnut vendor called his wares and the ubiquitous
faker harangued his credulous audience. The hum
of voices in barter filled the air. And everywhere
was the soldier, either back of the line en repos, or
passing through from one sector of the front to
another. Clad in his uniform of horizon-blue, topped
with his steel casque, he strolled about singly or in
groups and here it was I first mixed with the poilu
and found him that rough, cheery philosopher whose
kindly bonhomie makes him the most lovable of com-
rades. At Beauvais too I saw my first "soisante-
quinze" that most famous of all field guns and within
range of whose spiteful voice I was destined to spend
many days.

Meanwhile the old year slipped out and the mellow
tones of the church clock announced the coming of
1916. Surely this year would bring victory.

On the eleventh of January, "Old Number Nine,"
having undergone several major and many minor oper-
ations, was re-assembled. I cranked her up — and she
ran. What's more she ran smoothly. From that day
she was my pride.

Though life in Maracel was pleasant enough, the
Squad was becoming restive and the Commander was
continually besought for information as to when we
were going to the front. To which query he always

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made evasive response, since he himself was no better
informed than we. By the middle of the month the
cars were back from the pare and everything was in
readiness. Still no word came. And then at last one
morning we received our orders. I remember I was
employed in putting some delicate touches on "Old
Number Nine" when the word came. We were to be
in convoy at two o'clock that afternoon. It was then
eleven. The cars were to be loaded with the section
impedimenta. Our personal kits were to be packed
and stowed ; oil, gas and water were to be put aboard
and dozens of other details attended to. "Ah, then
there was a hurrying to and fro in hot haste." But
it was accomplished and as the church clock boomed
the hour we were lined up in convoy waiting the
starting whistle — and we knew not what.

CHAPTER III

OFF TO THE FRONT

IT was night when we crossed a wooden bridge span-
ning the Oise, and halted the convoy in the muddy
streets of a small town, Pont Ste. Maxence. We
were tired, cold and hungry and time hung heavily
while we waited in the common room of a small hostel
for the patron and his staff to prepare a meal. This
over, the convoy recrossed the river and parked in
an open space beside the road. Then, with our
blanket rolls on our shoulders, we made our way up
the road to a barn where we were glad enough to
kick off our boots and puttees and turn in on the hay.
We slept well, though I remember once in the night
as I sought a more comfortable position, I heard a
rumble and wondered vaguely whether rain would
follow the thunder and if the roof would leak. But
in the morning when we turned out to perform our
simple toilet at the barnyard pump, "the thunder" still
continued and then it was I realized its meaning; it
was the voices of the guns we heard.

That day we worked rather steadily on our cars,
installing tire racks and making some adjustments

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which our hurried departure from Beauvais had inter-
rupted. As we worked, troops and transport convoys
were continually passing along the road, and the
clanking of arms and the rumbling of artillery wheels
made us feel we were nearing the front.

In the afternoon we sauntered into the town. In the
wrecked bridge which had here spanned the Oise I saw
my first evidence of war's destruction. Built in 1744,
after nearly a century and a half of service, it had
been blown up by the retreating French to delay the
German advance in the early days of the war. Now
its once graceful arches were but shattered masses
of stone. Pont Ste. Maxence proved to be anything
but prepossessing. Indeed I can recall few towns
less attractive. With its narrow, dirty streets, its
ugly houses and poor shops, all made dolorous by a
falling rain, it offered little of cheer. However,
Freddie, George and I found a cozy little inn whose
warm, snug, buvette looked out over the river, and
here we made a famous dinner.

Since our cars were parked in an exposed place
it was considered necessary to stand watch over them
and that night I had my first experience of guard
duty, my watch being from one to three in the morn-
ing. Though the rain was falling gently, a full moon,
swept fitfully by clouds, made the night one of silvery
beauty. Now and again, from far away, came the
rumble of the guns ; before long I knew I should be
out there from whence came that rumble and I speoi-

A WAR AMBULANCE

lated on just what my sensations would be and won-
dered whether my nerve would hold when confronted
with the conditions I had come to seek.

We had hoped to linger not more than a day at
Pont Ste. Maxence, but it was not until late after-
noon of the third day that orders came in directing
the Section to move on the following morning. And
so when we turned in that night it was with a feeling
of eagerness, for tomorrow would see us en route
for the front.

The first light had hardly grayed our loft before
the blare of bugles and the "slog, slog" of hobbed
shoes told us of the passing of a column. Petit
dejeuner over, our blankets rolled and stowed, we
drew our cars up by the side of the road to await
the passing of that column. Eighteen months in the
army have shown me no finer spectacle than we saw
that morning. For here passing before us were the
Tirailleurs d' Afrique, men recruited from the Tell
and Morocco, the most picturesque soldiery in the
world. Rank after rank they passed with a swinging
steady cadence, platoon after platoon, company after
company, regiment after regiment. Twelve thousand
strong they marched. At the head of each company,
flung to the breeze, was the yellow flag, bearing the
hand and crescent of the Prophet, for these men are
Mohammedans. At the head of each regiment
marched a band, half a hundred strong, bands which
surely played the most weird strains that ever stirred

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men's souls or quickened laggard feet. Bugles, drums
and the plaintive hautboy, blared, thumped and wailed
in tingling rhythm. Complete in every detail they
passed, with all the apparatus belli, machine gun
platoons, goulash batteries, pack trains, munition
transports, every button and buckle in place, every
rope taut, an ensemble of picturesque fighting effi-
ciency. And the faces! — the dark, swarthy faces of
the Arab, the Moor and the Moroccan, faces seamed
with the lines implanted by the African sun and the
gazing over desert wastes. There was no type. Each
man was individual. But one thing they had in com-
mon. In all the world there is but one lure that could
unite and hold such men — for they are all volunteers
— that lure, the primal love of strife. That love was
stamped upon their very souls, showed itself in their
carriage, their stride, and in their hawk-like gaze.
We looked, and felt that verily these were men. And
they had fought, fought in the lands of strange names.
On many a tunic flashed forth the medals of hard
fought campaigns, the Etoile d' Afrique, the Medaille
Militaire, the Croix de Guerre, the Moroccan, the
Indo-China Medal ; all were there, and sometimes one
single tunic bore them all.

In all that long column, one man there was we shall
not forget. A captain, he strode at the head of his
company. At least six feet four he must have been.
Clad in the earthy brown of the African troops, his har-
ness and trappings were of finest pigskin. Around his

A WAR AMBULANCE

middle was wound a flaming crimson sash. From be-
neath his kepi worn at a jaunty angle, peeped out
a mane of tawny yellow hair, conspicuous against his
sun-tanned skin. He fairly scintillated like a burn-
ished blade held aloft by a brave hand. And when,
in answer to our salute, he stiffened into "regulation"
like a page out of the tactics manual, we felt it would
be a privilege to follow such a man in hopeless charge

It was ten-thirty when the last transport had passed.
The last gun clinked by. The column had been four
and one-half hours in passing.

Now, with the bridge at last free, we crossed and,
after skirting the river some distance, entered a forest.
Emerging from this we came to another river, the
Aisne — and nosed our way over a pontoon bridge. On
the farther side we pushed up a rise and, turning
sharply to our left, found ourselves in what had been
a street, now but a way through a scattered waste
of wrecked buildings, once the village of Choisy au
Bac. The ruins had a singularly hoary look, as if it
had been ages since this desolation had descended.
Here and there stood the walls of a house, its windows
blown away, sightless to the ruins about. Through the
despairing streets we steered our course, and passing
between two imposing stone pillars, entered the court
yard of a once beautiful chateau. Of the structure
there now remains but one room. It might have been
the breakfast room — save that in France there is no
breakfast — large, well-lighted and furnished with

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dainty bird's-eye chairs and a spindle-legged table
which, in the midst of all this ruin seemed strangely
incongruous. The remainder of the mansion was a
fire-blackened ruin, destroyed, like the town, by the
Germans when they had retreated.

Choisy was much nearer the line than we had yet
been — I think not above five or six kilometers away
— and from the courtyard we could hear occasion-
ally the "putt, putt, putt," of a machine-gun, while
just outside the wall ran a reserve trench.

While we were eating luncheon, an al fresco affair
served on ambulance seats, stretched between mud-
guards, the C. O. had been searching for a canton-
ment. About three, he returned and with considerable
complacency informed us that he had succeeded in
having a beautiful chateau assigned us. Chateau life
held strong appeal, so the Lieut, was lustily applauded
and a few minutes later, the order having been given,
the machines strung out along the road. Less than an
hour later we "raised" our quarters, and a magnificent
looking place it was. A modern structure of perhaps
fifty rooms, the chateau stood in the midst of its own
beautiful park at the foot of which passed the tran-
quil Aisne. In general appearance and in surround-
ings, the place resembled a modern country club. As
we parked our cars in the open space facing the mag-
nificent entrance we felt that at last our paths were
to be cast in pleasant places.

But our disillusionment, which shortly commenced,

A WAR AMBULANCE

was before we left, complete. To begin with, we
found that with the exception of two small rooms in
the basement — one of which was employed as a
kitchen, the other for a mess — and four other equally
small rooms — servants quarters, located at the very
top of the house — the building was shut and locked.
To reach our sleeping quarters under the roof we
were obliged to climb seven flights of stairs and after
tumping a blanket roll and a ruck-sack up these, both
our breath and enthusiasm had suffered abatement.
The mess-room was dark and so small we could not
all be seated at the same table. Another pleasing fea-
ture was that the water was a half a mile distant. All
things considered, we preferred our barn at Pont Ste.
Maxence to this, and were not backward in telling
the Commander so. It was evident that this was not
"Moscow."

We remained at the Chateau for three days, during
which we were much bored since the park was made
our bounds, and there was nothing to do ; and then
early in the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of Janu-
ary we once more climbed into our machines, knowing
this time that when we shut off our motors it would
be within range of the guns. Over roads cluttered
with convoy and munition transport, we headed south-
eastward in the direction of Soissons. Through vil-
lages worn weary with the passing and repassing of
countless troops, we went where the houses bore the
chalked legends "20 Hommes" or "10 Cheveaux" or

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u2 Off icier s," according to the nature of the quarters
within. The sound of the guns was all this time
growing louder and more distinct. Toward four in
the afternoon we emerged on a long straight road —
the main Compiegne-Soissons route — and reaching a-
forlorn little village, shut off our motors. This was
our station. We were at the front.

CHAPTER IV

IN ACTION — THE AISNE

AS you come along the Compiegne-Soissons road,
proceeding in the direction of Soissons, about
midway between the two cities you sight a small
cluster of gray stone buildings. It is the village of
Julzy. Here it was we had cast anchor. Before
reaching the village you will have noticed a dark
round spot in the walls. As you approach, this re-
solves itself into an arch. Passing through you will
find yourself in a muddy stable yard. I say "muddy"
advisedly for I firmly believe that whatever the season
or whatever the weather conditions are, or may have
been, you will find that courtyard muddy. Whether
the mud is fed from perennial springs or gathers its
moisture from the ambient atmosphere, I do not know.
The fact remains, that courtyard was, is and always
will be, muddy. Facing the arch on the farther side
of the yard, stands a single-storied building of one
room. Its inside dimensions are, perhaps, fifty by
twenty-five feet. Access is had by a single door and
three windows admit a dim light. We found it simply
furnished with a wire-bottomed trough, raised about

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three and a half feet above the floor and extending
about double that from the walls on three sides of
the room. This left free floor space enough to ac-
commodate a table of planks stretched across essence
boxes, flanked on either side by two benches belonging
to the same school of design. Such was our canton-
ment. In the trough twenty of us slept, side by side.
At the table we messed, wrote, mended tires, played
chess or lanced boils. Two of the windows lacked
glass, so there was plenty of cold air; a condition
which a small stove did its inefficient best to combat.
The galley was established in a tiny hut on the left
of the yard and from here the food was transported
to the mess by the two unfortunates who happened
to be on "chow" duty. Since the courtyard was
not sufficiently large to accommodate all the cars, half
were placed in another yard about two hundred meters
down the road, where also was established the atelier.
At night a sentry was posted on the road between
these two points and "le mot" was a condition prece-
dent to passing, a circumstance which sometimes gave
rise to embarrassment when the password was for-
gotten.

The village of Julzy is made up of some two score
forbidding-looking houses. It is situated on the south
bank of the Aisne and is bisected by the road from
Compiegne to Soissons. At this time, February 1916,
it was, as the shell travels, about four kilometers from
the line. Though thus within easy reach of the

A WAR AMBULANCE

enemy's field artillery, it showed no signs of having
been bombarded and during our entire stay only five
or six shells were thrown in. This immunity was
probably due to the insignificant size of the place and
the fact that no troops were ever quartered there.
Back of the village proper, on the top of a steep
hill, was Haut Julzy, or Upper Julzy. Here a large
percentage of the houses was partially demolished —
from shell fire, one of the few remaining inhabitants
informed me. Half way up the hill, between upper
and lower Julzy, stands an ancient stone church. A
line of reserve trenches, crossing the hill, traverses
the churchyard. Here are buried a number of soldiers,
"mort pour la patrie." Above one grave is a wooden
cross upon which appears the inscription: "To an
unknown English soldier; he died for his father's
land." And this grave is even better kept and pro-
vided with flowers than the others.

The region round about Julzy is surely among the
most beautiful in all France. Hills, plateaus and
wooded valleys, through which flow small, clear
streams, all combine to lend it natural charm, a charm
of which even winter cannot rob it. Numerous vil-
lages are everywhere scattered about, and while those
near the front had a war-worn aspect, in proportion
to their distance from the line their freshness and
attractiveness increased. Rail-head for this sector was
Pierre fonds, a pleasant town overshadowed by the
fairy-like castle from which it takes it name. It was

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at Pierrefonds we obtained our supply of essence —
gasoline. Off to the southwest, in a magnificent forest
bearing the same name, is the quaint little city of
Villers-Cotterets— by the Squad rechristened Veal
Cutlets. It was here Dumas was born and lived.
The city owed its chief interest to us, however, from
the fact that here was located one of the field hospitals
to which we transported wounded. Some twenty kilo-
meters to the west of Julzy is the old city of Com-
piegne, reminiscent of Robert Louis Stevenson, and
here too were located evacuation hospitals. Its curi-
ous town hall, its venerable houses, and dark, myste-
rious shops are interesting, but our most lasting
memories of the city will be of its silent, wind-swept
streets through which we carried our wounded on
those dark, icy nights.

The day began at six-thirty A.M. when the detested
alarm clock went into action, supplemented by shouts
of "everybody out" and sleepy groans of protest. A
quick shift from flea-bag to knickers and tunic, and a
promissory toilet was accomplished by seven, by
which time, also, the two orderlies for the day had
set the table with coffee, bread and jam. This dis-
posed of, the cars were cranked, and a bone-wrenching
job this usually was, the motors being so stiff from
the cold it was next to impossible to "turn them
over." There was a squad rule for "lights out" at
9 130 P.M. but as there were always some individuals
who wished to write or play chess or read after tnis

A WAR AMBULANCE

hour, excellent target practice was nightly furnished
to those who had retired in the trough and who
objected to the continued illumination. Thus I have
seen a well-directed boot wipe out an intricate chess
match as completely as did the German guns the forts
of Liege. The "gunner" in these fusillades always
endeavored to see that the ammunition employed —
usually boots — was the property of someone else and
the joy which a "direct hit" engendered was apt to
suffer abatement on discovery that they were your
boots which had been employed.

The schedule under which the Squad operated while
on the Aisne was a varied one and yet so systematized
that a driver could tell a fortnight in advance, by the
list of sailings posted on the order board, where he
should be and what his duties at any given day or
hour. There were three regular route runs, to each
of which were assigned two cars a day. These were
known as "evacuation runs" from the fact that the
blesses — wounded — were picked up at regularly estab-
lished field dressing stations, from two and a half
to fifteen kilometers back of the line, and transported
to an "evacuation hospital," either at Villers Cotterets,
Compiegne, or Pierrefonds. The longer of these
routes was made twice each day, a run of about forty
kilometers.

About two kilometers to the east of Julzy, on the
north side of the river, is the village of Vic-sur-Aisne,
at this time not much above a kilometer back of the

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line. Here was established our picket post and here
we maintained always three cars, serving in twenty-
four hour shifts. From this station we served nine
frontal postes de secours, or line dressing stations,
some of which were within five hundred meters of
the German line. Such were the postes of Hautebraye
and Vingre. The crossing of the Aisne to Reach Vic
is made by a single-spanned iron bridge over which
passed all the transport for this portion of the line.
Because of the importance thus given it, the bridge
was a continual object of the enemy's fire, it being
within easy range. The village itself, considering the
fact that it was within sight of the Germans and
had been under more or less continuous fire for
months, was not as complete a wreck as might be
imagined. This was due to the fact that the buildings
were of stone and the shelling was usually done with
small calibre guns. To obstruct the enemy's view
and prevent his spotting passing traffic the roads lead-
ing from the village were screened with brush and
poles. These served their purpose in winter when
the roads were muddy, but when the roads dried, the
rising dust betrayed the passing of the transport and
then the enemy was able to shell with a greater de-
gree of accuracy. Our station at Vic was located in
the carriage house of a chateau which stood on an
eminence overlooking the river, about a quarter of a
mile to the east of the village. When on duty there,
we messed with some sous-officiers in the cellar of the

A WAR AMBULANCE

chateau, the place being fairly safe from shell eclat
though not from a direct hit.

Besides the three route runs described and the
Vic service, the Squad was subject to special calls
at any time of the day or night from any part of our
sector or the surrounding country. This service was
known as "bureau duty," from the fact that the cars
assigned to it were stationed at our office or "bureau,"
which was in telephonic communication with the line
and region about. Twice a week one of the cars on
bureau service was dispatched to Compiegne on
"chow" foraging, an assignment much coveted since
it meant a chance for a hot bath and a good feed.

Under this schedule a driver had one day in every
seven for repos. This was more in theory than actu-
ality, however, as the seventh day usually found
work needed on his car.

We had reached Julzy on the 27th of January. On
the first day of February we took over the sector
from the retiring French ambulance section and that
day went into action. Heretofore we had watched
the passing panorama of war; now we were of it.
My first voyage was an evacuation route and hence
wholly back of the line. I went in company with
another car and as there were only four as sis — sitting
cases — which the other car took, I had no passengers.
Coming back from Courves, the road leads across
a plateau which overlooks the Aisne valley, and the
country behind the German lines was plainly visible.

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It was from this plateau road that for the first time
I saw shells bursting. The French batteries in the
valley below were in action and over there in Boche-
land white puffs of smoke showed where the shells
were breaking.

Though I had several times been very close to the
line, it was not until February was nine days old that
I received my baptism of fire. On that day I was
on twenty-four hour duty at Vic and my journal
written just after I came off duty, will, perhaps give
an idea of a typical shift at this station.

"Julzy, February 10th. Relieved the other cars at
Vic promptly at eight o'clock yesterday morning. The
French batteries were already in action but there was
no response from the enemy till about ten, when a
number of shells whistled by overhead, dropping into
the village of Roche, about a half mile down the road.
Towards noon the range was shortened and as we
went to mess in the dug-out an obus struck the wall
back of the chateau, a hundred yards away. After
lunch I went out with a soldier to look for the fusse,
as the bronze shell head is called. To my surprise,
the man suddenly dropped flat on his face. Then I
heard an awful screech, followed by a crash, as
though a pile of lumber were falling, and a cloud
of dust rose in a field, perhaps 90 meters away.
Almost immediately two more crashed in. I am un-
able to analyze or describe my sensations and I ques-
tion whether a trained psychologist would be much

A WAR AMBULANCE

better off. There is something "disturbing" about
shell fire which is not conducive to abstract or ana-
lytical thought. I do not believe I was especially
frightened; my feelings were more of curiosity. I
knew this shelling would soon mean work for us, so
I got back to my car and saw that everything was
ready for marching. Meanwhile a shell had dropped
just back of the chateau, getting one of the stretcher-
bearers. Joe carried him to the dressing station at
Roche where he died a little later. My first call came
at two o'clock, from Roche. Here I got three men,
just wounded by shell eclat, evacuating them to the
field hospital at Atichy. Got back to Vic about four.
Found the village still under fire, both our own and
the enemy's fire having, if anything, increased. Both
of the other cars were out, which meant I was due
for the next call. Got into my sleeping bag to try
to get warm but was hardly settled before a lieutenant,
medecin, came in announcing a call for Vingre. In
five minutes we were on our way. After leaving Vic
the road was a sea of mud. An enemy observation
balloon had the way in full view, so the word was
vite.

"Through deserted shell-shattered villages we
ploughed, the mud spraying us from tires to top and
filling our eyes over the wind-break. It was nearing
dusk as we reached the poste, a dug-out in the side
of a hill. Just above us, on the crest was the line
and we could hear distinctly the popping of hand

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grenades between the battery salvos. Our men, one
shot through the leg, the other hit in the chest, were
brought in from a boyau and we started back, this time
going more slowly. It was a desolate scene through
which we passed, made more desolate by the fading
light of a gray day. The miry, deserted road, the
stricken villages, the overgrown fields — it seemed the
very stamping ground of death and the voice of that
death passed over head in whining shrieks. There
was little of life to dispute its reign. Now and then,
at the nozzle of a dug-out, there appeared a soldier's
head, but that was all and, for the rest, there might
not have been a soul within a thousand miles.

"One of my blesses required an immediate opera-
tion, so I passed on through Vic and headed for
Compiegne, reaching there about 7 o'clock and evacu-
ating to St. Luke's Hospital. At once started back to
my station. Found the cook had saved me some
dinner and after stowing this crawled into my flea-
bag. The blankets were barely around me when a
brancardier came in with a call for the poste at Haute-
braye. The moon gave a little light but not enough
to drive fast with safety, so we drove fast and let
safety look out for itself, our motto being not "safety
first" but "save first." We found our man ready,
shot through the body, raving with delirium, his hands
bound together to prevent him tearing his wound.
Though a part of our way was exposed to the enemy's
machine gun fire, the road was too pitted with shell

A WAR AMBULANCE

holes to permit of fast driving with so badly wounded
a man and so we crept back to Vic. The order was
again to Compiegne. It was close to midnight when,
numbed with cold, we rolled through the silent streets
of the town. On my return trip I twice found myself
nodding over the wheel. Nevertheless, we made the
thirty-two kilometers in less than an hour. Found
Vic quiet, the shelling having ceased and save for an
occasional trench flare, little to indicate it was the
front. At one o'clock I turned in on the stone floor,
this time to rest undisturbed till morning.

"Roused out at 6:30 to greet a gray winter day
and falling snow. The batteries on both sides were
already in action and the "put-put-put" of machine
guns came to us through the crisp air. The relief
cars rolled in at eight and we at once cranked up and
set out for quarters. As we crossed the Aisne, the
Germans were shelling the bridge, with 150's, I think.
They had the exact range, as regards distance, but the
shells were falling about a hundred yards to one side,
throwing up great geysers of water as they struck
the river. On reaching the other side I stopped and
watched them come in. They came four to the minute.
Reached quarters here, Julzy, at 8 130, — completing the
twenty-four hour shift."

So it was I had my baptism of fire. Perhaps I was
not frightened by those first shells ; curiosity may have
supplanted other sensations but as time went on, and
I saw the awful, destructive power of shell fire, when

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I had seen buildings leveled and men torn to bloody
shreds, the realization of their terribleness became
mine and with it came a terror of that horrible soul-
melting shriek. And now after a year and a half of
war, during which I have been scores of times under
fire and have lived for weeks at a time in a daily
bombarded city, I am no more reconciled to shell fire
than at first. If anything, the sensation is worse and
personally I do not believe there is such a thing as
becoming "used" to it.

It was early in February that I got my first ex-
perience at night driving without lights. To you gen-
tlemen who have shot rapids, great game and billiards,
who have crossed the Painted Desert and the "line,"
who have punched cows in Arizona and heads in Mile
End Road, who have killed moose in New Brunswick
and time in Monte Carlo, who have treked and skied
and tumped, to you who have tried these and still crave
a sensation, let me recommend night driving without
lights over unfamiliar shell-pitted roads, cluttered with
traffic, within easy range of the enemy, challenged
every now and then by a sentry who has a loaded gun
and no compunction in using it. Your car, which in
daylight never seems very powerful has now become
a very Juggernaut of force. At the slightest increase
of gas it fairly jumps off the road. Throttle down
as you may, the speed seems terrific. You find your-
self with your head thrust over the wheel, your eyes
staring ahead with an intensity which makes them

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ache — staring ahead into nothing. Now and then the
blackness seems, if possible, to become more dense
and you throw out your clutch and on your brake
and come to a dead stop, climbing out to find your
radiator touching an overturned caisson. Or may-
hap a timely gunflash or the flare of a trench light
will show that you are headed off the road and straight
for a tree. A little farther on, the way leads up a
hill — the pulling of the engine is the only thing that
tells you this — and then, just as you top the rise, a
star-bomb lights the scene with a dense white glare
and the brancardier by your side rasps our "Vite, pour
V amour de Dieu, vite; Us peuvent nous voir," and you
drop down the other side of that hill like the fall of a
gun hammer. Then in a narrow mud-gutted lane in
front of a dug-out you back and fill and finally turn,
your bloody load is eased in and you creep back the
way you have come, save that now every bump and
jolt seems to tear your flesh as you think of those poor,
stricken chaps in behind. Yes, there is something of
tenseness in lightless night driving under such con-
ditions. Try it, gentlemen.

On the afternoon and night of February 12th, there
was an attack on the line near Vingre, preceded by
drum fire. As such things go, it was but a small affair.
It would perhaps have a line in the communique as,
"North of the Aisne the enemy attempted a coup upon
a salient of our line, but we repulsed him with loss."
That and nothing more. But to those, who were

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there it was very real. The big guns spat their ex-
change of hate ; rifle fire crackled along the line ; the
machine guns sewed the air with wicked staccato
sounds and men with set jaws and bayonets charged
to death through barbed entanglements. As night
closed down the flare-bombs spread their fitful glare
on mutilated things which that morning had been
living men. Now set in the bloody back-wash of
wounded. With the coming of the night, the enemy
lengthened the range of his artillery, so as to harass
the transport, and the zone back of the line was
seared with shells. The field dressing station at
Roche, near Vic, suffered greatly and it soon became
apparent that its evacuation was necessary.

I had already been on duty fourteen hours when the
call reached quarters for the entire Squad. My journal
for the 13th reads: "I'm too tired for much writing
as I've had but two hours sleep in the last forty, dur-
ing which I have driven close to three hundred kilo-
meters, been three times under fire, and had but two
hot meals. The entire Squad was turned to just after
I got into the blankets last night. Roche was being
bombarded and it was necessary to take out all the
wounded. There were a number of new shell holes
in the road and this made interesting driving. It was
one-thirty when I reached Compiegne, three when I
had completed my evacuation, and four-fifteen this
morning when I reached quarters. Up at six-thirty
and working on my 'bus. This afternoon made route

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3. Tonight I am bien fatigue. Firing light today,
possibly because of sleet and rain. The attack was
evidently repulsed."

The Squad did good work that night. Afterwards
we were commended by the Colonel in command. It
was in this attack that "Bill" won his Croix de Guerre
when "a un endroit particulieremcnt expose, au
moment on les obus tombaient avec violence, a arrete
sa voiture pour prendre des blesses qn'il a aide avec
courage et sang-froid." A week later he was dec-
orated, our muddy little courtyard being the setting for
the ceremony.

In celebration of his decoration, Bill determined
to give a "burst." There would seem to be few places
less adapted to the serving of a banquet or less ca-
pable of offering material than poor little war-torn
Julzy. Nevertheless, at six o'clock on the evening of
February 27th the Squad sat down to a repast that
would have done credit to any hotel. Bill had enlisted
the services of a Paris caterer and not only was the
food itself perfection but it was served in a style
that, after our accustomed tin cup, tin plate service,
positively embarrassed us. Our dingy quarters were
decorated and made light by carbide lights; a snowy
cloth covered our plank table ; stacks of china dishes —
not tin — appeared at each place; there were chairs
to sit upon. Even flowers were not forgotten and Bill,
being a Yale man, had seen to it that beside the plates
of the other Yale men in the Squad were placed

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bunches of violets. The artist of the Section designed
a menu card but we were too busy crashing into the
food to pay any attention to the menu. For a month
past we had been living mostly on boiled beef and
army bread and the way the Squad now eased into
regular food was an eye-opener to dietitians. Hors
d'oeuvres, fish, ham, roasts, vegetables, salads, sweets,
wines and smokes disappeared like art in a Hun raid.
Twenty men may have gotten through a greater quan-
tity and variety of food in three hours and lived, but
it is not on record. And through it all the guns snarled
and roared unheeded and the flare bombs shed their
fitful glare. Verily, in after years, when men shall
foregather and the talk flows in Epicurean channels, if
one there be present who was at Bill's "burst," surely
his speech shall prevail.

February, which had come in with mild weather,
lost its temper as it advanced; the days became in-
creasingly cold and snow fell. The nights were cruel
for driving. One night I remember especially. I had
responded to a call just back of the line where I got
my blesse, a poor chap shot through the lung. It was
snowing, the flakes driving down with a vicious force
that stung the eyes and brought tears. In spite of
the snow it was very black and to show a light, meant
to draw fire. We crept along, for fear of running into
a ditch or colliding with traffic. At kilometer 8 my
engine began to miss. I got out and changed plugs,
but this did not help much and we limped along. The

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opiate given the blesse had begun to wear off, and his
groans sounded above the whistling of the wind.
Once in the darkness I lost the road, going several
kilometers out of my way before I realized the error.
The engine was getting weaker every minute but by
this time I was out of gun range and able to use a
lantern. With the aid of the light, I was able to make
some repairs, though my hands were so benumbed I
could scarcely hold the tools. The car now marched
better and I started ahead. Several times a "qui vivc"
came out of the darkness, to which I ejaculated a
startled "France." The snow-veiled clock in Villers-
Cotterets showed the hour was half after midnight
when we made our way up the choked streets. But
"the load" had come through safely.

Uncomfortable as these runs were — and every mem-
ber of the Squad made them not once, but many
times — they were what lent fascination to the work.
They made us feel that it was worth while and, how-
ever small the way, we were helping.

It was about this time that the Service was mili-
tarized and incorporated into the Automobile Corps
of the French army. Thereafter, we were classed as
"Militaires" and wore on our tunics the red winged
symbol of the Automobile Corps. We were now
subject to all the rules and regulations governing
regularly enlisted men, with one exception — the dura-
tion of our enlistments. We were permitted to enlist
for six month periods with optional three months ex-

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tensions, and were not compelled to serve "for dura-
tion." As incident to the militarization, we received
five sous a day per man — the pay of the French poilu,
and in addition were entitled to "touch" certain articles,
such as shelter tents, sabots, tobacco, etc. We had
already been furnished with steel helmets and gas
masks. We were also granted the military franchise
for our mail.

While at Julzy, the personnel of the Squad changed
considerably. The terms of several men having ex-
pired, they left, their places being taken by new re-
cruits. Thus "Hippo," "Bob," "Brooke," and
"Magum" joined us. Nor must I forget to mention
another important addition to our number — the puppy
mascot "Vic." He was given to us by a Tirailleur,
who being on the march could not take care of him,
and one of the fellows brought him back to quarters
in his pocket, a tiny soft, white ball who instantly
wriggled himself into the Squad's affection. When we
got him he could scarcely toddle and was never quite
certain where his legs would carry him. Yet even
then the button, which he fondly believed a tail, stuck
belligerently upright, like a shattered mast from which
had been shot the flag. For he, being a child of war,
had fear of nothing, no, not gun fire itself, and as
he grew older we took him with us on our runs and
he was often under shell fire. He was always at
home, in chateau or dugout, always sure of himself
and could tell one of our khaki uniforms a mile away,

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picking us out of a mob of blue clad soldiers. Such
was Vic, the Squad mascot.

On the evening of March 3rd, orders came in to be
prepared to move and the following afternoon, in a
clinging, wet snow, we left Julzy and proceeded to the
village of Courtieux, some three kilometers distant.
The village is in the general direction of Vic-sur-
Aisne, but back from the main road. For months
successive bodies of troops had been quartered here and
we found it a squalid, cheerless hole, fetlock deep in
mud. Our billet was a small, windowless house, squat-
ting in the mud and through which the wind swept
the snow. There was also a shed, with bush sides
and roof wherein our mess was established.

Why we had been ordered from Julzy to this place
but three kilometers away, it would be impossible to
say. We were maintaining the same schedule and
Courtieux was certainly not as convenient a place from
which to operate. We cogitated much on the matter,
but reached no conclusion. It was just one of the
mysteries of war. The three days succeeding our
arrival were uncomfortable ones. The weather con-
tinued bad with low temperature. When we were off
duty there was nowhere to go, save to bed and there
were no beds. What Courtieux lacked in other things
it made up in mud and our cars were constantly
mired. As a relief from the monotony of the village,
three of us, being off duty one afternoon, made a
peregrination to the front line trenches, passing

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through miles of winding connecting boyonx until we
lost all sense of direction. We really had no right
to go up to the line but we met with no opposition,
all the soldiers we met greeting us with friendly
camaraderie and the officers responding to our salutes
with a "bonjour." We found the front line disap-
pointingly quiet. There was little or no small arm
firing going on, though both sides were carrying on
a desultory shelling. Through a sandbagged loophole
we could see a low mud escarpment about 90 meters
away — the enemy's line. It was not an exciting view,
the chief interest being lent by the fact that in taking
it you were likely to have your eye shot out. All
things considered, the excursion was a rather tame
affair, though we who had made it did our best to
play it up to the rest of the Squad upon our return.

We remained at Courtieux but three days and then,
at nine o'clock on the morning of the fourth, assem-
bled in convoy at Julzy. It was one of the coldest
mornings of the winter ; the trees were masses of
ice and the snow creaked beneath the tires, while our
feet, hands and ears suffered severely. As usual, we
had no idea of our destination. That our division
had been temporarily withdrawn from the line and
that we were to be attached to another division, was
the extent of our information. By the time the con-
voy had reached Compiegne we were all rather well

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numbed. When the C. O. halted in the town, he had
failed to note a patisserie was in the vicinity and the
motors had hardly been shut off before the Squad
en masse stormed the place, consuming gateaux and
stuffing more gateaux into its collective pockets.
Meanwhile, outside, the "Lieut." blew his starting
whistle in vain.

Shortly before noon we made the city of Montdi-
dier, where we lunched in the hotel and waited for
the laggard cars to come up. About three we again
got away, passing through a beautiful rolling country
by way of Pierre fonds and as darkness was falling
parked our cars in the town of Moreuil. It was too
late to find a decent billet for the night. A dirty, rat-
infested warehouse was all that offered and after
looking this over, most of us decided, in spite of the
cold, to sleep in our cars. Our mess was established
in the back room, of the town's principal cafe and the
fresh bread, which we obtained from a nearby bakery,
made a welcome addition to army fare. Moreuil
proved to be a dull little town, at that time some
twenty-five kilometers back of the line. Aside from
an aviation field there was little of interest.

On the third day of our stay we were reviewed and
inspected by the ranking officer of the sector. He did
not appear very enthusiastic and expressed his doubt
as to our ability to perform the work for which we
were destined, an aspersion which greatly vexed us.
Our vindication came two months later when, having

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tested us in action, he gave us unstinted praise and
spoke of us in the highest terms.

After the review, the C. O. announced that we had
received orders to move and would leave the follow-
ing day for a station on the Somme. He refused to
confirm the rumor that our destination was "Moscow."

CHAPTER V

THE SOMME

IT was ten-fifty on a snowy, murky morning —
Friday, March ioth — that our convoy came to a
stop in the village of Mericourt, destined to be our
headquarters for some months to come. There was
little of cheer in the prospect. One street — the road
by which we had entered — two abortive side streets,
these lined with one or two-storied peasants' cottages,
and everywhere, inches deep, a sticky, clinging mud:
such was Mericourt. This entry from my journal
fairly expresses our feelings at the time: "In peace
times this village must be depressive ; now with added
grimness of war it is dolorous. A sea of mud, shat-
tered homes, a cesspool in its center, rats everywhere.
This is Mericourt : merry hell would be more express-
ive and accurate."

Our first impression was not greatly heightened by
viewing the quarters assigned to us, and we felt with
Joe that "they meant very little in our young lives."
Two one-and-a-half storied peasants' cottages, with
debris-littered floor and leaking roof, these rheumatic
structures forming one side of a sort of courtyard and

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commanding a splendid view of a large well filled
cesspool, constituted our cantonment. It would have
taken a Jersey real estate agent to find good points
in the prospect. The optimist who remarked that at
least there were no flies was cowed into silence by the
rejoinder that the same could be said of the North
Pole. However, we set to work, cleaned and disin-
fected, constructed a stone causeway across "the
campus," and by late afternoon had, to some extent,
made the place habitable. A bevy of rats at least
seemed to consider the place so, and we never lacked
for company of the rodent species.

The twenty of us set up our stretcher beds in the
two tiny rooms and the attic, and were at home. One
of the ground floor rooms — and it had only the ground
for a floor — possessed a fireplace, the chimney of
which led into the attic above. Here it became tired
of being a chimney, resigned its duties and became
a smoke dispenser. It was natural that the ground
floor dwellers having a fireplace should desire fire.
It was natural, also, that the dwellers above, being
imbued with strong ideas on the subject of choking
to death, should object to that fire. Argument ensued.
For a time those below prevailed but the attic dwellers
possessed the final word and when their rebuttal, in
the shape of several cartridges, was dropped down the
chimney on the fire, those below lost interest in the
matter and there prevailed an intense and eager long-
ing for the great outdoors.

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We established our mess in what in peace times
was a tiny cafe, in the back room of which an
adipose proprietress, one of the few remaining civiles,
still dispensed "pinard" and hospitality. It was in
the same back room one night that a soldier, exhibit-
ing a hand grenade, accidently set it off, killing him-
self, a comrade, and wounding five others, whom we
evacuated. Incidentally the explosion scared our
Zouave cook who at the time was sleeping in an
adjoining room. He was more frightened than he
had been since the first battle of the Marne.

The front room, which was our mess hall, was just
long enough to permit the twenty of us, seated ten to
a side, to squeeze about our plank table. The remain-
ing half of the room was devoted to the galley, where
the Zouave held forth with his pots and pans and
reigned supreme. The walls of this room had once
bilious, colicky color. Great beads of sweat were
been painted a sea green, but now were faded into a
always starting out and trickling down as though the
house itself were in the throes of a deadly agony.

Mericourt is situated about one-fifth of a mile from
the right bank of the river Somme, and at this time
was about seven and one-half or eight kilometers from
the front line. The Somme at this point marked the
dividing line between the French and English army,
the French holding to the south, the English to the
north. Though within easy range of the enemy's
mid-calibre artillery, it was seldom shelled, and I can

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recall but one or two occasions during our entire stay
when shells passed over.

As on the Aisne, we got our wounded from a num-
ber of scattered postes, some close to the line, others
farther back, some located in villages, others in mere
dugouts in the side of a hill. Evacuations were usu-
ally made to the town of Villers-Bretonneau where
were located a number of field hospitals, or to an
operating hospital at the village of Cerisy about fifteen
kilometers from the line. A regular schedule of calls
was maintained to certain postes, the cars making
rounds twice a day. Such were the postes at the
villages of Proyart, Chuignes, Chuignolles and in the
dugouts at Baraquette and Fontaine-Cappy, all
some kilometers back of the line, but under inter-
mittent shell fire. Besides these postes there were
several others which because of their close proximity
to the enemy and their exposure to machine-gun fire
could only be made at night. There was Raincourt,
less than half a kilometer from the enemy's position,
the Knotted Tree, four hundred meters from the
Germans, and actually in the second line trench, where
in turning, the engine had to be shut off and the car
pushed by hand, less the noise of the motor draw
fire. There, too, was the poste at the village of Eclu-
sier, a particularly fine run since it was reached by a
narrow, exceedingly rough road which bordered a
deep canal and was exposed throughout its length to
mitrailleuse fire. Besides this, the road was lined with

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batteries for which the Boches were continually
"searching."

We went into action on the afternoon of the same
day we reached Mericourt. My orders were to go
to a point indicated on the map as the Route Nationale,
there pick up my blesses and evacuate them to the
town of Villers-Bretonneau. I was farther in-
structed not to go down this road too far as I
would drive into the enemy's lines. How I was to
determine what was "too far" until it was "too late"
or how I was to determine the location of the poste,
a dugout beneath the road, was left to my own solu-
tion. With these cheering instructions I set out. I
reached the village of Proyart through which my
route lay, noted with interest the effect of bombard-
ment, passed on and came to the Route Nationale.
Here, as were my instructions, I turned to the left. I
was now headed directly toward the line which I
knew could not be very far away and which trans-
versed the road ahead. I pushed rather cautiously up
two small hills, my interest always increasing as I
neared the top and anticipated what sort of greeting
might be awaiting me. I was on my third hill and
feeling a bit depressed and lonesome, not having seen
a person since leaving the sentry at Proyart, when I
heard a shout somewhere behind me. Looking back
I beheld a soldier wildly semaphoring. It did not
take me long to turn the car and slide back down the
hill. Reaching the bottom, I drew up by the soldier

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who informed me that the crest of the hill was in
full view of the enemy and under fire from the mach-
ine guns. I felt that the information was timely.

The poste proved to be a dugout directly beneath
where I had stopped my car. Here I secured a load
of wounded and by dusk had safely evacuated them
to the hospital at Villers-Bretonneau. Consulting my
map at the hospital it became evident that there was
a more direct route back to quarters and I determined
on this. As I was by no means sure of the location
of the line I drove without lights, and as a result
crashed into what proved to be a pile of rocks but
which I had taken to be a pile of snow, the jar almost
loosening my teeth fillings. The car was apparently
none the worse for the encounter and I reached quar-
ters without further mishap.

The aftermath of the mishap occurred next day.
Driving at a good pace up a grade — fortunately with
no wounded on board — I suddenly found the steering
gear would not respond to the wheel. There was
half a moment of helpless suspense, then the car
shot off the side of the road down a steep incline,
hit a boulder, and turned completely upside down. As
we went over I managed to kick off the switch, lessen-
ing the chance of an explosion. The Quartermaster
who was with me, and I were wholly unable to ex-
tricate ourselves, but some soldiers, passing at the
time, lifted the car off us and we crawled out none
the worse. "Old Number Nine," save for a broken

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steering rod, the cause of the spill, and a small radia-
tor leak, was as fit as ever and half an hour later, the
rod replaced, was once more rolling.

Our picket poste was established at the village of
Cappy. To reach the village from Mericourt we
passed over a stretch of road marked with the warn-
ing sign "This road under shell fire: convoys or
formed bodies of troops will not pass during day-
light." Continuing, we crossed the Somme, at this
point entering the English line, and proceeded to the
village of Bray. Thence the road wandered through
a rolling land for a kilometer or so, again crossing
the river and a canal at the outskirts of the village.

Cappy lay in a depression behind a rise of ground
about a kilometer and a half from the line. In peace
times it was doubtless a rather attractive little place
of perhaps three hundred people. Now, devastated
by days and months of bombardment, and the passing
of countless soldiers, deserted by its civil population
and invaded by countless rats, it presented an aspect
forlorn beyond imagination. On a gray winter's day,
with sleet beating down and deepening the already
miry roads, and a dreary wind whistling through the
shattered houses, the place cried out with the desola-
tion of war. And when, at night, a full moon shone
through the stripped rafters, when the rats scuttled
about and when, perhaps, there was no firing and only
the muffled pop of a trench light, the spirit of death
itself stalked abroad and the ghosts of the men who

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had there met their doom haunted its grewsome, clut-
tered streets. And then while the silence hung like
a pall until it fairly oppressed one, there would come
the awful screech, and the noises of hell would break
loose. There was no way of telling when the bom-
bardment would come. It might be at high noon or
at midnight, at twilight or as the day broke. Nor
could the duration be guessed. Sometimes a single
shell crashed in ; sometimes a single salvo of a battery,
or again, the bombardment would continue for an
hour or more. It was this uncertainty which gave the
place a tense, uncomfortable atmosphere so that even
when there was no shelling the quiet was an uncanny
quiet which was almost harder to bear than the shelling
itself.

In Cappy no one remained above ground more than
was necessary. Nearly every house had its cellar
and these cellars were deepened, roofed with timbers
and piled high with sand-bags. A cave so constructed
was reasonably bomb-proof from small shells — 77s —
but offered little resistance to anything larger and I
recall several occasions when a shell of larger calibre,
making a direct hit, either killed or wounded every
occupant of such a shelter. The resident population
of the town was limited to a group of brancardiers,
some grave-diggers, the crews of several goulash bat-
teries and some doctors and surgeons. I must not
forget to mention the sole remaining representative of
the civil population. He was an old, old man, so old

A WAR AMBULANCE

it seemed the very shells respected his age and war
itself deferred to his feebleness. Clad in nondescript
rags, his tottering footsteps supported by a staff, at
any hour of the day or night he could be seen making
his uncertain way among what were the ruins of what
had once been a prosperous town — his town. With
him, also tottering, was always a wizened old dog who
seemed the Methuselah of all dogs. Panting along be-
hind his master, his glazed eyes never leaving him, the
dog too staggered. There, alone in the midst of this
crucified town, the twain dwelt, refusing to leave
what to them was yet home. And daily as their town
crumbled, they crumbled, until at last one morning
we found the old chap dead, his dog by his side. That
day was laid to rest the last citizen of Cappy.

The dressing-station was located in what in peace
times was the town hall or Mairie, a two-story brick
building having a central structure flanked by two
small wings. The building was banked with sand-
bags which, while not rendering it by any means shell-
proof, did protect it from shrapnel and eclat. The
central room was devoted to the wounded who were
brought in from the trenches on little, two- wheeled,
hand-pushed trucks, each truck supporting one
stretcher. A shallow trough was built around the
sides of the room and in this, upon straw, the wounded
were placed in rows, while awaiting the doctor. In
this portion of the building was also located the mor-
tuary where those who died after being brought in

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were placed preparatory to burial. The bodies were
placed two on a stretcher, the head of one resting on
'the feet of another. It was a ghastly place, this little
• room, with its silent, mangled tenants, lying there
lwaiting their last bivouac. On one side of the room
,vas a small, silver crucifix above which hung the tri-
i colored flag of the Republic guarding those who had
died that it might live.

In the left wing was the emergency operating-room
where the surgeons worked, frequently under fire. At
the opposite end of the building was the room we
had for our quarters and where we slept when occa-
sion permitted. The place was quite frequently hit —
on five separate occasions while I was in the building
— and its occupants suffered many narrow escapes.
The location was regarded as so unsafe that an elabo-
rate abri was finally constructed back of the Mairie.
This was an extraordinarily well-built and ample
affair, consisting of several tunnels seven feet high
in the center, walled and roofed with heavy galvan-
ized iron supported by stout beams. The roof at the
highest point was fully ten feet below the surface of
the ground. There were two rows of shelves run-
ning along both sides of the tunnels which had a total
capacity of forty stretcher cases. At one end was a
small operating room, and there were two exits so that
if one became blocked the occupants might find egress
through the other. Both of these exits were winding
so as to prevent the admission of flying shell frag-

A WAR AMBULANCE

ments and were draped with curtains to keep out the
poison gas. Beside these curtains stood tubs of anti-
gas solution for their drenching. This structure was
proof against all save the heaviest shells and took
some eight weeks in building.

When on duty at Cappy we messed with some
medical sous-officiers in a dugout, entrance to which
was had by descending a steep flight of steps. Down
in this cellar, in the dim twilight which there prevailed,
we enjoyed many a meal. The officers were a genial
lot, like most Frenchmen delightfully courteous, and
much given to quaffing pinard. Their chief occu-
pation was the making of paper knives from copper
shrapnel bands, and they never lacked for material,
for each day the Boche threw in a fresh supply.

One of these chaps through constant opportunity
and long practice could give a startling imitation of
the shriek of a shell, an accomplishment which got
him into trouble, for happening one day to perform
this specialty while a non-appreciative and startled
Colonel was passing, he was presented with eight days'
arrest.

The cook of the mess was a believer in garlic — I
might say a strong believer. Where he acquired the
stuff amidst such surroundings was a mystery beyond
solution, but acquire it he certainly did. Put him in
the middle of the Sahara Desert and I am prepared to
wager that within a half hour that cook would dig
up some garlic. He put it into everything, rice, meat,

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whatever we ate. I am convinced that, supposing he
could have made a custard pie, he would have added
garlic. His specialty was beef boiled in wine, a com-
bination hard on the beef, hard on the wine, and hard
on the partaker thereof.

Coming out of the cellar from mess one noon — a
wet dismal day I remember — I was startled into immo-
bility to hear the splendid strains of the "Star Spangled
Banner," magnificently played on a piano. I was still
standing at attention and the last note had barely died
away when the one remaining door of a half-demol-
ished house opened and a tall, handsome young fellow
with the stripes of a corporal appeared, saluted and
bade me enter. I did so and found myself in a small
room upon the walls of which hung the usual mili-
tary trappings. Stacked in the corners and leaning
against the walls were a number of simple wooden
crosses with the customary inscription "Mort pour
la patrie." Five soldiers rose and bade me welcome.
They were a group of grave diggers and here they
dwelt amid their crosses. Their profession did not
seem to have affected their spirits, and they were as
jolly a lot as I have ever seen, constantly chaffing
each other, and when the chap at the piano — who,
by the way, before the war had been a musician at
the Carlton in London, and who spoke excellent Eng-
lish— struck a chord they all automatically broke into
song. It was splendidly done and they enjoyed it as
thoroughly as did I. The piano they had rescued from

'In Scores — Hundreds — of Places There Remained but a Pile
of Stones and a Yawning Hole"

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a wrecked chateau at the other end of the town and
to them it was a God-send indeed. Before I left, at
my request they sang the Marseillaise. I have seldom
heard anything finer than when in that little, stricken
town, amidst those grewsome tokens of war's toll,
these men stood at attention and sounded forth the
stirring words of their country's hymn. When I left
it was with a feeling that surely with such a spirit
animating a people, there could be but one outcome
to the struggle.

We had another twenty-four hour station at the
village of Cerisy some fifteen or more kilometers back
of the line where was located an operating hospital.
Here we maintained always one car for the transpor-
tation of such wounded as required evacuation to rail-
head. At this station we were privileged to sleep on
stretchers in the same tent with the wounded. Per-
sonally I found one night in their quarters was quite
enough for me. The groaning, the odor of anaes-
thetics, the blood, the raving of the delirious and
"the passing" of two of the inmates before morning
drove me out to my car, where I often slept when
on duty at the station.

We soon began to feel completely at home at Meri-
court. Our schedule kept us busy without overwork-
ing us and there was just enough risk in the life to
lend it spice. We had a splendid commander, an effi-
cient chief, and as a result the squad worked in entire

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harmony. At this time we were attached to the 3rd
Colonials, a reckless, hard-fighting bunch, as fine a
lot as serve the tri-color. The relations existing be-
tween ourselves and the French could not have been
more cordial. The innate courtesy and kindness
which is so characteristic of the people found ex-
pression in so many ways and their appreciation so
far exceeded any service we rendered that we could
not help but be warmly drawn toward them, while
their cheerful devotion and splendid courage held
always our admiration.

Perhaps a few entries taken at random from my
journal will serve as well as anything to give some
idea of our life and the conditions under which we
worked.

"Tuesday, March 14th. After a rat-disturbed night,
got away on Route No. 3 to Proyart and Baraquette,
evcauating to Cerisy. At four this afternoon, with
Brooke as orderly, made same route, evacuating to
Villers Bretonneux. There were so many blesses
that I had to return to Baraquette for another load.
We are just in from Villers-Bretonneux at ten P.M.
after a drive through the rain.

"Saturday, March 18th. On route No. 2 to Chuig-
nolles. Road was under fire so sentry refused to
let me return over it, as the way was up grade and
with a loaded car I could not go fast. Ran down it
this afternoon, evacuating by another route. Put in
an hour today making an almost bedstead out of old

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bloody stretchers and now the rats will have to jump
a foot or so off the floor if they want to continue to
use me as a speedway.

"Thursday, March 22nd. Slept well in the car at
Cappy but lost all inclination for breakfast on open-
ing door of stretcher bearer's room and seeing two
bodies, one with its jaws shot away, the other, brought
in from "No Man's Land" — half eaten by rats. Got
a call to Chuignes before noon, evacuating to Cerisy.
Of course worked on my car this afternoon ; that goes
without saying — the work, not the car. Tomorrow
we have another one of those dashed inspections, this
time the General commanding the Division.

"Thursday, March 30th. To Cappy early, with as
many of the Squad as were off duty, to attend the
funeral of the Medecin Chef. He was killed yesterday
when peering over the parapet. It was a sad affair,
yet withal impressive. We walked from the little
shell-torn town, Cappy, to the cemetery just beyond
the village, following the simple flag-draped box upon
which rested the tunic and kepi; and then while the
war planes circled and dipped above us and all around
the guns spoke, we paid our last respects to a very
gallant man. Waited till ten for wounded. At the
exact minute I was leaving three shells came in. One
burst by the church and the other two just back of
my machine as I crossed the bridge. They must have
come from a small bore gun, possibly a mortar, as they
were preceded by a screech as with a rifle shell. Vis-

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ited regimental dentist this afternoon and found him
operating on a poilu whose teeth had been knocked
out by a Boche gun butt in a recent charge. Tonight
the guns are going strong.

"Wednesday, April 8th. The messroom presented
a ghastly sight this morning, a hand grenade having
been accidently exploded there last night, blowing two
men to bits which bits are still hanging to the walls.
Got my spark plugs in shape this morning. This after-
noon attempted to take a nap but a confounded bat-
tery just stationed here insisted on going into action
and as the shots were at half minute intervals I got to
counting the seconds in the intervals, banishing all
chances of sleep. Two of the Squad are down with
the gale — a skin disease contracted from the blesses,
and which seems almost epidemic with the Division."

It was towards the end of March and hence some
three months after leaving Paris, that one morning I
received orders to evacuate a load of wounded to the
railroad hospital at Amiens some forty kilometers
from Mericourt. Amiens is a modern city, one of the
most pleasant in France, a city of about one hundred
thousand inhabitants with up-to-date shops, tram-
ways, tea rooms and a decided air of gaiety. As I
drove my mud-spattered ambulance down its main
street I felt singularly out of place. An hour and a
half before I had been within the rifle range of the
German trenches where men were battling to the death
and big guns barked their hate and now, as though

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transported on a magic carpet, I found myself in the
midst of peace where dainty women tripped by, chil-
dren laughed at play and life untrammeled by war
ran its course. After the weeks amid the mud and
turmoil of the front, the transition was at first stupe-
fying. After evacuating my wounded I parked my
car and being off duty for the rest of the day I strolled
about gaping like a countryman. "A burst" at the
best restaurant I could find and a good cigar put me
in an appreciative frame of mind and my impression
of Amiens will always remain the most favorable.
Though the city had been in the hands of the Huns
for nearly a fortnight in the early part of the war
and had several times been the object of air raids,
there was little indication of either. The beautiful
cathedral was piled high with sandbags and the beau-
tiful windows were screened as precaution against
bomb eclat, but of the precautions such as I later saw
in Bar-le-Duc, there were none.

Amiens at this time was the administrative head-
quarters of the English army of the Somme. Its
streets were alive with English officers and Tommies.
There were many "Joc^s" m their kilties, besides, of
course, many French officers. Being well back of the
lines it was a great place for swanking, a condition of
which the English officers especially took full advan-
tage, and in their whipcords and shining Sam Brouns
they were the last word in military sartorialism.

Having now been at the front for three months I

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became entitled to la permission, the six days' leave
in theory granted the soldier once every three months.
George's permission was also due and we managed
to arrange it so that we secured leave simultaneously.
One of our cars was so well wrecked that it had to be
sent to Paris, and accordingly we secured the assign-
ment of taking this in. This car had lost its mud-
guards and part of the top of the driving seat, its
lockers were gone and its sides had been pierced by
shell splinters. It certainly looked as if "it had been
through the war." It was afterwards sent to New
York and there put on exhibition at the Allied Bazaar.
We set out for Paris on the morning of April fifteenth.
It was a fearful day for driving, hail and rain and a
piercing wind, but we were en permission so what
cared we. It was on this voyage that, for the first and
only time during my service in the army, I saw
lancers. This group was some seventy kilometers
back of the line. With their burnished casques, grace-
ful weapons and fluttering pennants they have left
me one of the few memories of the picturesque which
the war has furnished.

We made Beauvais in time for luncheon ; found the
little restaurant and our mere appearance was suffi-
cient to set the little waitress off into a severe attack
°f giggles- By four that afternoon we were in Paris.
After one hundred days in the war zone, it seamed
like another world. We took the military oath not
to reveal information likely to be of value to the

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enemy and were free to do what we liked for six
days. Personally, as I remember it, I pretty well
divided the time between taking hot baths and con-
suming unlimited quantities of white bread and fresh
butter. Often we found ourselves subconsciously lis-
tening and missing something, the rumble of the guns.
We enjoyed the respite but the end of our permission
found us willing, almost eager, to get back "out there."

It was after midnight — Easter morning — and the
rain was falling when we ploughed our muddy way
across "the campus" at Mericourt. It was cold and
the rat-infested garret in the flickering light of an oil
lamp, looked dismal enough as we felt our way across
its dirty floor. Outside the sky was now and then
lighted by a flare and from all around came the boom
of the guns. We were home.

CHAPTER VI

THE SOMME CONTINUED

MAY opened with delightfully warm weather, a
condition that was not to continue. The brown
fields were clothed in green. Up to within a few kilo-
meters of the line the land had been cultivated and
wheat and oats flourished as though shells were not
passing over and the grim Reaper himself were not
ever present.

Early in the month our Division moved, going into
repos some fifteen kilometers back of the line. It is
a simple statement — "our division moved." But think
of twenty thousand men plodding along, twenty thou-
sand brown guns bobbing and twenty thousand bay-
onets flopping against as many hips. Think of twenty
thousand blue steel helmets covering as many sweaty,
dusty heads; think of the transport for the men, the
horses straining in their traces, the creaking wagons,
the rumbling artillery, the clanging soup wagons, the
whizzing staff cars and the honking of camion horns
— think of this and you have some idea of what is
embraced in the statement "our division moved." We
did not follow them, though we did assign four cars
to serve them during repos and to take care of the

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sick. Instead we were attached to the incoming divi-
sion, the 2nd Colonials.

My journal shows there were some hectic days in
May. In the record of May second I find: "Rolled
pretty much all night, one call taking me to Eclusier.
The road was shelled behind me while I was at the
poste, knocking a tree across the way so that on
my way back, the night being so dark, I could see
absolutely nothing and I hit the tree and bent a guard.
It's as nasty a run as I have ever made, a canal on
one side, batteries on the other, and the whole way
exposed to machine gun fire. Expected to be relieved
here this morning but one of the replacement cars is
out of commission so that I am on for another twenty-
four hours. Today I measured the distance from
where I was sitting last night to where the shell hit.
It was exactly fourteen paces."

Again a week later: "Two cars out of commis-
sion, so I am fated for another forty-eight hours'
shift here in Cappy. Last night was uneventful.
Today we have been bombarded five times. So far
have made but two runs, returning from second under
fire. We have been ordered to sleep tonight in the
partially completed dugout, so I am writing this fifteen
feet underground, with sand bags piled high above
my head. Verily the day of the cave man has re-
turned. Now for the blanket and, thanks to the dug-
out, a reasonable assurance of greeting tomorrow's
sun."

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It was in May that Josh won his recognition for
bringing in his wounded from Eclusier under machine
gun fire. I was not there but I know he could not
have been cooler had he been driving down Broadway.

For me the month was made memorable by re-
ceiving a new car. "Old Number Nine" I had driven
close to seven thousand kilometers. In all these
months she had never failed me and I had grown
to have a real affection for the old bus. It was,
therefore, with a distinct feeling of regret that I re-
linquished her wheel to her new driver. My new
command "New Number Nine — for I had obtained
permission to retain the same number — was the gift
of Mr. Edward W. Moore of Philadelphia. It had
an all-wooden body and electric lights — no more car-
bide to mess with — and was the first car within
our Section to be provided with demountable rims.
In front of the driving-seat was a steel shield, placed
at a deflecting angle as protection against flying
shrapnel and it had an improved "locker system."
With some slight changes this car was the model
adopted thereafter for all the ambulances. After look-
ing it over I felt it must almost be a pleasure to be
wounded to have the privilege of riding in such a car.

On the thirtieth of May we received orders to
change our base. The Squad was genuinely sorry to
leave Mericourt. The village, which had looked so
forbidding to us when we had first arrived, through
the familiarity of three months' residence had grown

A WAR AMBULANCE

to mean home. The peaceful canal with its graceful
poplars where we used to swim, "the campus," the
scene on moonlight nights of many a rousing chorus,
the lane where the cars were parked, the little cafe,
all held pleasant memories. Here we had endured
the rigors of winter, had seen the coming and passing
of spring and now as summer was upon us we were
leaving.

We left in fleet, about one in the afternoon, and an
hour later drew up in the village of Bayonville on
the farther side of the Route Nationale. We found
it an attractive place, having two squares well shaded
with fine trees. In peace times its population prob-
ably numbered about four thousand. The town was
far enough back of the line to be out of range of
field artillery and showed no sign of bombardment.
Being only slightly off the main road and about mid-
way between the line and Bayonvillers, the location
was a convenient one for us as for the present we
were maintaining the same schedules and routes which
prevailed at Mericourt. We were assigned quarters
in the loft of a brick barn but some of us preferred
more airy surroundings and pitched a tent under the
trees in a little park in the center of the town, thus
establishing the Bayonvillers Country Club. Later
because of the arrival of a fleet of camions, we moved
the club to a meadow on the outskirts of the town.
Mess was also established in a tent.

Early in the spring it had become apparent that

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something was in the air. Ammunition depots began
to appear, placed just out of gun range; genie pares
with enormous quantities of barbed wire, trench floor-
ing and other construction materials were established ;
a new road was being built from Bray to Cappy ; addi-
tional aviation fields were laid out and rows of
hangars, elaborately painted to represent barns and
ploughed fields to deceive the enemy airmen, reared
their bulky forms. Back of the line numerous tent
hospitals sprang into being. Near Cappy immense
siege guns, served by miniature railways, poked their
ugly noses through concealing brush screens. Through
the fields several new standard gauge tracks made
their way. The roads back of any army are always
cluttered with supporting traffic and as the spring
wore on the traffic on the Somme increased day by
day. There were huge five ton camions loaded with
shells, steam tractors bringing up big guns, cater-
pillar batteries, armored cars, mobile anti-aircraft
guns, stone boats, mobile soup kitchens, oxygen con-
tainers to combat poison gas, field artillery, search-
light sections, staff cars, telegraph and telephone
wagons, long lines of motor busses now used as meal
vans, horse wagons piled high with bread, portable
forges, mule trains carrying machine gun ammuni-
tion, two-wheeled carts carrying trench mortars. All
the transport of war was there until by the first of
June the roads back of the Somme front presented
a congestion of traffic such as the world has never

A WAR AMBULANCE

before seen. To the most casual observer it could
not but be apparent that all this tremendous activity,
the enormous supplies, the preparations, were not
solely for defensive purposes. It could connote but
one thing — an offensive on a great scale.

Directly opposite Cappy, within the German lines,
lay the little shell-riddled village of Dompierre. Be-
tween the sand bags of the first line trench I had
peeped forth at it and as early as April I knew that
the village was mined, for the electrician who wired
the mine was a friend. I felt sure, therefore, that
our section was to be in the offensive when it came.
But as to the day of the attack, of course that was a
matter of speculation. As the days wore on all the
talk was of "the attack." There was no longer any
doubt as to the fact that an attack was to be launched ;
the question now was simply, when. Both the firing
and activity in the air had increased. Sometimes for
hours at a time there would be continuous drum fire
and scarcely an hour passed without a fight between
planes.

The opening days of June were wet and sodden.
The weather was raw, almost cold, with frequent
hail storms so that it was difficult to determine just
what season was being observed. The roads, trodden
by thousands of hobbed feet and cut by horses' hoofs
and by tires, were deep with mud. It was saletemps.
We found Bayonvillers teeming with troops. But if
we thought the place already crowded, it was nothing

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

compared to the congestion which the succeeding days
brought. Day by day, almost hour by hour, the
troops continued to come in, Colonials, Chasseurs, the
famous Zouaves, the Senegalese, and the sound of
drum and bugle scarcely ever died.

The Senegalese were an amusing lot. I have been
in Senegal and when in the Congo, had a Senegalese
for a headman, so I know a few words of their
language. When I hailed them in this they would
immediately freeze into ebony statues, then their
white teeth would flash in a dazzling smile as they
hailed me as a white chief who knew their home.
They were armed with deadly bush knives, and for
a dash over the top made splendid soldiers. In the
trenches, however, they were nearly useless, as artil-
lery fire put fear into their souls. It was said they
never took or were taken prisoners and many grew-
some tales were current regarding this. Most cer-
tainly they must have been useful in night manoeuvres
for with that complexion it would be a matter of
impossibility to determine which was the Senegalese
and which was the night.

The lot upon which the "country club" had been
the original and only squatter began to fill. A 155
battery moved in alongside us and several 75 batteries
with their ammunition transports became our neigh-
bors; some horse transport convoys also creaked their
way in. Horses by the hundred plunged and pulled
at restraining ropes or stood with downcast heads —

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bone-weary of the struggle. All around us rose the
little brown dog tents and at night countless small
fires flickered. It was like camping in the midst of a
three-ring circus.

We mingled with our neighbors and talked with
them, but no matter how the conversation started it
was sure to come around to the one, great, all-impor-
tant subject — the attack. Even for us who were not
to be "sent in" but whose duty it would be merely
to carry those who had been, the delay and suspense
were trying. How much worse then, it must have
been for those men who "were going over the top,"
waiting, waiting, many of them for their chance
to greet death. I remember one afternoon talking
with a chap who before the war had kept a restaurant
in Prince's Street in Edinburgh, a restaurant at which
I remember having dined. He was an odd little
Frenchman, alert and bright-eyed, and every now
and then as he talked he would pat me on the shoulder
and exclaim "Oh, my boy." He assured me that
very soon now we should see the attack. "Oh, my
boy, the world very soon will talk of this place. You
will see the name of this village on maps" — a true
prophecy, for when the New York papers came to us
weeks after the attack had started, I saw a map with
Cappy marked upon it. "Soon greater than Verdun
we shall see, great things, and oh, my boy, we are
here to see them; we are part of them. C'est mag-
nifique! but the waiting, the waiting, why can't they

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

end it? Send us in. Quant a moi — I go with the
second wave, and if I come out, apres la guerre, you
will come to my place, my place in Prince's Street
which you know, and for you I will open the finest
champagne of La belle France and we will raise our
glasses and drink to these days, but oh, my boy, the
waiting, e'est terrible."

My journal for these days reflects a feeling of
suspense. "Tuesday, June 13th: on repos today for
which I was thankful, since the rain still continues,
with a low temperature. Spent most of the day in
my bag reading as being about the only place I could
keep warm. The 20th Zouaves marched into town
today, their bugles playing. Their arrival and the
presence of the Senegalese can mean but one thing:
the attack will soon be launched. Well, if it's coming
it can't come too soon. This suspense is trying. If
this weather continues I will have trench foot again
as my shoes are leaking. Firing has been unusually
heavy today, and tonight a terrific bombardment is in
progress.

"Thursday, June 15th. Encore this ghastly weather.
More Senegalese coming in until the place looks like
a Georgia camp meeting. Three runs today; slow
progress working through the traffic. Surely attack
cannot be far off. Passed wreck of plane near Villers-
Bretonneux which was fired on, falling and burning to
death both pilot and driver.

"Sunday, June 18th. To Fontaine-les-Cappy, which

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incidentally was being shelled, evacuating to Villers-
Bretonneux. Changed rear spring on my bus this
afternoon, other having proved too light. Have fixed
some hooks and straps on the car so that I can carry
blanket roll and dunnage bag in event the line breaks
and we follow the advance. "New Number Nine" is
ready for attack. Rumor says it will start in three
days. Now that the clock has been set ahead — this
occurred several days ago — we turn in by daylight."

Dry, hot weather succeeded the rains and in a day
the mud of the roads had been beaten into dust. A
khaki-colored fog hung over the sinuous line of never-
ceasing traffic and choked man and beast. It was
trying work driving now but still it was exhilirating,
the feeling of being a part of a great push. By the
middle of June the advance position from which we
should operate from the time the first wave went
over the top had been chosen. It was close back
of the line near the boyau of Fontaine-les-Cappy. It
was very much exposed and much in advance of the
position usually taken by transport sections, but it
appeared the spot of greatest usefulness and this be-
ing determined, our CO. was not the man to question
further.

On the morning of June 20th I left for duty at
Cappy. My journal for that date reads: "Left quar-
ters at eight this morning, reaching Cappy an hour
later, taking on a load, evacuating at once to Villers-
Bretonneux. This afternoon evacuated to Chuig-

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nolles. So far I have heard but one shell come in
today. Our batteries, too, have been singularly quiet.
The calm before the storm. If possible, the roads
today were more congested than ever with every sort
of vehicle from bicycle to steam tractor. It's now
nine o'clock, though owing to change of time not
nearly dark. Am a bit tired tonight but have small
idea of getting much rest." Nor was I disappointed,
for throughout the night the wounded came in and
we drove almost without pause. From my last evacu-
ation I got back to Cappy about six in the morning,
and as our relief was due at eight I did not consider
it worth while to turn in. The day promised to be
hot and clear. Already the shelling had started. It
was a point of honor among the Squad to be prompt
in our relief and Gyles and I were therefore surprised
when no cars had appeared by eight-thirty. It was
about ten o'clock and we had exhausted our conjec-
tures when two cars of a French Section rolled up.
We sensed at once that something had happened.
One of the drivers climbed down from his car and
came over to where we were standing. We exchanged
salutes. "Messieurs," he said, "Your Section has been
replaced by ours. I am directed to instruct you to
report at once at your quarters." The concussion from
a 210 could scarcely have stunned us more than the
announcement, "Replaced." It was impossible ; there
must be some mistake. After all our months of work,
which we knew had been efficient, after all our prepa-

A WAR AMBULANCE

rations for the attack. Replaced? No, it could not
be. We would find out there had been a misunder-
standing. In a daze we cranked our cars and drove
slowly away from the familiar old poste.

Several shells had passed us as we had stood talk-
ing, and as I reached the canal bridge I found one
had hit there. Beside the road lay a dead man, and
three wounded were being dressed. I got out my
stretchers and evacuated them to the field hospital
at Cerisy. It was my last evacuation from Cappy.
I reached quarters about noon, finding the Squad at
mess. One glance at the fellows confirmed the morn-
ing's news. I have seldom seen a more thoroughly
disgusted bunch of men. It was true; we had been
replaced and were leaving for parts unknown tomor-
row. Somewhere back in Automobile Headquarters
in Paris a wire had been pulled and that wire at-
tached to us was to pull us away from the greatest
offensive in history. We felt rather bitter about it
at first, for we felt that in a way it reflected on our
ability or even our nerve, but when we learned that
the Medecin Divisionaire and even the General of our
Division had protested against our removal, had spoken
of our work in the highest terms, our disappointment
was softened, and so with the philosophy which army
life brings we said "e'est la guerre," struck our tents
and prepared for the morrow's departure.

CHAPTER VII

THE TREK TO THE VORTEX

IT was a hot, sunshiny morning, the second of
June, when at seven o'clock our cars lined up in
convoy ready for the start. We had not been told our
destination, but somehow the rumor had got about
that we were bound for Verdun. The word ran along
the line of cars and soon the fellows were sounding
their hooters and yelling out "Ye-a-a Verdun" as
though it were some summer resort toward which
we were headed and not the bloodiest hole in history.

The "Lieut." ran along the line to see that all was
ready — the engines were purring — there was a short
wait — the whistle sounded and we were under way
Down the beautiful shaded road from Bayonville we
wound, passing the replacing section, passed a 155
battery and then out upon the Route Nationale. Over
the road on which we had driven through rain and
snow at every hour of the day and night, where every
stone and bump was familiar, we passed for the last
time. Down through La Motte, squirming through
the dense mass of traffic until we reached Bayonvillers,
the scene of so many evacuations, then straight on till

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we reached the outskirts of Amiens. Here we made
our first stop in order to re-form the convoy. When
traveling thus in convoy each car has its designated
place, taking its position in the line in order of
numbers and it was forbidden any car to pass the
one in front of it so long as that car was rolling. Be-
fore this rule was adopted a move in convoy was
simply one, grand road race, every car doing its best
to pass every car in front of it and attain the lead, a
fine imitation of the chariot race from "Ben Hur."
When a puncture or blow-out occurred, the car drew
up alongside the road and the driver worked fran-
tically to get a new shoe on and overtake the convoy
at its next stop. Meanwhile the convoy went on, the
drivers leaning out with a "Carry on, old man, hard
luck." At the rear of the convoy, driven by one of
the mechanics, came the repair car and when an am
bulance was forced to drop out of line because of
engine trouble or breakage, this car stopped with it,
made the repairs and then the two came on after the
convoy. Under this system, though all the cars might
not come in at a rendezvous simultaneously, the lag-
gards always had the atelier with them. At the head
of the convoy, setting the pace, drove the "Lieut."
while the Chief either brought up the rear or horned
on the flanks keeping a watchful eye on the fleet.
Everybody, even perhaps the mechanics and some of
the mascots, enjoyed a move in convoy. Of the
latter we had at various times a sheep named "Mrs.

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Caesar," a rooster, two cats, a fox and numerous
dogs. Mrs. Caesar in particular, possessed strong
views on the matter of riding in an ambulance, and
with the perversity of her sex usually insisted on"mak-
ing a scene" before she would consent to become a
passenger.

To the dogs, however, and especially to Vic, convoy
life held great appeal as there were limitless possi-
bilities for getting in the way and no end of new
things at which to bark.

We did not enter Amiens, the CO. having a pench-
ant for avoiding cities when the Squad was en masse,
but turned off on the Montdidier road, at which town
we lunched about one. By two-thirty we were again
en route, passing through Pont Ste. Maxence, which
we had last seen in January. Under the smiling in-
fluence of summer, it looked quite a different place
and we scarcely recognized the little park where we
had stood guard over the cars on those bleak winter
nights. We went on to Senlis, now a crumbling
example of German rapacity, where blackened walls
frowned grimly down on us as we rolled by. Through-
out the afternoon we drove through choking clouds
of dust, passing through La Chapelle and Fontenay
and at seven in the evening reached the quaint little
city of Ecouen. Here we stopped for the night, hav-
ing come one hundred and fifty kilometers.

The convoy had drawn up along the main street
and at a nearby cafe we had dinner. For quarters we

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were assigned military billets in different private
houses throughout the town. At Ecouen we were
only eighteen kilometers from Paris — we had sighted
the Eiffel Tower on our way in. Many a longing
glance was turned in the direction of the city as the
Squad thought of their marraines, the lighted restau-
rants and teeming boulevards, but, so far as our
chances of getting into Paris were concerned, it might
as well have been within the enemy lines. So after
a stroll about the quiet, rambling streets of the town,
everyone sought quarters in anticipation of a hard drive
on the morrow.

We turned out at six next morning and after
coffee and bread, got away as the city clock boomed
the hour of seven. Our way lead us through pictur-
esque little towns to Meaux which we reached some
four hours after starting. Then on down through
the beautiful valley of the Marne we passed, through
quaint, slumbering, little villages where ancient men
dozing in the summer sun, gazed at us through glazed
querulous eyes, where chubby children rushed to the
doors to crow with wild-eyed joy, and buxom girls
nearly caused us to ditch our cars by waving a
friendly hand. Down through the beautiful sun-lit
valley where grow the grapes which give bottled joy
to the world, we rolled under shady rows of trees,
across moss-grown stone bridges, by ancient grey
church towers and crumbling walls, until about one
o'clock we entered the wide peaceful streets of

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

Chateau Thierry. War seemed very far away.

We shook off some of the dust which fairly en-
cased us and sought the cool interior of a cafe. There
we were not long to be at ease, however, for that
night's destination, Chalons, was still many a kilometer
away. In an hour the whistle blew and we were
off. Still following the Marne Valley, we held a
good pace through Dormans to Epernay due south
from Reims, and at five o'clock made an anchorage
in the city of Chalons. Here we went into camp
beside the river, pitching a tent by the lock, and then
every one went in swimming. After the choking dust
through which we had been driving, the water was
a tremendous treat.

The third day of the trek was, in a way, to be the
most interesting of all. Our ordre de mouvement read :
"Chalons, Trois Fontaines, Sermaize, Vevey le Grand,
Pargny, St. Dizier, Bar-le-Duc." We were passing
through the field of the Battle of the Marne.

Owing to the necessity of replenishing our gas
supply we got away rather late. At Trois Fontaines,
the seat of Count Fontenoy, we halted and viewed
one of the most beautiful and picturesque ruins in
France, the ancient abbey dating from the fifth cen-
tury. The wonderful, vine-clad walls, shadowed by
the graceful trees which grew within and about the
edifice made a singularly restful picture. From Trois
Fontaines we passed on to Sermaize or rather what
once was Sermaize. Here, too, were ruins but no

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softening influence of time blurred their harsh out-
lines; no vines and trees hid their harsh ugliness.
They stood out in all their pitiful nakedness, the
wrecks of homes — the completed product of the Hun.
Through other deserted towns and villages we passed
along the withering trail of the Vandae where the
German first established that reputation for cruelty
and rapacity which shall be his and the heritage of
his children for generations to come.

At noon we lunched at the cheery town of St. Dizier,
parking in the main square. We enjoyed the noon-
ings ; there was relaxation, relief from the wheel,
cheery talk and chaff as we gathered around the board,
the relating of the morning's adventure and specula-
tion as to what the afternoon would develop, and
afterwards a soothing pipe as we drank our coffee.
Then the preliminary whistle would sound, we would
swarm to our cars and assure ourselves they were
ready — sad news for the man who discovered a flat
tire at this time — another blast and the engines would
throb and the convoy wind its way out while the curb
would be lined with people watching our passage and
waving us a friendly hand.

At four that afternoon, Saturday, June twenty-
fourth, we reached the city of Bar-le-Duc and halted
in a side street while the Lieutenant repaired to the
fitat-Major for orders. The first thing we noticed
was that practically every building bore a placard with
the legend, "Cave woutee — personnes," and around

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each cellar window were piled sandbags. What the
signs meant was that beneath the buildings upon which
they appeared, was a cellar capable of sheltering the
number of persons indicated. The reason for their
being was that Bar-le-Duc was a city likely at any
minute to be bombed by an enemy air fleet. Already
this had occurred a number of times and many people
had been killed or wounded. Wrecked buildings
around the city showed where the bombs had struck.

We left our cars, walked down to the corner and
turned into the main street. At the farther end,
at the point where the street forked, stood a trans-
parency. In large black letters, below which was a
directing arrow, appeared a single word — Verdun.
Even as we paused in silence to gaze upon that mystic
sign there came the growl and rumble of distant heavy
guns — the guns of Verdun.

Whatever may have been the aspect of Bar-le-Duc
in normal times, now it impressed me as a city utterly
weary, a city sapped of vitality. As a weary man,
exhausted by constant strain and tension to a con-
dition of listless indifference — thus did Bar-le-Duc im-
press me. And well might it be weary. For months
troops had poured through its streets, men of a score
of races, men from far countries and from the heart
of France. Here they had passed on their way to
the Vortex and through these streets* the bleeding
wrecks of the same men had been borne back. Day
and night without ceasing the munition camions had

A WAR AMBULANCE

rumbled by. While winter ended, spring came and
passed, and summer blossomed, the thundering guns
had not ceased to sound. For five months this unre-
lenting strain had endured and Bar-le-Duc was like a
weary soul.

The Lieutenant having received his orders, the
signal was given to take the wheel and we climbed
rather wearily into our seats. Some five kilometers
beyond the city we came to a cluster of buildings —
the village of Veil — and here in an open field we drew
up our cars. Of the twenty-one ambulances which
had started for the Somme, twenty had arrived. All
of the auxiliary cars, with the exception of the repair
car which was back with the missing ambulance, had
also come through. In the last three days we had
covered over four hundred kilometers. As convoy
driving involves considerable strain we were all rather
tired. Rain had set in but we were too weary to
pitch a tent. Everyone cleared a place in his car and
turned into his blankets glad of the prospect of a
night's repose.

It was close to midnight, and "dark as the inside of
a cow," when the camp was startled into wakefulness
by the cry "Show a leg ; everybody out, we're called."
Outside the rain beat against the cars and a mournful
wind slapped the branches overhead. It was a pain-
ful transition from the warm comfort of the blankets
to the raw chill of the night but no one hesitated.
Lanterns began to flicker ; figures struggling into tunic

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and knickers tumbled out of cars ; objects were pulled
forth and piled on the ground, bedding was thrown
under ground-sheets. Stretchers shot into places.
Engines began to cough and snort, and searchlights
pierced the night. The CO., moving from car to car,
issued the order, "In convoy order; gas masks and
helmets. Head-lights till further orders." In twenty
minutes after the first call, every car was ready, every
man in his place, and the convoy formed. "Where
are we going?" was the inquiry which shot from car
to car and, though no one knew, the answer was in-
variably "Verdun."

Presently the whistle blew and we moved out.
Down through the sleeping city of Bar-le-Duc we went
and there where the transparency blazoned the legend
"Verdun" we obeyed the silent injunction of the point-
ing arrow and turned to the left. We passed through
the outskirts of the city and presently entered upon
a broad, pitted road. Well might the road be pitted,
for there was the Voie Sacre — the Sacred Way — over
which had passed every division of the French Army,
the way over which thousands of the men of France
had passed never to return.

Beyond question one reason why Verdun was chosen
by the Germans as the point against which their great
offensive was launched was the weakness of the sup-
porting railroad facilities. Normally the city is served
by two lines of railways, one running north from St.
Mihiel, the other coming in from the west by Ste.

A WAR AMBULANCE

Menehould. Since St. Mihiel was in their hands, the
first road was eliminated and though the second was
not in the enemy's hands it was commanded by his
batteries. This left the position of Verdun without
supporting railroads, heretofore considered necessary
for maintaining an army. But the Hun had reckoned
without two things, the wonderful organization of the
French motor transport, and the Voie Sacre. Never
had a road been called upon to bear the burdens which
now were thrown upon this way. An armada of
ten thousand motor camions was launched, and day
and night in two unbroken lines this fleet held its
course and served the defending armies of Verdun.

Now we, too, passed down the road, privileged to
become part of that support.

A half-moon, blood-red as though it, too, had taken
on the hue of war, appeared in the broken sky, de-
scribed a half arc and disappeared. Once a tremen-
dous light illuminated the whole northern sky. Pos-
sibly it was the explosion of a mine. We never knew
what. The noise of the guns grew louder as we went
on. The gray fore-tone of dawn was streaking the
east when we halted by a group of tents at the road-
side. We were beyond Lemmes, someone said, but
this meant nothing to us. It was a field hospital and
here we found our men, a hundred of them. They
were all gas victims as their wracking, painful coughs
indicated.

The rain had ceased. The sun rose and warmed

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

things a bit. It was seven o'clock in the morning and
Bar-le-Duc was beginning to stir itself for another
weary day as we reached the evacuation hospital.
Three-quarters of an hour later we straggled into
Veil, having covered over a hundred kilometers since
midnight.

After the hard rolling of the last few days there
was much to be done about the cars. Bolts needed
tightening, grease cups had to be filled and many
minor repairs were to be made. This consumed most
of the day and with only a couple of hours' sleep to
our credit from the night before, we were genuinely
tired when we rolled into our blankets that night and
fervently hoped for an undisturbed rest.

But such was not to be our fortune. At two-thirty
in the morning it came— the call. In the gray of
dawn we wound through Bar-le-Duc. In the doorways
and on street benches we could just discern the motion-
less forms of soldiers wrapped in chilly slumber.
Once more we turned out upon the Sacred Way.
Our destination was the village of Dugny, of which
I shall have more to say later,— perhaps seven kilo-
meters from Verdun. A blowout just beyond Bar-le-
Duc lost me the convoy, which in turn lost me the
road, and I wandered through a series of half de-
molished villages, not knowing how near I might be
to the line, before I finally again emerged on the Voie
Sacre and reached Dugny. Here I was surprised
to see another Section of the American Ambulance.

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It proved to be Section Eight which we were shortly
to replace.

We found the driving station at Dugny overflowing
with wounded and the men placed in rows on straw
in a stable. Again we filled our cars, this time mostly
with couches, as before, gas victims. It was now
broad daylight. The roadway even at night was a
mass of traffic, mostly convoys of heavy camions.
These followed each other in an endless belt, the
loaded ones coming toward Verdun, the unloaded
going away. They proceeded at an average speed of
eighteen kilometers an hour at a distance of sixty feet
from each other. It became necessary for us if we
were to make any progress at all, to squirm our way
through the maze, continually dodging in and out of
the convoys to avoid staff cars, yet always working
by the slower moving vehicles. It was the most trying
kind of driving and required extreme care lest our
cars be crushed beneath the giant munition trucks or
lest the unforgivable sin of causing a block be com-
mitted. It was disheartening to work by a convoy of
eighty camions, dodging in and out to avoid cars com-
ing in the opposite direction, and then just as the head
of the line was reached to have a tire go bang. It is
such happenings that try the soul of the ambulancier.

Not till two o'clock in the afternoon did we reach
Veil, having completed the evacuation, and get our
first meal of the day. We were content to rest the
remainder of the day and the day following, doing

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

only such work as the cars required, and we were
very glad that no demand came for our services. On
the third morning a number of us secured permis-
sion to go into Bar-le-Duc in the "chow" camion.
We had just completed a hot bath and were making
for a patisserie when the Lieutenant's car came up.
"Get everybody together," he shouted, "we're leaving
for Verdun at one o'clock."

At camp we found the tents already struck and a
cold singe (tinned meat) lunch awaiting us. Promptly
at one we formed in convoy and again headed for
the Sacred Way. At four o'clock that afternoon we
reached the village of Dugny. This was the twenty-
eighth of June. The trek from the Somme to Verdun
was finished.

CHAPTER VIII

THE VORTEX

LOOKING at any of the maps of the Verdun
battle front you will observe a dot near the
left banks of the Meuse directly south of the city.
It is the village of Dugny, on a direct line perhaps five
kilometers from Verdun. The village consists of one
long, rambling street, in dry weather fetlock-deep in
dust, which the rain converts to a clinging, pasty mud.
At the farther end of the street, where it bends north-
ward toward Bellray, stands a square towered stone
church. The village lies in a hollow, a hill formerly
crowned with a fort rising steeply between it and Ver-
dun. To the south the country spreads out flat for
some kilometers — the valley of the Meuse — to a range
of hills. It was to these hills the Germans expected to
force the French retirement once the city was taken.
Between Dugny and the hill directly to the north ran
a narrow-gauge railroad, and daily during our occu-
pancy the enemy searched this road with 130s. These
bombardments usually took place around two in the
afternoon and at that hour it was considered unsalu-
brious to adventure up the Verdun road which skirted

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the hill at this point. The hill, itself, was cratered
with enormous holes where 380s had landed. Some
idea of the tremendous force of modern H-E shells
could be had by viewing these holes, each capacious
enough to hold half a dozen of our cars and with
blocks of clay as large as single cars tossed about like
so many pebbles.

At Dugny our cantonment was, I think, the most
uncomfortable I have ever experienced. We were
assigned a good-sized barn about midway down the
village street. The building was divided by a wide
passage one side of which during our stay was car-
peted with straw, upon which, were placed rows of gas
victims. On either side of this passage raised about
twelve feet from the ground, were platforms, pre-
sumably intended for the storage of hay. On these
platforms, access to which was had by a ladder, we
slept — or rather were supposed to sleep, it being
largely a matter of theory. In the spaces beneath the
platform were stabled horses. In a room next to the
horses was established the kitchen, a thoughtful ar-
rangement whereby an unfailing supply of flies was
secured. Diagonally opposite the kitchen, under one
of the platforms, was the bureau and for want of
other quarters the atelier was set up in the passage
way. The mess tent was in a small yard just at the
rear of the barn. What with the stamping of the
horses, the forging and pounding of the atelier, the
coming and going in the bureau, the coughing and

A WAR AMBULANCE

moaning of the gassed men, the roar of the guns and
the rumbling of the traffic passing just outside the
entrance, compared to our cantonment a boiler fac-
tory would have been a haven of quiet. Though our
cars were parked flush with the road I preferred mine
as a chambre a voucher to the stable, and whenever
there was opportunity for sleep, which was not very
often during our stay at Dugny, I occupied this
blood-stained booth.

Our principal poste was Cabaret. It is a festive
name and certainly there was always under way a
"continuous performance." Cabaret was nothing
more than a large stone barn. It was situated some
two kilometers up the Etain road beyond Verdun and
hence on the east side of the Meuse. Here the
wounded were brought in on stretchers from the shell
craters which formed the line. Their dressings were
adjusted and from here we carried them to the dress-
ing station in the stone church at Dugny.

All around the building were stationed batteries.
In the field back of it they stood almost wheel to
wheel. To the right and to the left and across from
it they were placed. All along the Etain road they
ranged. Within a few kilometers of the front at
the time, there were said to be concentrated more
than five thousand pieces of artillery. These guns
were continuously in action. They were continuously
searched for by the enemy's guns. The resulting
cataclysm is beyond description. Once in northern

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Ontario I encountered an old Scotchman whom I
quizzed regarding some rapids I contemplated shoot-
ing. "Mon," he replied, "they're pr-rodugious, ex-
traordinaire." Such was the gunfire of Verdun
"pr-rodugious, extraordinaire."

Besides the poste at Cabaret, we nightly dispatched
one car to Fort de Tavanne and one car to the
Moulainville-Etain Cross roads, the latter a particu-
larly ghastly place strongly recalling Bairnsfather's
cartoon, "Dirty work at the cross roads." Our direc-
tions for finding the place were "to go to the fifth
smell beyond Verdun," — directions inspired by the
group of rotting horse carcasses which were scat-
tered along the way. These comprised our regular
runs. In addition we were subject to special calls to
Fort Fiat, to Bellray and to Fort Belrupt. At first
our schedules called for one car every ninety minutes
to leave Dugny for Cabaret. This was found to be
insufficient and soon the intervals were shortened to
sixty, then to forty-five, and finally to thirty minutes.
At times the wounded came in so fast that all pre
tense of a schedule was abandoned, a car returning at
once to the poste after having evacuated to Dugny.
To facilitate matters the Squad was divided into two
sections of ten cars each and each of these sections
was again divided. It was hoped by the arrange-
ment that a man would be able to get one full night's
rest out of three and sufficient day repos to keep him
fit.

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We had, as I have said, reached Dugny late in the
afternoon of the twenty-eighth. There was not much
time wasted in turning over the sector to us, for at
seven o'clock the following morning we went into
action. The order of rollings posted in the bureau
showed I was scheduled to leave for Cabaret at ten-
thirty. There were two routes leading to the poste,
one by the way of the village of Bellray, thence over
a hill skirting the city, through a wood and out upon
the Etain road. This route circumnavigated the city.
The alternative route led directly north from Dugny,
passing into Verdun by the Neuf Porte, thence on
through the city following the river and across a
bridge near the Porte Chaussee, through which egress
was had to the Faubourg Pave around "dead man's
corner" to the Etain road. The first of the two routes
was considered the quieter. I had misgivings that
this was but a comparative term, but being by nature
of a reposeful disposition I determined that my first
run, at least should be by the Bellray route.

The entrance to Bellray village is had over a nar-
row wooden bridge spanning marshy ground. The
ground on both sides was pocked with shell holes, some
not six feet from the bridge and none farther than
fifty yards. Considering that the guns which fired
these shells were at least six kilometers away on the
other side of a range of hills, this might be consid-
ered reasonably accurate shooting. Just beyond the
bridge the road turns sharply to the left, making a

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

steep ascent and comes out to the east of the city,
passing by several barracks or casernes. It was at
this point that the whole fury of the bombardment
broke on one. Even when we had learned to expect
it and steeled our nerves accordingly, it came as a
shock — a roaring wave of noise from the inferno
below. Down past the casernes the road dipped to
the left and entered the woods. The trees were shat-
tered and stripped of limbs as though by countless
bolts of lightning, and the ground beneath was
ploughed by shell fire and sown with shrapnel.
Emerging from the woods on to the Etain road the
course for some distance was bordered with houses, the
outskirts of Verdun. There was not a house but showed
the effect of bombardment and some had been re-
duced to heaps of debris. From here on the buildings
became less frequent and both sides of the road, to
the east in the open field, on the west, under the pro-
tection of a small rise of ground, the batteries stood
and belched forth their hate. The ground shook with
the reverberation and overhead the air whined and
screeched. Down this corridor of hell the road made
its way to Cabaret. When I reached Cabaret on that
first trip, the sweat was standing out on my face as
though I had been through a great agony and my
hands were aching with the grip on the wheel. "If this
be the quieter route," I thought, "what in the name
of Mars must the other be ?"
They did not happen to be shelling Cabaret and

ioo

A WAR AMBULANCE

as my wounded were ready I was soon on my way
back. Near the casernes I noticed the bodies of two
horses killed by a shell since I had passed on the out
trip. Reaching the driving-station at Dugny, I helped
unload my blesses and then went into the church.
The pews had been removed save a few placed along
for assis. A row of stretchers flanked the wall.
From above, a dim religious light filtered down
through the stained glass windows upon the bandaged
forms below. The altar was still intact and the images
of saints adorned the walls. One corner was roughly
screened and curtained, enclosing the emergency op-
erating-room where cases too urgent to permit of
delay were put under the knife. There was no con-
fusion and the place was singularly quiet.

At three in the afternoon came my second call for
Cabaret. As in the morning I chose the Bellray
route. The firing had let up somewhat, though things
were scarcely tranquil, and in the field back of the
poste shells were breaking. As I came through the
woods on my way back the enemy was searching there
with 155s, hunting for hidden batteries. I saw three
shells burst within seventy-five meters of the road,
one piece of eclat passing through the car body. As
I bore along I could hear many of the shells coming
in. This trip shattered all my confidence in the Bell-
ray route and thereafter I went by way of the city.

It was on the following day I received a call to
Fort Fillat, one of the outlying defenses of Verdun.

101

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My knowledge of its location or of what a fort should
look like was of the vaguest.

Fort Fillat was, or rather had been located on the
crest of a hill. The entire region round about Ver-
dun had a seared, desolate look, but this hill was, I
think, the most despairing spot I have ever seen. The
lawn slope had been clothed with trees. Now, none
but a few shattered stumps remained. The way up
was strewn with wrecked camions, tumbrils, shell
cases and scattered equipment and the air was fetid
with the stench of rotting carcasses. Below in the
valley the guns thundered and roared, and directly
opposite, Fleury was in the throes of a terrible bom-
bardment. Having passed beyond the Fort without
realizing it, I found my way — I cannot call it a road —
impassable because of shell craters. I noticed with
considerable interest that while some of these craters
were old, being half -filled with water, others appar-
ently were of very recent make. I descended from
my car in an endeavor to find a way through, and
the enemy chose this opportune time to shell the hill.
It was then I performed a feat which for years I
had essayed in the gymnasium without success — the
feat of falling on the face without extending the arms
to break the fall. Whether it was the concussion
of the shell which blew me over, or whether I really
did accomplish the stunt unaided, I am unable to say.
At all events I found myself flat on the ground, my
head swimming from the explosion, and a cloud of

1 02

A WAR AMBULANCE

dust above me. My first impression — that this was
a particularly unhealthy spot — here found confirma-
tion. I managed to get my car turned and made my
way back to where I had noticed a crumbling wall. A
head appeared from beneath the stones and a bran-
cardier crawled out of a subterranean passage. It
was Fort Fillat.

It was two-fifteen in the morning when my next
call for Cabaret came. There were two cars of us
and I followed the other, for the first time passing
through Verdun. It was intensely dark, too dark to
see anything save when the gun flashes gave a flicker-
ing glimpse of a shattered wall. Along the Etain
Road the firing was furious. So many guns were in
action that, at times, there was an almost unbroken
line of flame. In the day-time the run was bad
enough but nothing to be compared with this.

It was on my return from the second trip that
night that I got my first view of Verdun. The firing
had slackened. Day had come and the sun, rising a
golden ball, swept the smoke-masked valley and
touched the shattered towns and walls. Though it
was a landscape of desolation, of demolished homes
and wrecked fortunes, it was not a picture of despair ;
rather it was a picture of great travail nobly endured,
a symbol of France assailed but unbeaten.

It is impossible for me to give any consecutive
narrative or account of those days we served in the
Vortex. The communiques show there were attacks

103

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and counter attacks, that the French took ground,
lost it and retook it, that gas wave after gas wave
came over, that "the fighting in the Verdun sector
continues heavy." All this meant we worked without
thought of schedule, with little sleep and without re-
gard to time. Now and then we ate, more from habit
than because we were hungry, but when we were not
rolling we did not rest; we could not, the agitation
of unrest so permeated the very air. "How does it
go?" we would ask our blesses. ."Ah, monsieur, nous
nous retirons," one would answer. Would the city
fall? But soon we would be reassured, for the next
man, his fighting eye gleaming from beneath a bloody
bandage would affirm : "lis ne passeront pas; on les
aura" (They shall not pass; we will have them).
And so I say, I can give no very clear account of
those days. My journal does not help much. It is
disconnected, jerky and without proposition. Certain
incidents and pictures there are, however, which
stand out in my memory as sharply pricked as the
flash of a machine gun on a pitchy night. I remember
one morning very early as I rounded "dead man's
corner" en route to the poste, encountering Mac re-
turning and that he leaned out and shouted : "Be care-
ful, they are shelling the road ahead," and that I pro-
ceeded on my way, half-dead for want of sleep, won-
dering dully how a chap was to "be careful."

I remember a night when, the road blocked, I was
forced to make a detour through the woods, I ran into

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a tangle of horses and caissons thrown into confusion
by a shell, and I recall that I flashed my torch for
an instant and it fell full on the face of a dead man
who lay square in the center of the road, a gaping
hole in his head. I remember that first dawn in
Verdun and yet another dawn when I went down
the Etain road as the French were drawing a tire de
barrage, and passed just inside our batteries and just
outside the enemy's curtain fire on the hill above.
Clearer than all, I remember one scene at Cabaret.
It was close to midnight after a hot, muggy day.
There was a change of Divisions and within the
stone barn there must have been about a hundred and
fifty men. The outgoing surgeons were consulting
with those just arrived. The departing brancardiers
were awaiting the order to move, while those of the
incoming division were moving about, storing their
packs preparatory to leaving for the line. Around
the walls lay the wounded. A single calcium light
threw a white glow on everything, sharply marking
the shadows. The door was draped with a blanket,
as were the shell-holes in the walls, and the air was
close and foul with the war smell, that compound of
anaesthetics, blood and unwashed bodies. Outside, for
the moment, the batteries were silent and within, the
hum of voices was distinctly audible. And then, sud-
denly, as though every man were stricken dumb, the
silence fell, silence save for the whirring screech of
a shell. It seemed hours in coming. Something told

'05

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

us it would strike very close, perhaps within. As
though mowed down, we had dropped on our faces.
Then it burst — just beyond the wall. £clat tore gaps
in the door drapings, and whined spitefully across
the room, raining against the wall, one hitting my
casque. "Le luminaire, le luminaire," shouted a voice
and the light was dashed out. There we lay — a mixed
mass of arms and legs — lay and waited for other
shells. But no more came and presently we were up
and the place roused into activity.

At eight o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, July
twelfth, we came off duty in the Verdun sector, com-
pleting fourteen days of service, at that time, I believe,
a record, as ambulance sections were not supposed
to serve more than ten days consecutively in this
sector. We were relieved by a French Section. This
relieving Section had, before we left Dugny, in its
one day of service lost two men, one gassed, the
pther killed by a shell. Though we had had six cars
hit, one almost demolished, we had not lost a man nor
had one injured. American luck!

The remainder of the twelfth we loaded our cars
and got everything ready for departure. We were
glad enough at the prospect of getting away from
Dugny. It had been an uncomfortable fortnight with
much rain, broken by hot, searing days. Our quar-
ters were now shared with gas victims, the poor chaps
coughing almost continuously. We were all feeling

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the need of sleep but it was impossible to rest amidst
our surroundings.

We were up at five next morning and by eight the
convoy was formed. In a drizzling rain we pulled
out through Dugny's one street and proceeding by
a circuitous route amid the traffic of the Voie Sacre
we finally reached "Bar." We did not stop here but
pushed on for some eight kilometers beyond and drew
up at a village. As we climbed down from the cars
the voices of the guns came to us only as a faint
rumble, for the Vortex was some fifty kilometers
away.

107

CHAPTER IX

Repos

THE village at which the convoy had halted was
Tannois. We shall not soon forget Tannois. Not
that there is anything remarkable about it, for it is
just the ordinary, uninteresting French provincial
village with an unpretentious inn, a few epiceries,
and some stolid-looking stone houses, but we shall
remember it for the peace and calm it brought us.
We did not linger long in the village proper but passed
through and entered a little valley just beyond. It
was a beautiful spot. On either side and at the far
end were green-clad hills, and down through the valley
flowed a clear, sparkling spring. Sweet-smelling hay
carpeted the ground and poppies and wild flowers
were scattered everywhere. Beneath a row of trees
whose protecting branches offered pleasing shade we
parked. The whole environment was one of peace
and restfulness and after the inferno we had just
left we were in a mood to appreciate the change.
We were content to lie on our backs and gaze at
the hills and listen to the trickling of the brook.
But we were not destined to remain long at Tan-

ic8

A WAR AMBULANCE

nois, for on the night of the sixteenth orders came
in and the following day we moved. As usual we
went through Bar-le-Duc without stopping and pro-
ceeding by way of Mericourt and a number of half-
demolished villages, in mid-afternoon reached our des-
tination, Givry-en-Argonne. Givry is one of those sad
little towns which make one wonder why the French,
being a kind-hearted people, permit it to linger and
suffer. Its dirty main street opens into a sad little
square where dejected buildings face each other in
an attitude of hopeless boredom. Even the ubiquitous
cafes seem burdened with ennui. It required but
one look at our cantonment, a buggy-looking stable,
to convince us that we should prefer our cars as
sleeping quarters. These we parked on two vacant
lots by the side of the main road where the dust
from passing traffic swept over them. We messed in
a commandeered private residence and I remember
we had especially good food while at Givry. Though
nominally en repos, the Squad did a certain amount
of work, the evacuation of malades or an occasional
blesse, the victim of hand grenade practise, and in
this way saw considerable of the surrounding country.

In the French Army, each automobile section has
some distinguishing emblem painted on its cars, a
stork, a Pierrot, a ballet dancer, some symbol as a
sort of trade mark as it were. Among the Squad's
French contingent was a man who in civil life was a
distinguished painter. He now designed a splendid

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BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

Indian head, resplendent with feathers, and this was
adopted as the Squad's mark and was emblazoned on
the sides and back of each car. This head at once
caught the fancy of the poilu. It soon made the Sec-
tion well known and thereafter wherever we were,
we were hailed as Les Peaux Rouges — the red skins.
Incidentally this decoration started an epidemic of
car painting and with the war-gray paint nearly every
car was freshened. Poor old "Ting" suffered the
hardest luck when, after laboring all day, covering
his car and himself with paint, perspiration and pro-
fanity, we received orders to move, the roads at the
time being ankle deep in dust.

We left Givry without regret and after an unevent-
ful roll of twenty kilometers, we hove to at the village
of Triaucourt. Just outside Triaucourt is a pretentious
villa, the property of M. Poincare, the brother of the
President of France. It was at the villa that the
Crown Prince stayed before the Germans were swept
back. It is situated in its own beautiful grounds, or
rather park. To the left of the house, as it faces the
road, is a large open sward, along one side of which
flows a small stream, the headwaters of the Aisne. All
around are groups of trees. In this beautiful spot,
through the courtesy of the authorities, we were per-
mitted to park our cars. They were aligned in two
rows facing each other and about sixty feet apart.
The mess tent was pitched in a magnificent grove of
pines at one end of the cars, and the CO.'s and a

During Heavy Engagements the Stretcher Bearers Eat
When and Where They Can

A WAR AMBULANCE

sleeping tent in another grove on a small rise of
ground. Never had we had such an ideal cantonment.

Triaucourt itself we found to be not entirely with-
out interest. It possessed a church of some architec-
tural pretensions which bore the marks of war, for
the Germans in their first advance had shelled the
place rather thoroughly. The church contains one
picture said to be a genuine Van Dyck. Certainly
it was dingy enough to be. From the back of the
church extends a row of ruins the length of two
city blocks, another token of the passing of the Huns.
There were the usual cafes and epiceries and several
field hospitals.

Those were pleasant days we spent at Triaucourt.
We were forty kilometers back of the line ; our Divi-
sion was en repos, reforming, so there were no
wounded. Occasionally we would receive a call to
transport a malade from one hospital to another. On
such duty I went several times to Revigny or rather
what was left of the town. Whole blocks lay in ruins
presenting a picture of desolation such as only war —
the war of the Hun — is capable of producing. At
Le Roi, not far from Revigny, lay the gigantic frame
of the Zeppelin brought down some months before.

But for the most part our days were of idle dalli-
ance. Beautiful weather prevailed. We sat in our
cars chatting or reading or lolled about on the grass.
In the later afternoon we used to pair off and go
for long walks about the country. A series of soccer

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

matches was arranged and played between a team
made up from the Squad and a team from the Divi-
sion. Considering that our opponents had six thou-
sand men from whom to draw and we were but
twenty-one and not familiar with the game, we did
remarkably well for, while we were never victorious
neither were we ever blanked and once we tied.
They were good sportsmen — the French — and always
applauded when we made a good play and cheered
at the end of every match.

Of course we had a baseball and bat — were there
a score of Americans in any part of the earth that
the makings for the national game were not forth-
coming? Our scrub games attracted an enormous
amount of attention and created great speculation and
interest. At times the gallery exceeded a thousand
poilus and a score or more of officers. Once or twice
an officer joined in, holding his hands wide apart,
and when a hot grounder burned his palms a great
shout of joy would rise from the spectators.

There seemed something in the air 'round about
Triaucourt that was particularly salubrious to the
raising of dogs; not dogs of any one kind or breed,
or in fact of any recognized kind or breed, but, never-
theless, in the general acceptation of the term, dogs.
This condition prevailing, it occurred to some in-
spired soul, to take advantage of the material thus
provided by the gods, and hold a bench show, each
ambulancier being entitled to one entry. The idea

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was received with enthusiasm, and thereafter in the
by-ways of Triaucourt might be seen khaki-clad fig-
ures holding forth a morsel of meat in one hand, the
other concealing behind their backs a piece of rope,
the while cajoling the prospective canine victims with
supposedly soothing terms of mixed French and Eng-
lish. The result was as astonishing a collection of ani-
mals as was ever gathered outside the precincts of a
museum. And when they all got to uowling and yowl-
ing and yapping, the ensemble was truly magnificent.
The prize was eventually awarded to a weird-looking
animal with quaint legs, an abortive tail and of an
indescribable greenish hue. The decision of the
judges was contested by the disappointed proprietor
of another entry on the ground that the animal
awarded the prize was not a dog at all, a protest,
however, which was disallowed.

In the reaction from the strain of front line work
there was an effervescence of spirits which found ex-
pression in pranks as well as sports. One favorite
diversion was the morning "evacuation." The Squad
was supposed to turn out at seven and to report for
coffee at seven-thirty. There were usually several
recalcitrant risers and it was the self-constituted duty,
or I should say pleasure, of the early risers to
"evacuate" such cases. Silently "the committee"
would proceed to the car of the evacue; two "mem-
bers" would carefully grasp the projecting handles
of the stretcher upon which the unconscious victim

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

was sleeping; then, at a given signal the stretcher
would be shot out of the car, the other end grasped
by the remaining committeemen, hoisted shoulder high
and in a second the evacue would find himself torn
from the arms of Morpheus and traveling at a high
rate of speed towards the center of the town. Here
he was deposited in a prominent place, preferably the
middle of the square, and immediately he would be-
come what the society people would term the "cyno-
sure of all eyes." Ancient dames, children, dogs, wan-
dering poilus and "le population civile" would crowd
wonderingly about. There would be many ejacula-
tions of "Qu'est-ce que c'est" and "Qu'est-ce qu'il y
a," whereupon "the committee" in furtherance of its
duties would spread the rumor that the occupant of
the stretcher was a contagieux. After a reasonable
period — though it could hardly be thus defined by
the victim, he would be again hoisted aloft and borne
solemnly back to camp to the whistled strains of the
dirge.

While at Triaucourt three new recruits joined us,
replacing men whose enlistments had expired. A
"new man" was always treated with distant courtesy
and called formally by his last name until such time
as he might be proved, which might be a matter of
days or weeks or, perhaps, never. Certain privileges,
however, he always had. For one thing, he was in-
variably "permitted to subscribe" to the Bulletin des
Armees, paying therefore ten francs. Inasmuch as this

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A WAR AMBULANCE

journal, the official army paper, was furnished free
to every enlisted man, "the subscriber" could not be
heard to say that he did not receive his paper. Then,
too, a recruit was liable to be "sold" a gas mask and
helmet, both of which are furnished free by the army
in any desired numbers. The money obtained from
these activities, was devoted to the purchase of
gateaux for the table which, when served, were an-
nounced as "the gift" of the new man. Whereupon
he realized, perhaps for the first time, that in the
words of the song, he was "in the army now." New
men were apt to be confused by the talk, for the Squad
possessed a vocabulary and language all its own.
Everything was either "good news" or "bad news"
depending on how it struck the Squad. Anything
incredible of belief was "a lota." If a man died he
"huffed" or "passed." A helmet was a "trench
derby," a gas mask, "a muffler." A friend was "Mon
Vieux," furlough was "perm." The mess was referred
to as "chow," beans were known as "dum-dums."
Salt was "doosel" A car was a "buss," a "peanut
roaster" was a "Rolls-Royce." Wine was "ink" and
the cook "the Zouave." A dug-out was "a rathskel-
ler," shell fire was "heaving eggs ;" "be careful" was
"mind your eye, Judge." Of nick names there was
no end. "Breakbands," "Sparkplugs," "Wilkins,"
"Doc," "Sample," "Slack," "Betty," "Skinnay," "Si-
lent," "Claxson" were all real characters. The Squad,
too, had its favorite songs, among which were

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

"Ephriam Brown, the Sailor," "Here's to the Land,"
"Mary Ann McCarty,' "How Well I Remember
the Days of '49," "There Was An Old Man Named
Bill," "Here Lies the Body of a Cigarette Fiend,"
"When I Die," "The Kaiser Has No Hair At All,"
"She Wore It For a Lover Who Was Far, Far away."
Through many a weary wait and in many a queer place
have these choruses rolled forth their cheer.

On the twenty-fifth of July we received word that
the Section, as a section, had been cited to the Order
of the Division for its work at Verdun. The day
following we were paraded. The Medecin Division-
aire appeared with his aide. The Citation was read
and the Cross of War pinned to one of our battered
ambulances, symbolizing the Decoration of the Sec-
tion.

The citation follows:
2e Armee

Direction du Service

de Sante du Groupement E

Extrait d'Ordre No. 78
En execution des prescriptions regle-
mentaires, le Directeur du Service de
Sante du 6 e Corps d'Armee cite a l'ordre
du service de Sante le Corps d'Armee.

La Section Sanitaire Automo-
bile Americaine No. 1

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Sous la Direction du Lieutenant de
Kersauson de Permemdreff et des Offi-
ciers Americains Herbert Townsend et
Victor White,

La Section Sanitaire Americaine
No. i

a assure remarquablement le service
quotidien des evacuations en allant
chercher le blesses le plus loin possible
malgre un bombardement parfois violent.
C'est particulierement distingue le II
Juillet 1 91 6 en traversant a plusieurs re-
prises une nappe de gaz toxiques sous un
feu intense sans aucun repel pendant 32
heures pour emmener au plus vite aux
Ambulances les intoxiques.

Q. G. le 26 Juillet 1916
Le Directeur du Service de Sante
Seal.

J. Toubert

Delivre copie du present ordre a
Robert Whitney Imbrie
H. P. Townsend

Seal

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

Xhe days were passing pleasantly. July ended and
still we remained at Triaucourt. We were begin-
ning to tire of inaction and to wish for the front —
yes, even though it meant the Vortex. Therefore we
were delighted when at the beginning of the second
week in August orders came in for us to move. But
we were not yet to go to the front. It was merely
to the village of Vaubecourt, seven kilometers dis-
tant from Triaucourt that we shifted. The change
meant our Division, which for the past month had
been en repos, was now en reserve and as Vaubecourt
was in the Verdun section, in all probability we should
again go up to the Vortex.

Vaubecouri is now little more than a name. A
few blackened walls still stand, a few houses remain
unscathed. That is all. Here it was the Germans
made a stand from which the French finally drove
them. The village is on the edge of a considerable
forest, part of the Argonne. On the outskirts of this
forest we established our camp. A really beautiful
spot it was and save that in places the forest was
traversed by splendid roads, the region was as wild
as the Adirondacks. Everywhere the spoor of the
wild boar was visible. The CO. was an ardent sports-
man and together we spent the greater part of the
ensuing nights roaming the woods or sitting motion-
less in a thicket, waiting for a shot, returning as the
rising sun began to light the forest. On the way we
used to exchange hunting reminiscences, as we had

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both shot great game in Africa — he in the Transvaal,
I in the Congo.

Five months had now elapsed since I had been
en permission. The Squad now being part of the line,
permissions were "open ;" two men at a time were
permitted to leave. So on the morning of August
twelfth, Josh and I left in the staff car for Bar-le-Duc
where we caught the train and that same evening
reached Paris.

CHAPTER X

ENCORE VERDUN

PERMISSION was over. It was five o'clock in
the afternoon and I had just reached Bar-le-Duc.
My orders were to report to the officer in charge of
the pare here, where I would be told the whereabouts
of my Section. So I at once sought out the com-
mandant who informed me: "Votre Section est a
Verdun," a cheering little piece of news. None of
our cars were in Bar-le-Duc, so there was no way of
getting to the front that night. With me were three
recruits for Section 4, at the time quartered at the
village of Ippecourt some thirty kilometers from
Verdun. As there would be a machine in for them
next day I decided to remain in Bar-le-Duc for the
night and go out with them. Accordingly on the fol-
lowing morning, through the courtesy of Section 4's
commander, I was taken out to Ippecourt and after
lunching with the Squad was driven over to my own
Section.

I found the Squad quartered in the Chateau Bille-
mont, some three kilometers from Dugny and about
equal distance from Verdun. It was a fine, large

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place splendidly situated with numerous trees which
offered concealment for the cars from scouting aero-
planes. I was somewhat puzzled to know why we
had been assigned such elaborate quarters until I
saw the answer in a number of shell holes about the
house. The place was under intermittent bombard-
ment. Prior to our occupancy it had been the head-
quarters of a high officer and had been evacuated by
him because of its frequent shelling. We were per-
fectly willing to take our chances with shells to have
such comfortable quarters. Here we had half a
dozen rooms for sleeping — the irony of the situation
being we got very little chance to sleep — a fine large
dining-room, a lounging-hall, kitchen and salon. There
was even chateau stationery and a telephone, though
this of couse did not function.

On this, our second time at Verdun, we served but
one poste — the Caserne Marceau. This caserne, —
now demolished by shell fire — had topped the crest of
a considerable hill which rose to the northwest of the
city, and about two kilometers beyond. It was an
exposed spot and it and the approach were swept by
almost continual shell fire. The poste itself was a
half -dugout in the side of the hill just below the
crest, shored with timbers and both roofed and banked
with sand bags.

To reach this poste after leaving Chateau Bille-
mont we proceeded north along the road which passed
the Chateau grounds. A kilometer or so beyond, the

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road turned to the left and for a way paralleled a spur
railroad track. On this track was operated a mobile
ioo marine battery mounted on specially constructed
cars. The "hundred" takes a shell about four feet
in length, the detonation from which is terrific. Fre-
quently the guns would be in action as we passed and
the concussion fairly rocked our heads. The road
about here bore testimony of the accuracy of the
enemy's fire. But the battery being mobile, changed
its position frequently and never suffered a hit. Again
bending to the north this road entered a little patch
of shell-torn timber. Here was a transparency with
the information Zone Dangereux and an equally su-
perfluous injunction to Alles Vite. Beyond the timber
the road turning to the east entered the city gate.
Traversing the city and emerging as before on the
Etain road, our new run left this about a kilometer
beyond and commenced a long ascent on the left at
the end of which, near the hill crest, was located the
poste. The entire run was under the enemy's fire.
This poste served that portion of the line of which
Fleury was the central objective. Evacuations, as be-
fore, were made to the church at Dugny.

Though we served but one poste this time our work
was much more severe than at our first time up at
Verdun. Consulting the communiques you will find
that at this time there was a series of attacks and
counter attacks upon Fleury; that the Germans took,
lost and retook the village, that the French regained

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it, advancing toward Thiaumont, and that the enemy's
line near the Vaux-le-Chapitre Wood was captured
on a length of sixteen hundred meters. These gains
were paid for in bloody toll. Thousands of wounded
poured through the poste at Caserne Marceau.

At first there was pretense of a schedule, the cars
leaving quarters at stated intervals, but this was soon
abandoned, having been found impracticable, and when
on duty a car rolled almost continuously. As before,
the Section was divided into two Squads of ten cars
each, but as the wounded frequently came in such
numbers that one Squad could not handle them all,
twenty of the cars were put into service. This meant
that sleep "went by the board" and many of the men
served forty-eight hours without a wink, some of them
falling asleep at the wheel as they drove. To facili-
tate the service, at night ten cars were stationed in
Verdun itself. The stand here was at what had been
the Military Club (Circle Militaire), an imposing
brick building now half-wrecked by shells. Within
those elaborately decorated rooms, the scene of so
much festivity and high living, we wandered about or
sat upon the plush chairs awaiting our call, the while
the bombardment raged about.

The nights during this period were especially dark.
In the pitchy streets of Verdun with the debris piled
high on either side it was impossible to see a bayonet
thrust ahead. Eyes were of no avail; one steered by
feel. Several times cars met head on. Twice when

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this occurred both the colliding cars were put tempor-
arily out of commission. Again, on several occasions,
it occurred that a driver, overcome with weariness,
fell asleep at the wheel to be awakened by his car's
crashing into a wall or ditch. The mechanical force
was kept busy with repairs and rendered yeoman
service. At times there were several cars en panne
at once and we should have been swamped had it not
been for the fact that our rolling stock had been sup-
plemented by a large truck ambulance capable of
transporting twenty sitting cases simultaneously. With
this and the entire Squad in action, we were able at
all times to handle our poste.

There were the usual miraculous escapes. Giles
was blown off his feet by the concussion of a shell.
Bob's car was pierced by eclat which wounded the
already wounded men therein. Some were knocked
down by concussion. Some of the cars were hit but
the Squad did not suffer a scratch.

We came off duty at Caserne Marceau at three
o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, September
ninth, it falling to my lot to evacuate the last load of
blesses. As I descended the hill from the poste, a
number of cars of the replacing French Section were
coming up. Within two days after taking over our
section, two of the drivers were killed and two seri-
ously wounded. On the same night three brancardiers
were killed at the poste.

Though relieved from duty, we were not to leave

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Billemont for another day and accordingly on Sun-
day several of us obtained permission to go into Ver-
dun. Though I had been through the city scores of
times, I had been always in my car or on duty. Hence
I had had little opportunity to really view the place.
At the city gate the gendarme stopped us and in
spite of my laisser-passer was disinclined to allow me
to pass since I had neglected to wear a helmet and it
was strictly forbidden to enter unless thus crowned.
But after some argument he consented to turn his
head and we went in. It was a strange experience,
thus wandering in this deserted, stricken city. It gave
one something of the sensation Pompeii does. Though
the sun shone brightly enough, the chill of ruin and
desolation prevaded. In all the city there was scarcely
a house that did not bear the scar of shell, while in
scores, hundreds of places there remained but a pile
of stones and a yawning hole where once had stood
a house. In many places a shell coming from above
had entirely wrecked the interior of a building leaving
the four walls standing.

We ascended the hill to the citadel. Its walls were
scarred and shattered but its two towers still bravely
reared themselves four-square to the world, guarding
the ruins below. As we left the citadel, and turned
into a side street a quaint corner cafe attracted our
attention. Entering through a shell-made orifice we
seated ourselves at one of the dust-covered tables. It
must have been a cosy place once. Low smoke-

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browned ceilings above, paneled walls, seats with high
backs and at one end the barrette. Here many an ab-
sinthe has been sipped. And there on the shelves back
of the bar still stood the glasses which in the happier
days, avant la guerre, had clinked to merry toasts.
We passed down the street and entered a private
house, one side of which was blown in. The room
in which we stood had evidently been the salon. On
the mantel stood some ornaments and a joyous china
chanticleer with raised head seemed to pour forth the
defiance of France. Below, on the same street was
a hardware store — or, as the English would say, an
ironmonger's shop. Its front was smashed in and
scattered about the floor were bolts, screws, tinware
and all the goods of the trade. We entered an hotel and
continuing down the corridor came to the "bureau."
Here the keys to the guest rooms still hung in orderly
array, waiting for the patrons who would never come.
There was the open register in which after knocking
off the dust we inscribed our names. Rain and snow,
coming through the shattered roof, had stained the
hangings, and the upholstery was beginning to rot.
Broken marble-topped tables and wrecked chairs lit-
tered the bar. The upper floors or what was left of
them, were cluttered with furniture. Bed linen lay
scattered about and over everything was a coating of
plaster, while underfoot glass crackled.

In the rear of the building, the front of which had
been some sort of a shop, we found a room three

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sides of which were lined with rows of books. Some
were solid-looking tomes bound in calf, now rotting
from the exposure. There were scientific treatises and
works of reference as well as a few paper-backed ones
and on one shelf were a number of works printed in
German. The roof of this place was gone and pools
of water stood on the floor and mildew was every-
where. In a closet leading from this room, clothing
still hung, one pompous evening coat of ancient cut
jet buttons still preserving its dignity — being supported
by a coat hanger.

For three hours we wandered about but during all
our ramble we did not encounter one single soul. Not
so much as a dog or a cat moved among the ruins
and when the guns quieted not a sound was heard save
the crunching of the glass beneath our feet.

While within the city we had heard no shells, but
as we passed through the gate a crash sounded and
looking back we could see a cloud of dust rising in the
still air. The Hun was hurling his hate.

It had been arranged for that afternoon that the
regimental pasteur should hold service for the Squad
at quarters. Though not a bearer of arms, no braver
man wears the blue, and he was a great favorite.
After noon mess we all gathered in front of the
chateau, lounging about on the grass awaiting the
chaplain's arrival. Suddenly, out of nothing, sounded
the screech of a shell. It did not need much experience
to tell that it was coming close. Conversation ceased ;

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pipes remained poised in the air; not a soul moved.
There was an explosion. The shell had hit about one
hundred yards down the road. Then came a faint
"boom" and eleven seconds later another shell came
in, this time somewhat nearer. The chateau was being
bombarded with i3o's. We were all pretty well scared
— at least I can speak for myself — but no one had the
nerve to be the first to run for the cellar. So we
lounged there waiting. At this moment the staff car
with the pasteur came through the gate, a shell hitting
not fifty meters behind and the eclat whirring viciously
overhead. For perhaps ten minutes the bombardment
continued — trying minutes they were too — and then
the firing ceased as suddenly as it had commenced.
Beneath a fine old tree we grouped ourselves about
the chaplain and lowered our heads while he prayed
to "le bon Dieu, our protector in times of peril, our
strength in moments of trial."

At nine the next day we formed convoy in front
of the chateau. The sun, smiling on our departure,
came out from behind a bank of clouds. The guns
were in action and their thunder followed us, gradually
growing fainter as we passed through Dugny and on
toward Ippecourt. Shortly before noon, we "spoke"
Triaucourt and dropped anchor in our old harbor.

138

CHAPTER XI

THE ARGON NE

ON the same afternoon upon which we reached
Triaucourt the Squad drove over to the small
nearby village of Eire. Here we found the brancar-
diers of the Division had preceded us and shortly
afterwards the commanding general and his aides ap-
peared. The names of the soldiers of the Division
who had especially distinguished themselves under fire
were called out and among the others, two from the
Squad, "Hutsie" and Gyles. After congratulating the
men as a whole, the individual citations were read and
the Croix de Guerre pinned to their tunics. In the
meanwhile the entire region was suffused with an
erubescent glow from Gyles' embarrassed blushes.

We remained at Triaucourt but three days and on
the morning of the fourth pulled out towards the
northward, passing through the city of Ste. Mene-
hould to the village of La Grange aux Bois, the bois
in the case being the forest of the Argonne.

La Grange is a sleepy little village which lies
sprawled along the side of the road about midway be-
tween Reims and Verdun. At the time we reached

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here it was some fifteen kilometers back of the line.
There were two picket stations, La Chalade, a wretched
village about two and a half kilometers from the line
and another small village at about the same distance.
Evacuations were made to a dressing station located
in La Grange and to Ste. Menehould, a place too small
and too sleepy to warrant the name "city," and too
large and populous to be called a town. (The sector
was at this time one of the dullest and most dormant
in the whole line and were it not for the newspapers
which reached us occasionally, we would never have
known the war was going on.)

Our runs took us through neighboring towns, Cler-
mont— now almost totally destroyed, La Claon, Les
Islettes, where the church steeple was tilted awry, the
work of a passing shell, Les Controllere, and to a vil-
lage which bore the somewhat cryptic name of Corrupt.

Just off the main road at La Grange stood a portable
wooden barracks which was assigned to us for quar-
ters. It was too airy to heat and leaked like a five
dollar raincoat. Almost overnight fall seemed to have
set in. Cold rain fell day after day; the mud deep-
ened and a mournful wind swept through the dismal
little village. Josh, Gyles and I, stimulated by a de-
sire to avoid pneumonia and an aversion to sleeping
in wet blankets, moved up the road to a deserted one-
room house. The place was a perfect replica of
Fagin's Den as usually staged in the third act of the
dramatized version of "Oliver Twist." We succeeded

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A WAR AMBULANCE

in borrowing a wooden bench and table and we ob-
tained a small stove. We exerted much effort in set-
ting up the pipe and the more in digging a hole
through the wall to accommodate it, after which it
occurred to us that we had no fuel nor was any obtain-
able. Our quarters we shared with a sociable family
of rats, or perhaps I should say they permitted us to
share their quarters. The prospect held little of cheer.
Winter was coming — in fact was almost upon us. The
deadness of the sector meant little work and that of
the dull back-of-the line sort. There was absolutely
no excitement, nor prospect of any. For all we could
see the Section might be doomed to put in the entire
winter at La Grange. Permission was nearly three
months away. For the first time some of us were be-
ginning to realize that even war may have its monot-
onous side. And then something occurred which prom-
ised to change matters.

"Hutsie" brought the news. He came into Fagin's
Den one dismal afternoon and with a caution born of
former collapses gingerly lowered himself on the
bench. He sat silently looking at me a moment or two
and then grinned "How'd you like to go to the
Orient?" "Fine," I answered, "When do we start?"
"I'm speaking seriously," he affirmed. "The Army of
the Orient has asked for a section of our cars, and
headquarters has just wired asking for three volun-
teers from the men in the Service. Yours is one of
the names mentioned. The enlistment is for seven

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months and your answer must be given by tomorrow
morning."

Outside the rain came down, the wind blew the
smoke down the leaky pipe and there was a little of
the picturesque to be seen from the rug-stuffed win-
dow. But in the Orient, the sun-smitten Orient, surely
there would be no more cold feet and always there
would be the picturesque. Perhaps even "Moscow"
was there. Of course it would not be so pleasant in
a new Section. Old S. S. U. I. after nine months had
become home. There was not a man in the Squad
for whom I did not possess a genuine liking. And it
was not only the Squad — the Americans — to whom
the regret of separation would extend. There were
the French members of the Section. There was the
genial La Blanch of the bureau, the smiling De Ville,
the ever obliging Zouave, Bonner, the provident quar-
termaster, "Old Sleeps" — so called because in further-
ance of his duties he was always demanding our
"sleep" — expired ordre de mouvement, "Celt," the
cook's mate and surely not least, there was Gen.
"George Washington" Rop with his half-dozen Eng-
lish words, of which "shocking" was one, his ready
willingness and grave demeanor.

I sought out Gyles whom I found administering
nourishment to an invalid tire. He had heard the
news. "Are you going?" I asked. "If you will," he
answered. "C'est bien," and we shook hands. We
found Bob strong for the prosposition and our names

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we wired into headquarters as having volunteered for
the Army of the Orient. Jacta est alia.

It was on the next day but one that I made my last
"roll" as a member of Section I, taking some malades
into Ste. Menehould. On my return I relinquished
"New Number Nine" to her future driver, bespeaking
for her careful treatment.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth of September
our ordre de mouvement which we had impatiently
awaited arrived. The four of us — for "Vic." the little
terrier, had also volunteered for the Orient — climbed
into the staff car — the fellows crowded round shaking
hands, "Hutsie" threw in the clutch, there was a cheer
and we were on our way.

133

CHAPTER XII

ON BOARD THE "MADEIBA"

"We are those fools who found no peace
In the dull world we left behind,
But burned with passion for the East
And drank strange frenzy from its wind.
The world where wise men live at ease
Fades from our unregretful eyes,
And blind across uncharted seas
We stagger on our enterprise."

IT was close to midnight. The hush of Paris in
war time had long since fallen on the city and
save for the occasional hoot of a distant automobile
horn there was nothing to break the silence. We, the
Squad for the Orient, were clustered around our dun-
nage down in a freight yard. There were twenty-
six of us, men recruited from every Section in the
Service — and the Corps now numbered ten Sections —
chosen because of experience and ability to meet the
conditions which the work presented. The frenzied
period of preparation was over; the outfits had been
gathered, the cars had been assembled, reviewed and

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crated, good-byes had been said and now we were
waiting the word which would send us on our way.
Along the track stretching away into the blackness
of the yard, was our train, a line of "open-face" trucks
upon which were the forty-two cars which represented
the rolling stock of the Section.

There was a movement down the line and we looked
up to see several officers, one wearing the uniform
and insignia of the Commander of the Automobile
Service of the Army. It was for him we had been
waiting. He responded to our salute, as we gathered
around him, and presently he spoke : "Messieurs, you
have proven your worth with the armies of France.
Now you are about to join the Army of the Orient
in the Balkans. You are going to a hard country
where you will be confronted with harsh conditions —
conditions far more severe than you have here en-
dured. That you will meet these unflinchingly and
conquer, your record here proves. I shall observe you
with interest and wish you the success which your
courage in volunteering for this service merits. Mes-
sieurs, adieu and Vive la France."

We turned and climbed into the two passenger
coaches which were attached to the train. There was
the usual blowing of tin whistles, without which no
continental train ever starts; the wheels began to
grind and creak and we wound slowly out on the first
stage of our journey to the East. Somewhere a clock
struck the hour of midnight.

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There is no great cheer in endeavoring to sleep in
a place quite evidently designed with particular care
for promoting sleeplessness and though some of us
managed to stretch out in the space between the seats
and in the corridor, it was not an especially restful
night. However, "Buster" with his "shining morning
face," proceeding down the aisle unheedful of what
lay beneath, opened the day auspiciously, as he stepped
upon Giles's face, a performance appreciated by all,
save perhaps Buster and Giles. The day passed
slowly, as the stops, though frequent, were not of suffi-
cient duration to permit of our wandering and there
was no opportunity to obtain any hot food. About
two, we reached the city of Macon and, as the train
was announced to remain here for an hour and a half,
we took advantage of the opportunity thus afforded for
a brisk walk. Another crampful night we endured
and then, about eleven in the morning of the second
day after leaving Paris, we detrained at Marseilles.

Until the transport was ready to take on board our
cars, we had nothing to do. Quarters were established
in a hotel, quite the most luxurious cantonment the
Squad had ever known, and our sole duties were to
report each morning at eight o'clock for possible
orders.

It had been nine years since I had been in Mar-
seilles. Then it had impressed me as being a rather
sleepy city, partaking of the repose of the South. Now
we found it bustling with life, the gayest city, I think,

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A WAR AMBULANCE

I have ever seen. The point of departure for the
French expeditionary force, or to use the official des-
ignation, l'Armee Franchise d'Orient, the port had
taken on all the activity incident to an undertaking
in which hundreds of thousands of men were involved.
Then, too, many of the units of the British Army of
the Mediterranean either passed through or touched
here. This city of the south had been too far from
war's theatre to experience any of its horors and the
soberness which Paris had assumed was lacking. At
night, when thousands of electric bulbs made the city's
streets streams of light, when the cafes blazed and
the sidewalks teemed with the sailors from the seven
seas rubbing elbows with the soldiers of two armies,
it was worth going far to see. In Marseilles the lid
was not merely off ; it had been thrown away and
within the civic cauldron there was the seething and
bubbling of unrestrained revelry. There were hetero-
geneous days and hectic nights.

Meanwhile we had assisted in the loading of our
cars. On reporting at morning mess we received
orders to report on board our transport at four
o'clock that afternoon. We found the S. S. Madeira
warped alongside the quay. She was a converted
tramp and even after her conversion we found her
sinfully filthy. Formerly a German, the flag of Por-
tugal now flew at her mast. Around, about and on
board her was the hurry and confusion incident to
departure. As we ascended one gang plank, a convoy

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of mules was being driven up another. A number
of cattle, penned on the main deck, forward, bel-
lowed their protest. Dogs dodged about underfoot,
chains clinked, winches creaked, steam hissed and
orders were being shouted in three languages. The
decks were piled high with hay, life rafts and miscel-
laneous cargo. As the novels say "confusion
reigned."

We did not seek our steamer chairs, principally
because there were no steamer chairs, and no place
to put them had there been any. Neither were we
bothered with looking up our staterooms or our places
at table ; in fact most of the usual worries of a steamer
passenger were saved us. So, lacking other occupation
we lined the rail and like voyagers the world over
watched and commented upon our fellow passengers
coming aboard. And they were enough to excite com-
ment. For plodding up the gangplank came eight
hundred yellow men from Indo-China, French colonial
troops. A sinuous line, they stretched along the quay,
the end disappearing within the hold. Their high
nasal twang reminded one irresisttibly of the notes of
a banjo, punctuated now and then by a laugh as though
a few flute notes had been introduced into the pro-
gram. How their officers ever told them apart was
a mystery, for to occidental eyes they were exactly
alike, the same slanting eyes, the same black, wiry hair,
the same lack of expression. Each was simply a bi-
furcated yellow ditto of the others.

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A WAR AMBULANCE

I fancy none of the Squad will soon forget that
first night on board the Madeira. Into the vessel's
hold had been built tier on tier of iron shelves. One
section of these shelves had been assigned to us for
our very own. Above, below and all around us were
our yellow friends. Close proximity revealed another
of their characteristics — like Kipling's camels, "they
smelled most awful vile." There was no air in that
hold, but there was plenty of atmosphere, a sort of
gaseous Gorganzola. I doubt if any of us slept; we
were merely bludgeoned into insensibility by lack of
oxygen. A stiff breeze, which had blown up during
the afternoon, with the coming of night had freshened
into half a gale, so that departure had been postponed
till morning. The ship strained at her hawsers and
tossed about, the groaning of the timbers vying with
that of the seasick "chinks." Dante, peering into that
hold, would have found ample material for another
cycle.

With the coming of daylight we were on deck. The
wind had abated somewhat. The gangways had been
run in the night before and the lines were now loosed
off. By seven o'clock we were winding our way out
of the harbor past the curious rock formations which
guard its entrance and by mid- forenoon had dropped
its headlands. In the open sea there was a distinct
swell on, and this with the smells and sights gave
us cause for internal reflection. Durinj the morning
we made a sortie into the fetid hold and dragged out

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our belongings. We were all fully determined that
come what might we should not spend another night
below hatches. We proceeded to pitch camp on the
boat-deck where, during the remainder of the voyage,
we remained, sleeping in the lea of the smallboats at
night and lounging about the decks during the day.

The voyage from Marseilles takes normally about
four days. But there was nothing normal about the
Madeira. With an entire disregard of submarines,
she proceeded with the phlegmatic complacency of a
stout old lady going to a funeral. The fact that it was
likely to be our funeral did not lend cheer. Nothing
seemed to disturb her. She would steer perhaps half a
knot on one course, then change her course, proceeding
an equal distance on a right-angle tack before again
coming about. The theory was that, should a torpedo
be launched, we should be where it was not, a theory
which might have worked, had the Madeira possessed
such a thing as speed.

On coming on board, each man had been supplied
with a life-belt, which he was supposed to keep on
or by him at all times. Once each day a life drill was
held and the small boats manned. Frequently, too,
the bugle sounded "to arms," at which time the rails
were lined with all hands prepared to let go at a
possible submersible. Mounted on the main deck aft
was a swivel "75," served by a naval ere at. In addi-
tion to these precautions, as we approached the nar-
rows between Sicily and the coast of Africa, lookouts

140

A WAR AMBULANCE

were stationed, two in the bows, two on the bridge,
and two with the gun crew aft. This duty was as-
signed to our Squad and we stood four hour watches,
day and night, throughout the remainder of the
voyage.

There was more or less monotony, but this is true
of most voyages and we had some unusual distractions.
There was the ever-present menace of the submarine ;
there was the slaughtering of cattle on the deck, for-
ward; there were the yellow men to watch and listen
to, for the matter of that, for they frequently "picked
out" a high falsetto chant which rang of the East.
Their favorite ditty had a chorus which they would
sing for hours on end, "ling, hio ah ee ah, ling hio ah
ee ah" and with which we became so familiar that we
could sing it ourselves, much to their delight.

One day — it was the twenty-fifth of October — the
monotony was broken by an impressive incident — a
burial at sea. At two in the afternoon watch, a blare
of bugles sounded forward. Massed on the main
deck, aft, three hundred of the yellow men were
under arms. On the port quarter, supported on two
casks, rested a plain, wooden box, draped with the tri-
color of France. As the bugles ceased the ship's com-
mander and the commandant, the highest ranking offi-
cer on board, both clad in full dress and bearing side-
arms, descended the companionway stairs and ad-
vanced to a position behind the casket. A squad of
eight soldiers, flanking the casket, came to attention,

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BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

their bayonets flashing in the sun. The commander
raised his arm ; a bell struck ; the engines slowed down,
stopped. Somewhere forward a dog barked and then
an unnatural silence settled down and enveloped the
ship. Amidst this, itself almost a benediction, the
commandant read the burial service, his voice sound-
ing very solemn there in the unbroken waste of the
tropic sea. He ceased speaking; the bugles sounded
forth the plaintive, mournful notes of le repos. As
the last sound died away, the hand of every officer
rose to his kepi in salute, and with a swish and click
three hundred guns presented arms. The casket was
slowly upended and the remains of Mohammet San
Chu, a soldier of the army of France, sank to its last
cantonment.

Mohammet San Chu had died of spinal meningitis.
That night three more yellow men were crumpled up
with the disease, and from then on it tore through
their ranks like a salvo from a shrapnel battery. We
never knew how many succumbed, for the bodies
thereafter were merely shotted and heaved overboard
at night ; but certainly the number must have run into
the scores. A distinct feeling of uneasiness pervaded
the ship. Crowded as we were, a thousand and a
half of men, on that one small ship, to avoid contact
with the "chinks" was impossible. Sanitation was
non-existent. Filth collected on the decks and, to
make matters worse, water, both for bathing and drink-
ing, gave out. During the day the sun beat fiercely

142

In This Boyau, or Communicating Trench, One of the Squad
Was Killed

A WAR AMBULANCE

down on decks littered with cargo and unprotected by
awnings. The restless "chinks" cluttered the spaces
and filled the air with their everlasting twanging;
dogs scuttled about the slippery decks ; the cattle bel-
lowed. Below the engines throbbed and occasionally
a clot of cinder-laden smoke belched from the stack
and hung over the ship. But at night, as the ship
wallowed along in the darkness, not a light was per-
mitted, not even the glow from a cigarette, then it
was better. The glare was gone ; a cool breeze swept
away the smoke ; the stars came out and blinked at us
as we lay beneath the small boats. Someone would
start a chorus and "just a song at twilight" would
sound out over the waters. Then we would fall silent,
wondering what the East held in store, till presently,
wrapping ourselves in the blankets, we drifted off into
sleep.

It was on the morning of the ninth day after em-
barking that we awakened to gaze out upon the most
famous mountain and saw the sun reflected from the
snow-clad Olympian slopes. A few hours later we
passed the torpedo net which guards the outer harbor,
and presently caught our first glimpse of the white
minarets of Salonika. About us were dozens of
battleships and merchantmen, some flying the tri-
color, others with the Union Jack, others with the
green, white and red of Italy. The gigantic four
funneler La France, now- a hospital ship, rode at
anchor, while close in shore were ranged many wooden

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

boats with the peculiar Peloponnesian rig. We passed
the length of the harbor before dropping anchor. The
yellow quarantine flag flew from our masthead and
presently the health officers came off. We were all
anxious to learn their ruling. Rumor spread that the
entire ship was to be held forty days in quarantine.
The thought of remaining two score days on that
filthy craft, while she rode at anchor off shore, nearly
made us wild. A line of signal flags was broken out
and presently, in answer, three launches came along
side. Into these were loaded half a hundred of the yel-
low men, victims of the spinal meningitis. The ship
then swung about and we proceeded to the other end
of the harbor, where we again dropped anchor. The
yellow flag was still flying. We lay here for the
rest of the day and speculation ran rife on our
chances of being held thus indefinitely. On the fol-
lowing morning, much to our relief, the yellow flag
was lowered; we warped alongside the quay and
about noon disembarked. It was the tenth day after
leaving Marseilles.

144

CHAPTER XIII

INTO SALONIKA

TO the northeast of the city, where the barren
plains merge into the barren foot-hills, which in
turn rise into barren, scraggy mountains, was estab-
lished our camp. It was night when we reached
the spot and as our tents had not arrived we spread
our blankets on the bare ground and turned in under
the sky.

Until our cars should be unloaded, there was no
work for the Squad. We were, therefore, given
every alternate day for "shore liberty," when we were
free to go down into the city and wander at will.

We found it a city well worth seeing. Dating back
three hundred years before the birth of Christ, it has
been and is the stamping ground of history. The
Avar, the Goth, the Hun, the Saracen, the Norseman
captured and sacked it. The Serb, the Bulgar, the
Venetian and the Turk have fought over it. For five
hundred years the latter held and ruled over it, until,
after the second Balkan war, it passed to Greece in
191 3. "There will always be fighting in the Balkans,"
says one of Kipling's men and when we found the

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

armed men of six nations guarding the prisoners of
four others through the streets of Salonika, we felt
that it was so. Before the allied occupation, Salonika
had a population of perhaps 150,000, about fifty per
cent of whom were Spanish Jews. The remainder
of the population was divided among Turks, Serbs,
Roumanians, Greeks, Cretans, Czechs, Albanians and
the bastard tribes of the near east. With the coming
of the allies and the influx of refugees, the population
trebled. Rarely, if ever, in the world's history had
there been such a mixture of men and races as now
thronged the rough, slippery streets of the city and
filled the air with a conglomeration of languages un-
equalled since the I. W. W. knocked off work on the
tower of Babel. All the characters of the Orient were
there ; the veiled woman, the muezzin, the bearded, be-
fezzed Turk, the vendor of wine with his goat-skin,
the money-changer, the charcoal-seller, the Mace-
donian mountaineer with his ballet skirt and pom-
pommed shoes, the rag-clad leper, the porter, the
black-hatted Greek priest, women in bloomers, women
with queer parrot-like headdresses, dignified rabbinical
looking old men in white turbans and loose, flowing
robes; and mingling with this throng in the narrow,
twisting streets were the soldiers of France, Anna-
mites, Senegalese, Moroccans, the English Tommy,
the Italian in his uniform of elephant-hide gray, the
sturdy Russ, the weary Serb, the Cretan Guards, sol-
diers of the newly formed Venezelos army and now

146

A WAR AMBULANCE

and again guarded German, Austrian, Bulgar and Turk-
ish prisoners. From the battleships in the bay came the
sailors of four nations and from the merchantmen a
half score of other nationalities found representation
and mingled with the crowd. Lest some fragment
of the way remain unoccupied, that ubiquitous Ford
of the east, the burro, jostled the passerby and droves
of sheep and goats scuttled about his legs. Over all
this shifting mass sounded the curious hum of many
languages, punctuated by the cries of the street ven-
dors and the honk and rattle from army motors.

You are led to believe that everybody is in the
street until you enter a cafe and find it difficult to
obtain a seat. Here you can drink delicious black
Turkish coffee, served in tiny brass cups, or, if you
like, a sticky white liquid tasting exactly like sweet-
ened paregoric and reminiscent of collicky nights.
Here, too, you may try the giant hookah, or water
pipe, though, after reflecting on the generations of
Turks who must have curled a lip over its mouth-
piece, you probably will refrain.

Then there are the bazaars. They are booth-like
shops which open directly on the streets. And the
streets on which they open are roofed over so that
business is conducted in a subdued light, conducive to
meditation and also, perhaps, (but whisper it) to the
concealment of defects in the wares. Here are dis-
played flint-lock pistols, embroideries, laces, sheep-skin
coats— and ye gods, how they do smell !— leather san-

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

dals; beaten copper ware, knitted socks, beautiful lace
silver work, amber beads and cigarette holders. And
if you inquire "From whence come these things?"
he of the shop will make answer, "From Albania, O
Sire," whereas, be the truth known, none save per-
haps the silver work ever saw Albania.

We had been told that the flies would be all over
by October. They were — all over everywhere. In
Salonika the fly is ever present; they festoon every
rope, crawl over every exposed article of food, flop
into every liquid, swarm about your head, skate over
your person and generally act "just as happy as
though invited." Heretofore, I had always considered
a little restaurant in Gettysburg, Md., only slightly
mis-named "The Busy Bee," as being the world's
headquarters for flies, but a Salonika fly, if trans-
ported to that restaurant, would hunger for compan-
ionship and pine away and die of lonesomeness. It is
beyond dispute that should the rest of the world run
out of flies, Salonika would be able to re-stock it and
still have enough left to bat in the .300 class. They
do not seem to bother the Turk. He accepts them
as decreed by Allah; it is enough. As for the
Greek, he is too busy frying fish to notice. The
Greek considers that day lost whose low descending
sun sees not a mess of fish fried. Everywhere, in
little open-faced booths, you will see him with a tiny
charcoal brazier — frying fish. At early morn, at dewy
eve, all through the sunny day, this piscatorial pastime

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proceeds. What is done with these schools and oceans
of fish, I wot not. Never have I beheld mortal man
eat thereof. Indeed, I question whether he could
eat one without giving quick proof of his mortality.
Possibly the frying has to do with the mysteries of
the Greek religion ; possibly it is a form of sport, like
tatting or solitaire. I know not. Whatever the cause,
whatever the result, certain it is, its popularity is be-
yond question.

Of course there be other foodstuffs. Exposed to
sale — and flies — you will see them. Many weird and
curious shapes they have, deterring to all save an
ostrich, or a Macedonian. One sort there is, a brown
ball, slightly larger than a shrapnel ball — also slightly
heavier. These are served with honey. Having con-
sumed a salvo of these, one is prone to meditate on
the vicissitudes of life. There is another dish re-
sembling lamp chimney packing.

This, too, is chaperoned with honey. The sub-
stance most in demand, however, is a ghastly sort of
plaster exactly resembling putty. Personally, I have
never eaten putty but after trying this other stuff,
I am convinced I should prefer putty as being more
digestible and equally palatable. Then there are nu-
merous white, fly-sprinkled sour milk products, rather
pleasing from a scenic standpoint, but fearful to the
unaccustomed taste. All of these concoctions are re-
garded by the populace as being cibarious, nay more,

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as being delightful to eat. Truly the ways of the
East be strange.

The setting for the street life and characters is ap-
propriate. The quaintly colored houses with their
overhanging second stories and latticed windows, the
narrow twisting ways, the stately minarets add to the
mystery and lend atmosphere. But incongruities there
are, the West clashing with the East, the modern op-
posing the ancient. It was disheartening to the lover
of the picturesque to behold motor lorries speeding
down the Street of the Vardar, that street dating
from Roman times, a part of the way over which
passed the caravans from the Bosphorus to the Adri-
atic. Then, too, it jarred one's sensibilities to see
a trolley car passing beneath the triumphal arch of
Galerius, dating from the year 296, or the walls of the
White Tower of Siile Iman the Magnificent reflecting
the lights of a cinema palace, or to hear the plain-
tive cry of the muezzin, calling the faithful to
prayer, broken by an auto hooter. And the regret-
table part of it all is that when there is a co-mingling of
the Occident with the Orient, it is the latter which
gives way with a loss of the picturesque and the
tranquil.

As the sun sinks across the harbor and the after
glow pricks out the jagged mountains and paints
every spar and rope of the battle fleet with an orange
glow, the bazaars become deserted, the easterner be-
takes himself within his doors and the life of the

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city moves down toward the water front. The night
life of Salonika was not nearly so extensive or unre-
strained as that of Marseilles. While not under mar-
tial law, the streets were at all times patrolled by
military police, French, English, Italian and Cretan,
and no disorder was permitted. Along the great street
which faces and follows the waterfront for several
miles, are scattered cafes, cinema palaces, restaurants,
theaters and dance halls. The cinema shows are like
such affairs the world over, the restaurants are Greek
— which is to say the worst in the world ; the theaters
produce mediocre burlesque but the cafes and dance
halls offer more of interest. There are a few danc-
ing girls — mostly thick-ankled, swarthy Greeks, —
a singer or two and a persevering pianist, to whom no-
body pays any attention. But most of the entertain-
ment is furnished by the patrons themselves. You
may see a couple of tipsy Zouaves, from the Tell,
gravely performing the "dance of the seven veils";
a score of Serbs, grouped around a table, occasionally
break into one of their wild, weird chants, thumping
their mugs in rhythm but never laughing — I never saw
a Serb laugh. If you call out "Cobra" — "good" — to
them when they finish, however, they will smile.
When things quiet down a bit someone starts "Keep
the home fires burning" and instantly there is a thump
of hobbed feet and every Tommy present swings into
the chorus. Presently a poilu is pushed to his feet
and in a rich voice sings the prologue from Pagliacci.

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

The Italians present applaud vociferously and every-
one bangs on the floor while there come cries of
"encore," "bravo," "dobra" and "good" which bring
the singer back.

We fall into conversation with a Tommy at our
table. He has "been up country," as he calls it, in fact,
is just back. "How is it up there?" we inquire.

"It's 'ell, that's wot it is, 'ell," he responds.

"Out monsieur," chimes in a poilu, "it is all that
there is of terrible."

Nice cheery talk, this for us who are going up
there. The Tommy is named " 'Arvey." In his opin-
ion the " 'ole blinking country ain't fit to kill a balmy
dog in." We have his mug replenished, in acknowl-
edgment of which he hoists it, nods toward us and re-
marks "top 'ole," to which etiquette requires we respond
"every time." His "pal" joins the group and 'Arvey
informs the newcomer we are "priceless fellows,"
which, considering we have paid for the rounds, is
an ambiguous compliment. The chum is full of dig-
nity and beer. He regards 'Arvey solemnly, for some
time listening to him describe his own prowess with
the bayonet. At the conclusion of this not overly
modest recital, he leans forward, gravely wags his
finger and demands, "Tell me 'Arvey, 'ave you ever
'ita'Un"?

On the days when we did not have permission to
go into the city, we remained in the vicinity of camp
or took walks back into the barren hills. The ground

IS2

A WAR AMBULANCE

»n which our tents were pitched was, I am convinced,
the hardest in the world and it was a week or more
before our bones and muscles accustomed themselves
to its surface. Not far from the camp was a tiny
cafe, kept by a Greek who spoke French, and here
we would repair and in the course of a day drink
quarts of thick Turkish coffee. Here, too, could be
obtained sausages, or at least what passes for saus-
ages in Macedonia. Nearly everyone in the Squad
tried them — and found them guilty. They must have
been heirlooms in that Greek's family. Certainly they
antedated the first Balkan war.

At this time there was in progress one of those in-
comprehensible revolutions, without which no Mace-
donian or Central American is happy. No man knew
what it was all about, but there were great march-
ings and countermarchings and, as one of the revolu-
tionary camps was near ours, we saw considerable of
the "goings on." They made a fearful row about it
all and at night, when the moon shone, they would
cluster together and with heads tilted upwards bay
out some agonizing choruses. We fervently hoped
that the revolution would suffer a speedy suppression
and its participants meet a just retribution.

Our illusions, formed in France, respecting the
warmth and sun of the Orient underwent speedy
change. We found the climate much like that we had
left. Heavy torrential rains set in. Outside our tents
the yellow mud was inches deep. After a fortnight,

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with no work to occupy our attention, we became rest-
less. The vessel, in which were our cars, remained at
anchor in the harbor and apparently did naught save
issue bulletins that "demain" it would discharge
cargo. Our spirits were further depressed by a sad
incident which happened about this time. Sortwell,
whose "cot was right hand cot to mine," a splendid,
big chap, one of the most popular men in the Squad,
was struck one night by a staff car and knocked un-
conscious. He never came to and died the following
morning. He was buried with full military honors.
On the morning of his burial we received word that
our cars were ready for discharge at the dock.

We set to work the following day. That it rained,
goes without saying. The crated cars were lowered
over the ship's side and with crow-bar, pick and sledge
we crashed into them. As soon as the crates were
knocked away, gas was put into the tanks and the cars
driven out to camp. We worked throughout the day
and by ten that night had the satisfaction of releasing
the last car.

The camp now became a scene of industry. The
cars were parked in a hollow square formation. They
had suffered some damage in transportation but this
was soon remedied. The tire-racks, which had been
demounted for the packing, were now re-installed.
The lockers were replenished with spare gas and oil;
tires were re-inflated and everything tuned up for de-
parture. It had been determined to leave ten ambu-

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A WAR AMBULANCE

lances in Salonika as a reserve and we also estab-
lished a depot of spare parts from which the field
atelier could replenish its store from time to time. The
remainder of our rolling stock, including the staff
cars and the kitchen truck were now ready for de-
parture. Reports had come in of lively fighting and a
steady advance in the direction of Monastir, for which
front rumor had it we were destined. We were
anxious to be away. Finally on an afternoon in the
middle of November we were reviewed by the com-
manding officer of the automobile corps of the A. F. O.
Our cars were packed and it but remained to strike
the tents and roll the blankets. Enfin, we awaited the
word.

155

CHAPTER XIV

INTO THE BALKANS

THE first flicker of dawn was showing as we
wound our way down through the outlying parts
of Salonika, a sinuous line of ambulances and auxil
iary cars. On the water front the convoy halted for
final adjustment. The fore-glow, coming across the
harbor, filtered through the spars of the shipping
and gave promise of a clear day. A few early porters
and rugged stevedores paused to gaze wonderingly
upon us. The CO. passed down the line to see if all
were ready ; the whistle sounded and we were off.

Passing through the already livening streets we
paralleled the quay, turned towards the northwest and
then, as the muezzins in the minarets were calling
upon the faithful to greet the rising sun, entered upon
the great caravan trail which runs back into the moun-
tains, and Allah knows where. Past trains of little
mountain ponies, laden with hides ; past lumbering,
solid-wheeled wagons, drawn by water buffaloes and
piled high with roughly baled tobacco, tobacco from
which are made some of the choicest Turkish cigar-
ettes in the world; past other wagons with towering

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piles of coarse native matting ; past the herdsman and
his flock, his ballet skirt blowing in the morning
breeze; past the solemn Turk, mounted athwart his
drooping burro, his veiled woman trudging behind.
The city lay behind us now; the passersby became
fewer, until oniy an occasional wayfarer and his burro
were sighted. The road, pitted and gutted, stretched
away through a barren, dreary country. The sun's
early promise had not been fulfilled and a gray, slaty
day emphasized the dreariness of the landscape. To
our right bleak mountains rose to meet a slaty sky —
nowhere appeared tree or shrub, not even a fence
broke the monotony of the landscape, never a house,
not even a road, though occasionally a muddy track
wandered aimlessly through the waste. We rounded
the mountains and crossed a sluggish stream, the
Galiko. Once we saw a village far away, its white
minarets rising above the dull gray of the ensemble.
Then the desolation closed down. Farther on, over
a shaky wooden bridge, we crossed the Vardar, the
Axius of Virgil. Hereabouts the country was flat
and swampy, but suddenly it changed, scattered trees
began to appear, here and there rocks jutted out. The
trail began to mount and presently as we twisted our
way through the first settlement, the village of
Yenize, mountains came into view to the northeast
and then moved towards the south and west. About
eleven we sighted some whitewashed houses clinging
to the side of a cliff, the overflow of the town of

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Vodena through which we presently passed over a
winding road of mountainous steepness; up we went,
three hundred, four hundred meters, finally stopping
where a fountain gushed from the roadside, a kilo-
meter or so beyond the town.

We were in the heart of the hills now. On three
sides of us the mountains rose to a height of six thou-
sand feet or more. Their tops were covered with
snow and from this time on we were never to lose
sight of it.

Some biscuits, ham and chocolate found a good
home and there was time for a couple of pipes before
the whistle blew and we again cast off. And now our
troubles began. Up to this time our way could at
least lay claim to the name "road," but now even an
attorney, working on a percentage basis, could estab-
lish no such identity for the straggling gully through
which we struggled, — sometimes a heap of boulders,
sometimes a mire, but always it climbed. The cars
coughed and grunted and often we were forced to
halt while the motors cooled. In mid-afternoon the
rain, which had been threatening for some hours, set
in and the ground quickly assumed the consistency of
sticky paste, through which we sloughed our way.
About four we spoke the Lake of Ostrovo and shortly
afterwards passed through the straggling village of
the same name. Deep sand here made the going hard
but we soon left the shores of the lake and again
headed straight into the mountains. So far as possible

158

When the Road Ahead Was Being Shelled It Became Necessary
to Make a Detour Along This Sunken Way

A WAR AMBULANCE

the trail held to the passes but even so, the ascent was
very great. As night fell we came to an especially
steep stretch slanting up between snow covered moun-
tains. From a little distance it looked as though some-
one, tiring of road building, had leaned the unfinished
product up against a mountain side. Time and again
we charged but without avail ; no engine built could
take that grade. Physics books tell us, "that which
causes or tends to cause a body to pass from a state
of rest to one of motion is known as Force." With
twenty men to a car, pulling, pushing and dragging, we
assumed the function of "force" and "caused a body"
— the cars — to "pass from a state of rest to one of
motion," hoisting them by main strength over the crest.

Night had shut down for some hours when the
last car had topped the rise. A bone-chilling wind
had swept down from the snow, the rain still fell. The
lights were switched on and over a trail, flanked on
one side by a towering cliff and on the other by a
black chasm of nothingness, we kept on. Once we
rounded a sharp curve, there was a sudden dip in the
trail and in the darkness we almost shot off into the
space below.

It still lacked some two hours of midnight when
ahead we discerned a few flickering lights. The Lieu-
tenant gave the signal and we came to a stop at the
fringe of a miserable village. We had been sixteen
hours at the wheel but had covered no more than one
hundred and fifty kilometers. We were all cold and

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hungry, but the soup battery was mired somewhere
miles in the rear. Our lanterns showed us but a few
stone hovels. Had we known more of the Balkans,
we would not even have thought of finding a shop.
We gave up thoughts of dinner, crawled within our
cars and wrapping our great coats about us, sought
to dream of "a cleaner, greener land."

The tramping of many feet and the sobbing of a
man woke me next morning. I looked out to see a
column of Russian infantry passing. One big fellow
was crying as though his heart would break. Ba-ne-a
or Ba-netz-a, the village at which we had halted —
proved to be a miserable collection of huts, constructed
of rounded stones, with which the surrounding hills
were covered. Like most Turkish villages, it clung
to the side of a hill, sprawling there with no attempt
at system or a view to streets. The buildings were
of one story; a few had glass but in by far the most
part straw was employed to block the windows. The
twisting paths which wandered about between the
houses were knee deep in black mud. There were
no shops, not even a cafe.

Other and higher hills rose above the one on which
the village was situated. These hills were barren
and covered with loose stones, their tops were crested
with rough breastworks behind which were empty car-
tridge cases, torn clothing, ponchos, and scattered
bodies in faded uniforms, for here the Bulgar and
Serb had opposed each other. To the north of the

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village stood a few trees and here within a barbed-
wire corral a few armed Serbs guarded several hun-
dred Bulgar prisoners. The villagers were as unat-
tractive as their surroundings, the men dull, dirty-
looking specimens, the women cleaner but far from
comely. The latter were dressed in skirts and blouses
of many colors. Their heads were covered with shawls,
the ends of which were wound about their necks.
From beneath these straggled their hair, invariably
woven into two plaits into which was interwoven hair
from cow's tails dyed a bright orange. Upon their
feet they wore wooden, heelless sandals which, when
they walked, flapped about like shutters in a gale of
wind. The little girls were miniature replicas of their
mothers, save their faces were brighter — some almost
pretty. They wore their many petticoats like their
mothers, at mid-leg length, tiny head shawls and
striped wool stockings. The endless occupation, both
of the women and children, was the carrying of water
in clay jars. They must have been building a river
somewhere and judging from the amount of water
they were transporting, it was to be no small size
stream either.

Not all of the cars had come through to Ba-netz-a
and so we awaited their arrival. Several had broken
axles and the big atelier car and the soup battery had
mired in crossing the Ostrovo flats. Meanwhile,
perched on the side of a hill with the snow above us
and a falling temperature, we, of the advance squad,

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were reminded that winter was almost upon us. The
days were gray and as there was nothing to do while
awaiting the stragglers, save gaze across the valley
which stretched southward below us, the time dragged.
The boom of heavy guns came to us from the north-
west and occasionally, when the wind was right, we
could hear the crackle of infantry fire. Some couriers
riding back from the front brought word that Monastir
had fallen after fierce fighting and the French were
advancing northward.

By evening of the third day all the cars had come
up and, with the kitchen wagons once more in our
midst, we were again able to have a hot meal. Our
spirits rose and that night, clustered round a small
fire, we sang some mighty choruses. At nine on the
morning of the twenty-fourth of November — a cold,
drizzly morning — we wormed our way down through
the village and out upon the transport road northeast
toward the Serbian frontier. Though hundreds of
German, Bulgar and Turkish prisoners were at work
upon the road it was scarcely passable. Everywhere we
passed mired couriers and camions ; dead horses and
abandoned wagons were scattered about. The way led
across a level valley floor. On the flat, muddy plains
-bordering the road were camps of French, English,
Italians and Russians. Several aviator groups were
squatted in the miry desolation.

As we advanced the road accomplished something
we had deemed impossible — it grew worse. The trans-

A WAR AMBULANCE

port of five armies struggled along, or rather through
it and contributed everything from huge tractors to lit-
tle spool-wheeled cow-drawn Serbian carts. We passed
through one squalid, war-festered village where the
road reached the sublimity of awfulness and then
about mid-day spoke the village of Sakulevo. Several
demolished buildings, pocked walls and shelled houses
showed the place had been recently under fire. Pass-
ing through, we crossed a sluggish stream, from which
the village takes its name, and on a shell-scarred flat
on the north bank halted and pitched our tents.

The road at this point bends to the east before
again turning northward, and enters the long valley
at the farther end of which lies the city of Monastir.
About a mile northward from our camp was a stone
which marked the border between Macedonia and
Serbia. High ranges of mountains stretched along
the side of the lonesome valley. No words of mine
can describe the landscape as do the words of Service :

"The lonely sunsets flare forlorn
Down valleys dreadly desolate,
The lordly mountains soar in scorn
As still as death, as stern as fate.

"The lonely sunsets flame and die,
The giant valleys gulp the night,
The monster mountains scrape the skv
Where eager stars are diamond bright"

163

CHAPTER XV.

"where the best is like the worst

WE had reached Sakulevo on the afternoon of the
twenty- fourth of November. On the morning
of the twenty-fifth we started to work. On the other
side of the river was a cluster of tents. It was a field
dressing-station and, appropriate to its name, was lo-
cated in a muddy field. Since Sakulevo was at this
time some thirty kilometers from the fighting, our
work consisted of evacuations, that is back of the
line work, the most uninteresting an ambulancier is
called upon to do, since it wholly lacks excitement.
Here it was made more trying because of the fearful
roads over which our route lay. At this time the vil-
lage of Eclusier, some forty kilometers southeast of
Sakulevo was rail head and to this point we evacuated
our wounded. It was a matter of three and a half
hours of the most trying sort of driving. Perhaps
a better idea of our work at Sakulevo may be had if
we go together on a "run." It's seven-thirty in the
morning, a cold raw morning with ice on the pools
and a skim of ice on the inside of the tent. The sun
has not long appeared over the snow-clad mountains

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A WAR AMBULANCE

and there is little warmth in its rays. We have just
had breakfast — heaven save the name — some black
coffee and army bread — so it's time to be off. The
crank up — a none too easy performance, since the
motors are as stiff witht cold as we are, and then
toss and bump our way across the little bridge dis-
regarding a sign which, in five languages, bids us "go
slowly." A couple of hundred meters farther on in
a field at the left of the road is a group of tents, be-
fore which whips a sheet of canvas displaying a red
cross. It is the field dressing-station. We turn the
car, put on all power and plough through a mire and
then out upon more solid ground, stopping in front
of the tents. A short, stocky soldier with a heavy
beard and the general aspect of Santa Claus comes out.

We exchange salutes : "Qa va?" he queries.

"Toujours, et vousf"

"Bien, merci."

The formalities, which no matter what the stress
are never omitted, being over, business commences.
"Many blesses?" you inquire.

"Yes, many"; he answers. "Last night there was
an attack; you heard the guns? Il'y'a tout couches."

So, since all your passengers will be stretcher cases,
you pull down your third rack, assemble your stretch-
ers and arrange your blankets. A number of wounded
have now come out of the tent and are standing about.
Later they will be removed as assis or sitting cases,
but first the more urgent cases must be evacuated.

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One chap, in the peculiar yellow-green uniform of the
Zouave attracts your attention. He is very large for
a Frenchman, close to six feet. His head is swathed
in bandages and his right arm is in a sling. Across
his tunic is a row of decoration and service ribbons
which show him to be a professional soldier. Above
his sergeant's chevron is already one wound stripe.

"Bon jour, camrade," he greets.

"Bonjour, sergeant," you respond, "hit badly?"

"Ah, ga ne fait rien, but now I shall not be able to
face them for two months."

At this moment two German prisoners, carrying a
stone boat, pass by within six feet of us. The colo-
nial's lips draw back like the unsheathing of a bay-
onet, his eyes fairly stab and his unbandaged hand
opens and closes, as though gripping a throat. "Sales
cochons," he mutters. "Nom, de Dieu, how I hate
them." The prisoners pass placidly by and you feel
it is well that your friend cannot have his way with
them.

Now the tent flap opens and two brancardiers ap-
pear, bearing between them a stretcher upon which
lies a limp figure covered with a dirty blanket. A
gray-green sleeve dangles from the stretcher and
shows your first passenger is a German. He is slid
into place and by this time your second passenger is
ready. He is a giant Senegalese with a punctured
lung. Your third man is a sous-off icier whose right
leg has just been amputated. He has been given a

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A WAR AMBULANCE

shot of morphine and his eyes are glazed in stupor.
The third stretcher is shot home, the tail board put
up and the rear curtain clamped down. Over these
roads we can take no more, so we are ready for the
start.

Through the slough and then out upon the road,
which is little more, we go. Through war's traffic we
pick our way, beside shell-laden camions, pack trains,
carts, past stolid lines of Russians, dodging huge Eng-
lish lorries whose crews of Tommies sing out a
friendly "are we downhearted?" Between rows of
Bulgar and Boche prisoners your way is made, the
hooter sounding out its demand for the rights of a
loaded ambulance. Along the road-side, out there in
the fields, sprinkled everywhere, we see the little
wooden crosses, war's aftermath. Everywhere war's
material wastage is apparent. Wrecked wagons and
motors, dead mules, hopelessly mired carts, military
equipment, smashed helmets, dented douilles. Your
way is lined with these. The road from there on
becomes freer but is still too rough to permit much
quickening of speed. As we turn a bend a frenzied
Italian comes charging across the fields. He seems
greatly excited about something and unwinds reels
of vowels not one word of which we understand. We
try him in English and French, not one word of which
he understands, so finally we give it up and go on, leav-
ing him to his "que dises."

Through two passes, in which the white low-hanging

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clouds close down, through several deserted villages
over a road which, save in the Balkans, would be con-
sidered impassable, we carry our load. It is impos-
sible to prevent lurching and the black within groans
and cries aloud in his pain. The Boche, too, when
there is an exceptionally bad bit, moans a little, but
the sous-officier makes not a sound throughout the
voyage. At one point the road passes near the rail-
road and, dangling over a ravine, we can see the re-
mains of a fine iron bridge dynamited during the
great retreat. At last, rounding the jutting point of
a hill, we see far below us the blue waters and barren
shores of Lake Petersko. Squatted beside the lake
is a little village, Sorovicevo. Railhead and our des-
tination, the station of Eclusier, lies a mile or so to
the west. Down the hill we brake our way, then
over a kilometer of wave-like road into a slough,
where for a time it seems we are destined to stick,
and at last the tossed and moaning load is brought
to a stop at the hopital d' evacuation, a large cluster of
tents. We assist in removing the wounded — the
Senegalese is gray now, with the shadow of death
upon him and his breath gushes with great sobs through
his torn lung. The Frenchman and Boche seem to
have come through all right.

It is now eleven-thirty o'clock and we are probably
becoming conscious that we could use a little food,
but it will be at least two hours before we can reach
camp, so we get out a spark-plug wrench and break

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up several army biscuits to munch on the way home.
En route we are hailed by three Tommies who have
been left behind and are seeking to join their detach-
ment. They desire a lift so we take them aboard and
are repaid by hearing their whimsical comments on
the "filthy country." It is nearly two o'clock — a blow-
out has delayed us — when we reach camp and the
motor has barely stopped churning before we are in
the mess tent clamoring for our "dum-dums" — beans
— and "singe", tinned beef. You will find your appe-
tite has not suffered because of the "run."

The days were rapidly growing colder. Our tents
were sheathed with ice and the snow foot crept far
down the mountains each night. We got our sheep-
skin coats and inserted an extra blanket in our sleep-
ing bags. Each night we drained our radiators to pre-
vent damage from freezing. The few sweets we had
brought with us had now given out. In the French
army save for a little sugar — very little — and occa-
sionally— very occasionally — a small amount of apple
preserve, no sweets are issued. It was impossible to
purchase any, so presently there set in that craving
for sugar which was to stay with us through the long
winter. The arrival of Thanksgiving, with its mem-
ories of the laden tables at home, did not help matters
much. Dinner consisted of lentils — my own particular
aversion — boiled beef, bread, red wine and black cof-
fee. However, the day was made happy by the arrival
of our first mail and we feasted on letters.

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It's wonderful what a cheering effect the arrival
of the post had on us. Throughout the winter it was
about our only comfort. In France it had been wel-
come but down in the Orient we seemed so cut off
from the world that letters were a luxury, the link
with the outside. When they came it didn't so much
matter than a man was cold or hungry and caked with
mud, that the quarters leaked and the snow drifted
in on his blankets. The probability of its arrival was
an unfailing source of pleasurable conjecture, its ar-
rival the signal for whoops and yowls, its failure, the
occasion for gloom and pessimism.

Some fifteen kilometers to the north and west of
Sakulevo was the large town of Fiorina, the northern-
most town of Macedonia. Here was located a large
field hospital. At the hospital, for a time, we main-
tained a post of two cars on five day shifts.

We found Fiorina one of the most interesting towns
in the Balkans. Long under the rule of the Turk,
it possessed a distinctly Oriental aspect which gave it
charm. It nestled at the foot of some high hills which
had been the scene of heavy fighting in the dispute
for its possession. The town itself had suffered little,
if any, in the fighting. Its long main street followed
a valley, turning and twisting. Booths and bazaars
lined the thoroughfare and in places vines had been
trained to cover it. There were innumerable tiny
Turkish cafes, yogart shops, little shops where beaten
copper ware was hammered out, other booths where

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old men worked on wooden pack saddles for burros.
There were artisans in silver and vendors of goat's
wool rugs. The streets were always alive with "the
passing show," for the normal population of fifteen
thousand souls had been greatly augmented by the
influx of refugees from Monastir. There was an air
of unreality about the place, an indefinable theatrical-
ism which gave one the sense of being part of a play,
a character, and of expecting on rounding a corner,
to see an audience and then to hear the playing of
the orchestra.

It was while on duty at the hospital at Fiorina that
I made the first run into Monastir. My journal for
December 2nd reads: "At one o'clock this afternoon
received orders to proceed to Monastir en raison de
service. My passengers were two corporals. It has
been a cold, overcast day, the clouds hanging low
over the snow-capped mountains. A cold, penetrating
wind hit us in the face as we drew away from the
hospital.

"When the Fiorina road joins the main caravan road
to Monastir, we passed from Macedonia into Serbia.
Here we turned sharply toward the north. The flat
fields on either side were cut up with trenches, well
made, deep ones, from which the enemy was driven
less than a fortnight ago, and shallow rifle pits which
the French and Serbs had used in the advance. Even
now, so soon after their evacuation, they were half
filled with water. Everywhere there was evidence of big

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gun fire and in one place where we crossed a bridge
the ground for yards about was an uninterrupted series
of craters. For the first time in the war I saw piles
of enemy shells and shell cases showing that his
retreat had been unpremeditated and hasty. In one
place stood a dismantled field piece.

"About a quarter of an hour after leaving Fiorina,
we reached the village of Negocani. There had been
heavy fighting here and many of the houses had been
reduced to piles of dobe bricks. Two miles away to
the road, we could discern the remains of another vil-
lage, Kenali, where the enemy made his last stand
before falling back upon Monastir the other day. The
sound of the guns had all the while been growing
louder and not far beyond Negocani I caught my first
glimpse of the minarets of Monastir. It had been two
months since I was under fire and I had some curi-
osity as to how it would affect me. Before reaching
the environs of the city it became apparent that this
curiosity would not long remain unsatisfied, for ahead
we could see the smoke and dust from bursting shells.
Approaching the city, the way becomes a regular road,
quite the best I have yet seen in the Balkans. I was
speculating on this marvel when, perhaps, five hundred
yards ahead, a columnar mass of earth spouted into
the air. The whirring of speeding eclat had scarcely
ceased when another came in slightly nearer. The road
was under fire and that same old prickly feeling shot
up my spine, the same "gone" sensation moved in and

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The B. E. F. Ambulances Have Both Upper and Lower "Berths"

A WAR AMBULANCE

took possession of my insides. Suddenly the familiar
sound pervaded the air. There was the crash as though
of colliding trains and not forty meters away the
earth by the roadside vomited into the air. In another
second the debris and eclat rained all about us, show-
ering the car. The shell was a good-sized one — at least
a 150, and we owed our lives to the fact that, striking
in soft ground, the eclat did not radiate. Meanwhile, I
had not waited for the freedom of the city to be pre-
sented. The machine was doing all that was in her
and in a few seconds more we shot by the outlying
buildings. The fire zone seemed to be restricted to
the entering road and the extreme fringe of the city
and when we reached the main street, though we could
hear the shells passing over, none struck near. Within
the city our batteries, planted all about, were in action
and the whirring of our own shells was continuously
sounding overhead.

"We parked in a filth-strewn little square lined with
queer exotic buildings. While I waited for the cor-
porals to perform their mission, I talked with an Al-
gerian Zouave who lounged in the doorway. He
pointed out where a shell had struck this morning,
killing three men, two civilians and a soldier. He
further informed me that the streets of the city were
in full view of the enemy who occupied the hills just
beyond its outskirts. This revelation was most dis-
concerting to me, for I had no desire to work up a
"firing acquaintance." A number of officers of high

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rank passed — among them a three-star general. A
colonel of infantry stopped, shook hands with me and
spoke appreciatively of the work of the Corps in
France, saying he was glad to welcome a car in the
Orient.

"By three o'clock we were ready. My passenger
list was augmented by a lieutenant, medecin, who
wished to reach Fiorina. He cautioned me with much
earnestness to "allez vite" when we should reach this
shelled zone, a caution wholly unnecessary as I had
every intention of going as far as Providence and
gasoline would let me. The firing now — praise to
Allah — had slackened and only an occasional shell was
coming in. So, making sure the engine was function-
ing properly, I tuned up and a second later we were
going down the road as though "all hell and a police-
man" were after us.

"We reached Fiorina without mishaps. Tonight
there is a full moon. Don and I strolled down into
the town. It was singularly beautiful, the white min-
arets standing out against the sombre mountains, the
silvery light flooding the deserted streets. We strayed
into one of the tiny little cafes. It was a cozy place.
Divans covered with rugs and sheepskins lined the
walls. A few befezzed old men sat cross-legged on
these, sat there silently smoking giant hookahs and
sipping their syrupy coffee. We, too, ordered coffee
and then sat in the silence helping in the thinking.
After a while the door opened and a short, hairy man

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entered. He was clad in long white wool drawers,
around which below the knee were wound black
thongs. On his feet were queer-shaped shoes which
turned sharply up at the end and were adorned with
black pom-poms. He wore a short jacket embroidered
with tape, and thrown back from his shoulders was a
rough wool cape. Around his waist was wound a
broad sash into which was thrust a revolver and a
long-bladed dirk. About his neck and across his
breast were hung many silver chains, which jingled
when he moved. His head was surmounted by a white
brimless hat. He talked in an unknown tongue to
the patron and then, bowing low to us, was gone amid
a clinking of metal. This strange looking individual
was — so we learned from the cafe's proprietor — an
Albanian, a man learned in the ways of the moun-
tains, a scout in the employ of the French.

"We sipped another coffee, smoked a cigarette and
then, bowing to the old men, went out into the moon-
lit street, leaving them to their meditations. As I
write this from the tent, the sky is darkening, a chill
wind sweeps down from the snow and gutters the
candle. I am glad that our blankets are many."

As the days went by, our camp site, where we were
the first comers, began to assume the aspect of a
boom mining town. Several camion sections appeared.
Numerous avitailement groups moved in. Tents and
nondescript structures of earth and ammunition boxes
sprang up. Across the river ten thousand Russians

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were encamped and all night their singing came to us
beautifully across the water. All day and all night
war's traffic ground and creaked by us. The lines had
shaken down; the two forces were now entrenched,
facing each other just beyond Monastir and the trans-
port was accumulating munitions for an offensive. In
the first camp opposite long lines of Serbian carts,
carts such as Adam used to bring the hay in, struggled.
The sad-faced burros plodded by, loaded with every-
thing from bread to bodies. Soldiers, French, Italian,
Serb and Russian slogged by. But this activity was
confined to the narrow zone of the roads. Beyond,
the grim, desolate country preserved its lonesomeness
and impressed upon the soul of man the bleakness and
harshness of a land forlorn. For the most part the
days were gray and sombre, with low-hanging clouds
which frequently gave out rain and sleet and caused
the river to rise so that more than once we were in
danger of being flooded out. But occasionally there
would be a clear morning, when the clouds were
driven back and the rising sun would light the moun-
tains, turning the snow to rose and orange. We were
growing very tired of the evacuation work, of the
long, weary runs. There was no excitement to tinge
the monotony. We were becoming "fed up." The
Squad, therefore, hailed with joy the news that the
Section was to move up to Monastir and there take
up the front line work.

Though the exact date of our departure was not

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announced we knew it would be soon and we com-
menced at once to make ready. Helmets once more
became items of interest and motors were tested with
an interest born of empirical knowledge that the fire
zone was no place to make repairs. Everybody bright-
ened up; interest and optimism pervaded the camp.
And then the word came that we should leave on the
seventeenth of December.

177

CHAPTER XVI

MONASTIR : HELL'S CAPITAL

MEN stumbled about in the darkness falling over
tent pegs or pulling at icy ropes. Now and then
a motor in response to frantic cranking, coughed,
sputtered and then "died." Down near the cook
tent someone was swearing earnestly and fervently
at the mud. It was three o'clock in the morning and
the only light was that given off by the stars. The
Squad was breaking camp and we were to be in
Monastir, twenty-five kilometers distant, before day-
break. Somehow in spite of the darkness, the tents
were struck and packed and the cars rolled out on
the bumpy roads.

Our orders issued the night before were: (i) every
man to wear his helmet, gas masks to be slung; (2)
on reaching a designated spot five kilometers outside
of Monastir, to extinguish all lights; (3) thereafter
cars to maintain intervals of a hundred metres, so
that if shelled, one shell would not get more than one
car; (4) in the event of losing the convoy after enter-
ing the city, to stop, unless under fire, at the point
where the car preceding was last seen.

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With the assistance of our lights we were able to
hold a good pace until we reached the dip in the road
which had been designated as the point where the
convoy should halt. Here we extinguished all our
lights and made sure that everything was right. Ahead
we could see flashes, but whether from our own guns
or bursting shells we could not determine. The sound
of firing came plainly to our ears. The cars now
got away at fifteen seconds' intervals. A faint, gray
light was showing in the east, just permitting a dim
vision of the car ahead. At the entrance to the city
in a particularly exposed spot, there was some con-
fusion while the leading machine circled about in an
endeavor to pick the right street, then we were off
again, heading for the northeast quarter of the city.
Crossing a small wall-confined stream by a fragile
wooden bridge, we wound and twisted through a maze
of crooked streets, and finally just as the first glow
lightened the minarets, came to a halt in a narrow
street. Where my car stopped was a shattered house
and the street was carpeted with debris, the freshness
of which testified to the fact that the shells causing
the damage must have come in not long before. Even
as I clambered out of the machine two shells crashed
in somewhere over in another street.

Our cantonment consisted of two five-roomed, two-
storied Turkish houses which stood within a small
walled compound. The top floors, or attics, of these
houses were free from partitions and gave just suffi-

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cient space for our beds, ranged around the walls.
The place was clean and dry and though, of course,
there was no heat and no glass in the windows, it was
infinitely better than the tents. The rooms below
were used for the mess, the galley, and for the French
staff, and one room which had windows and a stove
was set aside for a lounge. The "C. O." occupied a
small stone building which formed part of the com-
pound wall, a sort of porter's lodge. Beneath the
houses were semi-cellars, and in one of these we
stored the spare gas and oil. The cars were at first
parked along a narrow, blind street which extended a
short distance directly in front of quarters. As it
was ascertained, however, that here they were in
plain view of the enemy, they were moved back on
another street and sheltered from sight by interven-
ing buildings. The atelier was established in a half-
demolished shed about 200 yards up the street from
the compound.

Our quarters were situated about midway between
two mosques. In front of one of these mosques which
faced on a tiny square hung a tattered Red Cross
flag, betokening a field dressing-station. Here we got
our wounded. The lines at this time were just be-
yond the outskirts of the city, and the wounded were
brought directly from the trenches to this mosque,
from whence it was our work to carry them back to
the field hospitals out of range of the guns. I doubt
if there ever was a more bizarre paste than this of the

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mosque. The trappings and gear of Mohammedanism
remained intact. The muezzin's pulpit draped with its
chain of wooden beads looked down on the wounded
men lying on the straw-carpeted floor. On the walls,
strange Turkish characters proclaimed the truths of
the Koran. The little railed enclosure, wherein the
faithful were wont to remove their sandals before
treading the sacred ground, now served as a bureau.
All was the same, save that now the walls echoed,
not the muezzin's nasal chant, but the groans of
wounded men who called not on Allah, but on God.

At first we found the twisted streets very confusing.
They rarely held their direction for more than a
hundred yards and their narrowness prevented any
"observation for position." There seemed no names
or identifications either for streets or quarters, and
did one inquire the way of some befezzed old Turk,
the reply would be "Kim bilir? Allah"— Who knows ?
God. But gradually we grew to know these ways until
on the darkest of nights we could make our way
through the mazy blackness.

The city sprawled about on a more or less level
plain at one end of the long valley which extended
southward to the Macedonian frontier. Some of its
houses straggled up the hills which rose immediately
back of the city proper. Beyond these hills rose the
mountains from which at a distance of two kilometers
the enemy hurled down his hate. The normal popu-

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lation of Monastir was perhaps fifty thousand souls, a
population of that bastard complexity found only in
the Balkans. When we reached the city, a month after
its capture and occupation by the French, something
like forty thousand of this civilian population yet re-
mained, the others having fled to Fiorina or gone
even farther south. Conditions were still unsettled.
Daily, spies were led out to be shot, and we were
warned not to wander unarmed in the remote sections.
Snipers, from the protection of covered houses, shot
at passing soldiers and at night it was unsalubrious
to go about. Lines were drawn about the town and
none but military transport permitted to pass. Famine
prices prevailed. In the bazaars, captured dogs were
butchered and offered for sale. A few stores remained
open. Above their doors were signs in the queer,
jumpy characters of the Serbian alphabet, signs which
it would take a piccolo artist to decipher. Within,
matches were sold for half a drachmi (ioc) a box,
eggs, 7 drachmi a dozen, and sugar at 6 drachmi a
kilo. All moneys, save Bulgar, were accepted ; the
drachmi, the piaster, the franc, the lepta, the para, but
the exchange was as complicated as a machine gun,
and no man not of the Tribe of Shylock could hope
to solve its mysteries.

Though most of the houses were closed and shut
tered as protection against shell splinters, life seemed
to go on much as usual. There was no traffic in the
streets, save at night when the army transports came

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through, or when our machines went by with their
loads, but the populace passed and repassed, bartered
and ordered its life with the phlegmatic fatalism of
the Easterner. The enemy from his point of vantage
saw every move in the city. His guns commanded its
every corner. His surveys gave him the range to an
inch. Daily he raked it with shrapnel and pounded it
with high explosive. No man in Monastir seeing the
morning's sun, but knew that, ere it set, his own
might sink. At any time of the day or night the
screeching death might come, did come. Old men, old
women, little children were blown to bits, houses were
demolished, and yet, because it was decreed by Allah,
it was inexorable. The civil population went its way.
Of course when shells came in there was terror, panic,
a wailing and gnashing of teeth, for not even the fa-
talism, of Mohammed could be proof against such
sights. And horrible sights these were. It was noth-
ing to go through the streets after a bombardment and
see mangled and torn bodies ; a man with his head
blown off; a little girl dead, her face staring upward,
her body pierced by a dozen wounds; a group in gro-
tesque attitudes, with, perhaps an arm or a leg torn
off and thrown fifty feet away. These in Monastir
were daily sights.

One afternoon I remember as typical. It was within
a few days of Christmas, though there was little of
Yuletide in the atmosphere. At home, the cars were
bearing the signs, "Do Your Christmas Shopping

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BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

Early," but here in Monastir, where, as "Doc" says
"a chap was liable to start out full of peace and good
will and come back full of shrapnel and shell splin-
ters," there was little inducement to do Christmas shop-
ping. Nevertheless we started on one of those prowl-
ing strolls in which we both delighted. We rambled
through the tangled streets, poked into various odd
little shops in quest of the curious, dropped into a hot
milk booth where we talked with some English speak-
ing Montenegrins, and then finally crossed one of
the rickety wooden bridges which span the city's bi-
secting stream. By easy stages, stopping often to
probe for curios, we reached the main street of the
city. Here at a queer little bakery, where the pro-
prietor shoved his products into a yawning stove oven
with a twelve-foot wooden shovel, we got, for an out-
rageous price, some sad little cakes. As we munched
these, we stood on a corner and watched the scene
about us. It was a fine day, the first sunny one we
had experienced in a long time. Many people were
in the streets, a crowd such as only war and the Orient
could produce : a sprinkling of soldiers, mostly French
although occasionally a Russian or an Italian was
noticed ; a meditative old Turk, stolid Serbian women,
little children — a lively, varied picture. Our cakes
consumed, "Doc" and I crossed the street and a short
way along a transverse street, stopped to watch the
bread line. There were possibly three hundred people,
mostly women, gathered here waiting for the dis-

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A WAR AMBULANCE

tribution of the farina issued by the military to the
civil population. For a while we watched them, and
then, as the street ahead looked as if it might yield
something interesting in booths, we continued along
it. In another fifty yards, however, its character
changed ; it became residential and so we turned to
retrace our steps. Fortunate for us it was that we
made the decision. We had gone back perhaps a
dekameter, when we heard the screech. We sprang
to the left hand wall and flattened ourselves against
it as the crash came. It was a 155 H. E. Just be-
yond, at the point toward which we had been making
our way, the whole street rose into the air. We sped
around the corner to the main street. It was a mass
of screaming, terror-stricken people. In quick suc-
cession three more shells came in, one knocking "Doc"
off his feet with its concussion. The wall by which
we had stood and an iron shutter close by were rent
and torn with eclat. One of these shells had struck
near the bread line. How many were killed I never
knew. "Doc" for the moment had disappeared, and
I was greatly worried until I saw him emerge from
an archway. There was now a lull in the shelling.
All our desire for wandering about the city had ceased.
We started back towards quarters. Before we were
half way there, more shells came in, scattered about
the city, though the region about the main street
seemed to be suffering most. Crossing the stream, we
saw the body of a man hanging half over the wall and

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nearby, the shattered paving where the shell had
struck.

In such an atmosphere we lived. Each day brought
its messages of death. On December 19th, I saw a
spy taken out to be shot. On the 20th, a house next
to quarters was hit. Two days later, when evacuating
under shrapnel fire, I saw two men killed. Constantly
we had to change our route through the city because
of buildings blown into the street.

Our work was done before the coming of light in
order that the moving machines might not draw the
enemy's fire. One morning, the 21st of December, a
dark wet morning, thick as the plot of a problem play,
I had gotten my load, and had left Monastir behind.
As I entered the little village of Negocani, where the
road bends sharply to the left, I beheld in the dim
half-light the figure of a man. As I drew near he
flashed a torch and extended his arms. I threw on
the brake, brought the car to a standstill, and peering
out over the shrapnel hood looked into the eyes of —
George. George whom I last saw as we left Verdun
last July. We had crossed together in 191 5, had
served together on the Aisne, on the Somme and
throughout those trying days at the Vortex. Then
he had left to return to the States. Rejoining the
Corps in November, he had been sent out to fill the
place left vacant by Sortwell's death, had come up
from Salonika to Fiorina by rail, had reached Nego-
cani the night before on an Italian camion, and here

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A WAR AMBULANCE

he was, adrift in the wretched Serbian village trying
to locate the Section. I dare say two people never
were more delighted to meet. We pounded each other
on the back and made strange noises till my blesses
exclaimed in wonder. I drove on to the village of
Kenelic, just over the Macedonian line, where was
located the field hospital to which we were then evacu-
ating, and after discharging my wounded, returned to
Negocani for George. He brought news from home,
from Paris, Christmas packages, and the football
scores. There were five Yale men in the Squad and
when they learned that Yale had triumphed over both
Harvard and Princeton, the noise that went up caused
passing citizens to scuttle for cover.

On "the night before Christmas" we hung up our
coarse woolen stockings for each other to fill, and
there was some speculation as to whether the morrow
would bring the usual shelling. Dawn of the day had
not come before we heard our batteries sending their
message of Christmas hate. In the cheerless dimness
of early morning we gathered around the coffee urn
and wished each other "Bon Noel." Far away, we
knew the sun was shining on peaceful homes, cheery
towns, beautiful women, happy children. Here it
struggled up over the mountains, lighted the minarets
and looked down on a city stricken with war. It saw
bedraggled, helmeted soldiers leading weary pack
mules over pitted, sloughy streets, veiled women glid-
ing along in the shelter of mud walls, masked batteries,

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starved, pitiful children, pariah dogs feasting on dead
horses, long lines of trenches, filled with half frozen
men, debris-cluttered spaces where shells had fallen.
The sun looked down and wondered if this could be
the anniversary of Christ's birth.

Towards nine o'clock our batteries ceased firing.
The enemy's guns, too, were silent, and we hoped this
presaged a quiet day. Four of us decided on a bath
and made our way over toward the ancient, arched
stone structure where generations of Turks had per-
formed their ablutions. It was a Turkish bath, but
picture not to yourself a sunny "hot room," needle
showers and limpid pools, for the real Turkish bath
is a vault-like chamber reached by double doors which
serve to shut in the air which has been in captivity
since the walls were reared. Around the walls are a
number of shallow stone basins, into which trickles
tepid water. After disrobing, the bather throws this
water over himself, using for the purpose a small
copper bowl. We brought our own towels, otherwise
we might have had to resort to limp cloths by no means
resembling our conception of Turkish towels. Such is
a real Turkish bath.

Emerging on to the street we visited a hot milk
booth. Some of us were already acquiring the yogart
habit. Yogart is fermented goat's milk, and when it
comes to flourishing, it is the green bay tree of the
Balkans. It waxeth loud in the land. The taste for
yogart is strictly an acquired one, but once one becomes

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a "yogartist" he wades into the product with all the
enthusiasm of a newly converted golf fiend. Yogart
possesses the unique property of mixing well with
anything. Thus it is made better by adding sugar, or
chocolate, or jam, or honey, and I even caught "Bus-
ter" one day stirring in macaroni.

We had left the yogart palace and were on our way
back to quarters. As was natural, our talk was of
the night's dinner, at which two plum puddings,
brought from France, were to appear prominently.
Report had it too, that other delicacies would be forth-
coming; it was to be a regular "burst." There was a
distant whistle, increasing to a crescendo screech, and
we "froze in our tracks." Two seconds, and over in
the direction of quarters there was the crash of the
explosion.

Monastir is a city without cellars, a city for the
most part of flimsy mud walls, through which an obus
crashes like a hammer through an eggshell. About
all one can hope for in a bombardment is that by stick-
ing close to a house the smaller eclat may be stopped.
We had plenty of time to realize this as we flattened
out against a building, on the other side of which was
a gaping hole, the result of a former bombardment.
As we lay there, we speculated as to the welfare of
the fellows at quarters, for the shells all seemed to be
falling in that locality. We speculated on the size
of the missiles, deciding that they were 155 H. E., and

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finally we speculated on whether they were coming
nearer. Up to that time they had been dropping at
a distance which we estimated as possibly three hun-
dred yards. Now they seemed to be coming nearer.
We accordingly moved, going down towards the center
of the city, where we once more became "wall-flowers."
We were particularly disgusted. To be strafed on
Christmas Day, "mustered for foreign service," before
the only real meal in months, was surely the refinement
of cruelty, worthy of the Huns. There was no help for
this, however, and so, while the people at home were
on their way to church, we lay beside a mud wall in
a Balkan town, liable any minute "to go out" without
benefit of clergy, and wondered, perhaps, if after all
the "life of safety first" was not preferable.

Suddenly, as suddenly as it had begun, the firing
ceased. We consulted our watches; it lacked five
minutes to mid-day. The bombardment had lasted
one hour and twenty-five minutes, during which time
about one hundred and fifty shells had come in. The
shelled area was about a quarter of a mile square.
The enemy was after a particularly troublesome seven-
ty-five battery which had its station about two hundred
yards from our compound. His efforts had been suc-
cessful, the battery having been silenced, two of the
guns being put entirely out of commission. We started
for quarters with considerable apprehension as to what
we should find. The streets which at the first shell had
been depopulated were now swarming again, and it

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A WAR AMBULANCE

was "business as usual." We were immensely relieved
on reaching the compound to find quarters intact. The
yard and house had been showered with iclat but no
one had been hit.

The noon meal was not half over before the shelling
was resumed. This time a battery on the southeastern
edge of the city was catching it. From our attic win-
dows we watched the shells strike and the columns of
smoke and mud mount into the air. For perhaps an
hour this continued and then quiet fell, broken only by
the occasional fire of our guns. The day had become
gray and dull. The sun, as though saddened by such
a spirit on Christmas, withdrew behind thick clouds.
As the afternoon advanced, the firing on both sides
grew less and less, until when night fell only the in-
termittent rap of a machine gun broke the silence.

Somehow the dinner was not a great success. I
think we were all just a bit homesick. Not even the
plum puddings aroused our spirits. There was only
one toast— 'To the folks back there." The choruses
lacked vim. "She wore it for her lover who was far,
far away" served only to emphasize the feeling that,
though we might not be "lovers," still we were far,
far away, and "When I Die" possessed such potential
possibilities that it quickly "died." So I think we were
all rather glad when the day was over and we could
crawl into our flea-bags and forget it was Christmas.

The Huns seemed determined to make the last
days of the old year memorable for Monastir. Day

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by day the shelling increased. The city crumbled
about us. Some of the streets were blocked with
fallen houses. Few of the stores or booths were now
open. The population remained within their frail
walls and were killed in their homes. The Franco-
Serbian Bank was blown into the street. As some-
one remarked, a check drawn on it would be returned
marked not "no funds," but "no bank." The bakery
where we had bought little cakes was reduced to a
pile of rubbish, its proprietor buried beneath. I went
around to get some silver work I had ordered from
an artisan, to find his place no longer existed. It was
wiped out by a single shell. On the 28th of December
the enemy shelled throughout the night. The follow-
ing day we had five cars partially demolished, my own
among the number. Its sides were blown in and the
entire machine was plastered with blood and strips of
human flesh, the shell which did the damage having
torn to shreds a little girl who was standing by it at the
time. In all the war I have seen no more horrible sight
than that of the child's family gathering the still warm
particles of flesh, finding here a hand, there a finger
or a foot, the while moaning in anguish, and then
rolling on the ground. The scene was appalling.

On the 30th of December, we began to excavate a
dug-out beneath our quarters. The shelling was now
almost continuous, and this lent impetus to the work.
We dug the shelter in the form of a cross, seven feet
deep and with a roof of banked timber. It would

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not have survived a direct hit, even of a 77, but it
was splinter-proof and at least it took our minds off
the shelling.

I was hard at work on this abri when I was told
that the Commander wanted to see me in his quarters.
He greeted me with his usual winning courtesy, and
without wasting time on preliminaries, informed me
that that there was a call for two cars to serve the
division now occupying Southern Albania ; that I had
been selected to take one of these cars through — the
one going to the most advanced post — and would have
a reserve driver "in case anything happened." My
orders were to leave the same afternoon, taking suffi-
cient oil and gas for three hundred kilometers, and to
report to the Commanding Officer at Fiorina for fur-
ther instructions.

I at once set about preparing for the trip. It was
uncomfortable working on the car as the afternoon
shelling was at its height, but by four o'clock all was
ready and, after taking on some wounded at the
mosque, I scuttled out of town, headed for Fiorina.

It was nearly nine o'clock the next morning, the last
day of the old year, before we finally got away and
drove down the long, winding main street of Fiorina
headed towards the mountains. Just beyond the town,
the road turns towards the west and begins to rise.

The main road from Southern Serbia into Albania
runs from Monastir almost due west, skirting Lake
Prespa. Across this road, however, stretched the

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enemy's line. To hold Southern Albania and flank
the Austro-Bulgarian army, the French had thrown a
division of troops across the mountains, advancing
from Fiorina by the little-used trail over which we
were now making our way. A number of attempts
had been made to get motors across the divide — our
own cars had twice essayed the task but without avail.
The grade was terrific. The trail clung to the moun-
tain sides and wound its way almost perpendicularly
upward. Rains, snows and the supply trains of an
army had kneaded the soil into a quagmire. Motors
bucked this, stalled, bucked again, mired and finally
had to be dug out, to abandon the attempt.

But those other cars had neglected to bring with
them the one thing that could get them across: they
had neglected to provide themselves with a real live
general. With commendable foresight we had stocked
up with "one general" — the Commander of the Al-
banian Division seeking to join his command. With
such a tool in our locker there could be no doubt of
the success of our attempt. The first time we mired,
he displayed his usefulness. Hastily commandeering
the services of all the soldiers in sight, he ordered
them to leave their various tasks of road-building,
mule-driving, etc., and to get their shoulders against
the cars. Then with a tremendous "alle, hup," a. grind-
ing and heaving, we pulled out and struggled on and
upward for several metres. It was slow work. Time
and again we were mired and had to be dug out.

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Sometimes we even dropped back to get a start and
then charged the mud with every bit of gas the throttle
gave. But always at the end of an hour we were a
little farther on. By two o'clock, when we stopped to
eat some sardines and bread, we had ascended to a
height of fifty-four thousand feet above sea level,
and were on top of the Divide. The surface here was
more solid, for the snow froze as it fell, and with
chains, the wheels gripped.

During the afternoon we worked our way down on
a trail from which a sheer wall rose on one side, and
the other dropped away into nothingness. Often,
passing traffic forced us to hang literally with two
wheels clinging to the edge, where, had the brakes
slipped, we would have been classed among "the miss-
ing." The sun had long made its westing, and a half-
gloom filled the valleys when we came to a pocket in
the mountains. On the opposite side of a gorge
through which rushed a stream, were clustered a num-
ber of stone houses, clinging to the mountain side. It
was the forlorn village of Zelova. We parked the
cars in a small open space by the roadside, and cross-
ing the stream, clambered up among the houses. There
were one or two pitiful little stores, but they were
without stocks. There was even a one-roomed cafe,
but although this was New Year's Eve, there seemed
no demand for tables, perhaps because there were no
drinks of any sort to put on those tables. The few
villagers we saw were a depressed-looking lot, as in-

19*

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

deed they well might be. The murky huts offered
very little cheer, so I spread my blankets in the ambu-
lance. Outside the snow was coming down and drift-
ing against the side of the car. 191 6 was dying but
I was too weary to await the obsequies, and was soon
asleep.

Shortly after daybreak we roused out. The snow
was still swishing through the paths, blotting out all
but the nearest objects. By eight o'clock we were en
route, and following the course of the stream, we
reached a narrow valley. The brook had now assumed
the proportions of a small river, and, because of the
configuration of the ground, we were forced to cross it
time and time again. There were no bridges, and each
time as we charged through the water we expected
to be checked by the flooding of the carburetor.

About ten o'clock the snow ceased to fall, and occa-
sionally the sun looked out on a scene grandly beau-
tiful. For the first time we entered a region partly
forested. Stunted oaks grew on the mountain side
and along the river were poplars. We were entering a
more populous country. We saw numbers of queerly-
costumed people. Mostly, they were clad in white
homespun wool, embroidered with vivid reds and
greens. Farther on, we passed into a region more bar-
ren and desolate than any we had yet encountered, a
region of towering cliffs and stone strewn ground, de-
void of all verdure. Shortly afterward we passed an-
other stone village, Smesdis. Five or six kilometers

196

A WAR AMBULANCE

beyond the road, which all this time had been terrible,
suddenly became better. Though no boulevard, it
seemed so by contrast, and, since we no longer had to
push the car, we regarded our troubles as over.

We had now emerged from the mountains and were
in a considerable valley. At noon we entered a good-
sized village, Beclista. We were now in Albania
having crossed the frontier somewhere between Be-
clista and Smesdis. To our surprise, there was a sort
of restaurant near where we had stopped our cars,
and here we were able to obtain a stew of mysterious
and obscure composition, together with some very good
corn bread.

At Beclista the other car remained. My orders were
to continue on to Coritza and accordingly, at one
o'clock, I again set out, Vive accompanying me as a
reserve driver. The snow had once more begun to
fall but the way had so much improved that we were
able to proceed at a fair speed. The road led through
a broad valley, which in summer must be very beauti-
ful. On either side, mountains stretched away in ser-
ried ranks. Here the Comitaje had their lairs, from
which they issued to raid and terrorize the country
round about. The whole of Albania is infested with
these mountain bandits. They were constantly making
sallies against isolated detachments of the transport,
swooping on the men before they could defend them-
selves, plundering the supplies and then making off
into the mountains where no man could follow. In

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Albania, every man went armed and a soldier found
without his gun was subject tp arrest. On leaving
the General at Beclista, he had directed that I be
armed with a carbine, besides the army revolver which
I already carried, and the gun thereafter always hung
beside the driving-seat.

As we drove along, we left consternation in our
wake. Mountain ponies, forsaking habits of years,
climbed imaginary trees and kicked their loads loose
with a carefree abandon born of a great desire to be
elsewhere. Terror-stricken peasants gave us one look
and took to the fields. Bullock wagons went into
"high" and attained a speed hitherto deemed impos-
sible. We created a Sensation with a capital S. And
well we might, for we were the first motor to pass
this way.

Towards four in the afternoon we were challenged by
the outpost and, presenting our papers, were permitted
to pass. A half mile beyond we again answered the
"Qui vive" and then entered Coritza. An elephant
pulling a baby-carriage up Fifth Avenue, would excite
no greater wonder in New York than did our car
rolling through the streets of Coritza. When we drew
up in front of the etat major, it became necessary to
throw a cordon of troops about the machine to hold
back the wondering, clamoring populace. Reporting
to the officer in command, we were assigned quarters
and the car was placed within the courtyard.

Coritza in many ways is a unique city. It is situated

198

One of the Gars That Bucked Its Way Through the "Impass-
able" Mountain Roads of Albania

A WAR AMBULANCE

about midway between the Adriatic and the Macedon-
ian border, about one hundred and eighty kilometers
from deep water and one hundred and fifty from a
railroad. Normally it is reached by three caravan
routes, the one from Fiorina over which we had just
come, the trail from Monastir, and the road up from
the Adriatic. These two latter were now closed, the
Monastir trail by the Bulgar line, the other by the
Comitaje. The houses, for the most part, are solid
structures of gray stone, and some sections remind
one strongly of a Scotch town. The streets are well
surfaced and there are sidewalks made of stone slabs.
The most prominent edifice in the city is a two-
buttressed Greek church. The Turk, though long
nominally exercising suzerainty over Albania, never
succeeded in really conquering the country or in im-
pressing his religion upon the people. There are but
two mosques in the place and the atmosphere and
aspect are much more occidental than oriental. From
a place, formed by the junction of two broad avenues,
radiate smaller streets, and on these are found the
bazaars. Here are workers in silver and leather and
copper; also iron-workers who seem constantly en-
gaged in producing hand-wrought nails, and several
artisans whose sole product is the long-bladed Albanian
dirk. Besides the bazaars, there are a number of
modern stores — hardware, grocery and two pharma-
cies, all well stocked. Everywhere is exposed for sale
maize bread in cakes, slabs, squares and hunks.

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Through the streets wandered an extraordinary,
diverse crowd, displaying a strange admixture of cos-
tumes. There were a few veiled women, a few robed
Turks, a few men clad in the European fashion of a
decade ago, but the great majority of the people were
in the native Albanian dress, the women in long, blue
homespun coats, with red braid trimming, and multi-
colored aprons, their heads bound in blue cloths which
were tied under the chin. Upon their legs they wore
homespun stockings, dyed red or blue. The men, fre-
quently bearded, wore red or white fezes without
tassels and white short-waisted skirt coats, from the
shoulders of which hung two embroidered wing-like
appendages. Their baggy pantaloons were thrust into
high white stockings. Upon their feet they wore, as
did the women, curious red shoes which turned sharply
up at the toes and were adorned with large black pom-
poms. About their middle was a broad leather girdle
into which were thrust poinards. Some of these knives
are really finely made with elaborate silver handles.
Their owners set great store by them, and it is with
difficulty that they can be induced to part with them.
For an outer garment the Albanian wears a rough
woolen cape with hood attachment which hangs from
his shoulders to mid-leg. For ornaments, the more
wealthy wear silver chains draped across the chest.
The girls wear long loose bloomers, drawn in at the
ankle. Both sexes of all ages smoke cigarettes. Big,
lean, wolf -like dogs follow their masters around and

200

A WAR AMBULANCE

fight each other with great fervency. Also there are
burros, millions of them.

We were much surprised that many of the people
— more especially the storekeepers — had been to
America and spoke English. When they learned we
were Americans, they were delighted. The news
quickly spread, and as we walked through the streets,
the people crowded around us, shaking hands and in-
viting us to take tea. One storekeeper had been the
proprietor of a dairy lunch in Washington at which I
remembered I had eaten. Another had a brother who
was a waiter in Washington's largest hotel. The barber
had for five years worked in New Haven and had,
perhaps, cut my hair when I was at Yale. It seemed
queer enough to find these people in this remote
mountain town.

After a few days Vive and I decided to move our
quarters from the hospital to the inn which stood at
a point formed by the junction of the two principal
streets. Here we secured a commodious room, fur-
nished with a charcoal brazier, a couple of chairs and
two almost-beds. Upon the latter we spread our flea-
bags, a case of otium cum dignitate. The inn was kept
— or perhaps in the interest of accuracy I should say
has existence — under the proprietorship of "Spiro."
Spiro was his first name, his family name partaking
of a complexity too intricate to dwell in the memory
of one not imbued from birth with Albanian tribal
genealogy. He was a man of sorrows, a victim of what

201

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economists call "The ratio of exchange." In the
cafe which occupied the ground floor of the inn, Spiro
dispensed weird drinks to those whom war had ren-
dered fearless of death. And the price of these drinks
was such that five sous bought one. Now the exchange
on French paper in Albania at this time was twelve
sous on a five franc bill. But those that did patronize
the tavern paid for their refreshment in notes of
the denomination of five francs, demanding in return
therefrom sous to the amount of ninety-five in change.
Howbeit, it came to pass that Spiro did lose seven sous
on every drink he did sell, besides the value of the
drink. This situation, he confided to me, "makes me
craz."

Though we had changed our quarters, we still messed
with the sous off icier s at the ambulance. With charac-
teristic French courtesy, they insisted on giving us the
best of everything and welcomed us as one of them-
selves. We shortly grew to know their individual
characteristics and to feel entirely at home with them.
We ate in a stone room, which had evidently been the
kitchen of a considerable establishment. The table
was waited on by the cook who, in the democratic way
of the French army, took part in whatever discussion
happened to be going forward. He was as comical a
chap as ever I have seen, short in stature, with spark-
ling black eyes and a voice like the rumble of an artil-
lery wheel. His nose was so large the burden of
carrying it around seemed to have bowed his legs,

202

A WAR AMBULANCE

which were quaintly curved. His beret he wore at an
astonishing angle curved down from a hump in the
middle so that the headgear more nearly resembled
a poultice. From somewhere he had secured a bright
red waistcoat, the better which to display, he always
appeared sans tunic.

Petit dejeuner we ate down in the town. Our break-
fast consisted of boiled eggs, corn bread and Turkish
coffee, and the amount of labor necessary to assemble
this repast was about the same as required in getting
up a thousand-plate banquet in New York. The mere
buying of the eggs was in itself no small task, since
the vendors refused to accept paper money, having, I
suppose, seen too many paper governments rise and
fall; and silver was very scarce, since it was horded
and retired from circulation. The eggs once obtained,
there remained the matter of their cooking. The science
of boiling eggs seems never to have been understood
or else is one of the lost arts in Albania, and we were
forced to expound anew each morning this mystery to
the pirate who presided over what the Coritzians in-
genuously regard as a restaurant. Each morning we
appeared with our hard-won eggs, Exhibit A, and
made known that it would be pleasing to us could we
have said eggs boiled and chaperoned by two cups of
Turkish coffee, into which we proposed to stir some
condensed milk, Exhibit B. The board of governors
having considered this proposition, after some minutes
usually reached the conclusion that this thing might be

203

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done. A la carte orders, banquets and such extra-
ordinary culinary rites as egg boiling were conducted
in the cellar of the place, and thither our eggs would
be conducted, it being necessary, owing to the absence
of inside communication, for the proprietor to go out-
doors, trudge around the corner and descend by an out-
side stairway. Through a crack in the floor, we could
presently see our eggs in the process of cooking. At
three minutes, having called time, they would be taken
off, carried out into the street, around the corner,
through a wondering throng at the door, and presently,
if our luck held, we were actually confronted with a
half dozen boiled eggs, a rare sight in Albania, judging
from the interest their eating invoked. Such is break-
fast in the Balkans.

Powers has described Albania as "a burlesque prod-
uct of embarrassed diplomacy." The country was in
the process of one of its burlesques. But a fortnight
before, under the benevolent toleration of the French,
it had proclaimed itself a republic and we found it in
the travail of birth. Already a flag had been adopted,
a paper currency established, self-appointed officials
had assumed office, and an army which would have
gladdened the eye of General Coxey was in formation.
The whole affair was extraordinarily reminiscent of an
opera bouffe; and, looking at these people — in many
respects the most splendid in the Balkans — one could
not but hope that the comedy might continue a comedy
and not degenerate into bloody tragedy.

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A WAR AMBULANCE

In the center of the town rose an ancient, square-
walled tower, erected by the Turks. Now, the French
maintained an outlook from this vantage point. The
sector of Albania presented a unique situation, un-
paralleled at this time on any front. There were no
trenches, in fact no sharply denned line between the
opposing forces. The fighting consisted largely of
cavalry skirmishes between the Chasseurs dAfrique
upon our side, mounted Comitaje on the other. These
bandits were not regular troops but outlaws accoutered
and supported by the Austrians. The difficult nature
of the country and the absence of roads had prevented
both sides from bringing up artillery, though rapid
firers were from time to time brought into action, so
that the fighting was of the open kind unknown on
other fronts since the first days of the war. This held
true of the front to the north and west of Coritza.
Further eastward in the border mountains, the Mon-
astir line found its beginning, and here the Zouaves
were entrenched.

: It was from this region our calls came. The main
road from Serbia, now cut off by the line, rose some
eight kilometers to the southeast of Coritza and, by a
series of loops, zigzagged up from the valley below to
a height of five thousand feet, at which altitude it
entered into a pass. Midway along this pass a view,
exceeded in beauty by nothing in Switzerland, opened
out below, where the vividly blue waters of Lake
Prespa stretched away from a barren shore to a daz-

205

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

zling snow-clad mountain range. It was as wild and
lonesome a scene as nature presents. Undoubtedly
ours was the first motor ever to enter this pass, and
there, amidst the immensity of a scene which showed
no traces of man's dominion, it looked strangely out
of place.

There were not many calls, but when one did come
in it meant biting work. One afternoon, I remember,
we left Coritza in response to a call from a little
village nestling up in the foothills to the eastward.
Dusk was coming on and a nasty, chill wind, fore-
runner of the night's cold, was blowing steadily through
the pass when we reached the narrow gut which
formed the only approach to our objective. Here we
shut off the motor and prospected our way. It led
along the base of a hill and the mud was such as I
have never seen on road or trail. At times, as we
plodded, it gripped us so that our lumbermen's boots
became imbedded and in an effort to extract them we
would topple and then, in kangaroo posture, kick our-
selves loose. It was apparent no car could be forced
through this morass, and that the wounded would have
to be brought out by hand. We found them on some
rotting straw in a roofless stone court halfway up the
mountain side and fully two kilometers from the near-
est point to which the car could approach. There were
three of them, all Anamites (Indo-Chinese) and all
badly hit. They were the first wounded Anamites 1
had ever seen, for the yellow men are deemed unre-

206

All the Comforts of Home" Are Not More Appreciated Than
These Crude Bating Places

Mustard Gas Cases with Protecting Compresses Over the Eyes
Are Awaiting the Ambulance

A WAR AMBULANCE

liable and are rarely sent into the line. These men,
we were told, had been shot by their own officers
when attempting a break after being sent into a
charge.

Night had now shut down. It was deemed unsafe
to show a light lest it draw the fire of the enemy's
patrols. Thus a pitchy darkness added to our task.
There were several brancardiers in attendance and we
all now set to work to get our men to the car. None of
that little group, neither the wounded nor those who
bore them, will, I fancy, ever forget that night. For
six hours we wallowed through that slough of des-
pond, steaming and struggling till the cold sweat
bathed our bodies, and every muscle and tendon cried
out in weariness. Not a star helped out a blackness
so deep that at one end of a stretcher I could not see
my fellow bearer before me. How we made it we
shall never know but somehow we came through and
stowed the last blesse within the car. A wet, clinging
snow had commenced to fall and to beat down into
our faces as we drove. Once the car mired and we
groaned with apprehension lest we be held till morn-
ing but we "rocked" it through. Once the lights — for
we had now switched them on — showed us figures
ahead in the road. We loosened our arms and stripped
off our gloves the better to handle them, but passed
the group without incident.

Sometime after two in the morning we glimpsed the
red light which showed the field hospital. We knocked

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BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

the place up and commenced the unloading of our
wounded. They were still alive, as the groans showed.
The medecins urged us to stay the night, but the snow
was coming down harder than ever, and afraid that
morning might find us snowbound, we determined to
push on at once. Coritza was something like thirty
kilometers away down the valley, but we had no load
now, and in spite of the roughness of the way it was
less than ninety minutes later when we passed the
sentry, drove the car into the compound, and climbed
stiffly down.

But all nights were not like this. On the second
floor of a building midway down a crooked street in
the town was a cosy cafe, and here, when there were
no calls, we spent the evening sipping Turkish coffee
and smoking interminable cigarettes. The walls were
draped with exotic hangings. On the floor were
crudely woven rugs. A small, raised platform occu-
pied one end of the room. Cross-legged upon this sat
grave old Turks nodding meditatively over their
hookahs. Scattered about were tables where fore-
gathered many men of many tongues. All were armed
and sat with their guns across their knees or handily
leaning against the walls by their sides.

It was at the cafe we encountered the Zouave. A
fascinatingly interesting chap he was. He had been
everywhere, seen queer sights and made strange jour-
neyings. He was a child of adventure. All over the
world you meet them, in the dingy cabins of tramp

208

A WAR AMBULANCE

steamers, around balsam camp fires, in obscure cafes of
the polyglot ports, beneath tropical palms, in the tea
houses of the Far East, in compounds and bomas from
Bankok to Bahama. And always their setting seems ap-
propriate, as they tone into it. They are usually just
coming from, or are just going to some place beyond.
Of some things their knowledge is profound ; of others,
theirs is the innocence of children. They may be tall or
short, old or young but usually they are lean, and
about their eyes are tiny wrinkles which have come
from much gazing over water or from the searing
glare of the tropics. They are apt to be of little
speech, but when they talk odd words from queer
dialects slip out. They know the food terms in a half
dozen languages and the fighting words in as many
more. They have met cannibals and counts. They
eat anything without complaint or praise. Nothing
shocks them; nothing surprises them, but everything
interests them. They are without definite plan in the
larger scope of life but never without immediate pur-
pose. For a good woman they have respect amounting
to reverence. Without doctrinal religion, they live a
creed which might shame many a churchman. Living
and wandering beyond the land of their nativity, they
love her with the true love of the expatriate and
should she need them they would come half around the
world to serve her. So the Zouave talked to us
of Persia and Peru, of violent deaths he had seen,
of ballistics and sharks and opium dens and oases, and

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the while a sentry challenged without in the street
"somewhere in Albania."

My orders, when leaving the Squad, had been to
proceed to Coritza and remain there until relieved, the
C. O. adding that this would probably be in five days.
This time passed and twice five days, yet no word or
relief came. The weather had been almost continu-
ously bad with rain and snow, so that there seemed
a probability that the pass was blocked and the stream
swollen beyond the possibility of a crossing. Even
the most unusual surroundings may become common-
place through forced association and Vive and I were
beginning to tire of Coritza. We took turns in walk-
ing about the town; we worked on the machine till
nothing remained to be done ; we chatted with the
soldiers; we read. Our library contained one book,
Dombey and Son. As I was about half way through
this, we cut the book in two, Vive reading the first
part at the same time I was pushing through the latter
half.

On the seventh of January the Albanians celebrated
their Christmas and on the fourteenth, following the
Greek calendar, New Year's. All the stores and ba-
zaars were closed on these days, giving the streets a
particularly desolate appearance. Some astounding
costumes appeared, those of European descent being
the most extraordinary, the fashion of a decade gone by
suffering revival. Bands of urchins roved about and
upon small provocation broke into what I suppose were

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Yuletide carols, though it would indeed be a "merry
gentleman" who could "rest" when under fire of such
vocal shrapnel.

At last one gloomy evening, when January was half
over, as we crouched over our charcoal brazier, we
heard the hoot of a motor horn and knew that our
relief had come. We tumbled out to find the Lieuten-
ant with two of the fellows. It had been found im-
possible to get another ambulance across the moun-
tains, but the C. O. had managed to pass his light
touring car through with the relief drivers. My car
was to remain in Albania until conditions in the pass
improved in the spring, and Vive and I were to return
with the C. O.

With the passing of the days, these plans material-
ized and soon Vive and I found ourselves referring in
the past tense to the time spent in Albania. The re-
turn trip from Coritza was in reality the beginning of
the end which was attained four months later. Ulti-
mately Monastir, Salonika, the Island of Melos (where
we put in to escape a submarine), Taranto, Rome,
Paris and New York were cities along the trail which,
in May, led to the magic place that men call "home."

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CHAPTER XVII

"down valleys dreadly desolate"

"IJ^TE started next morning de bonne heurc, the
¥ V C. O. assigning me the wheel. Transport had
so kneaded the melting snow and mud that the way
was little better than a bog. Frequently, indeed con-
stantly after reaching the foothills, it was necessary
for all hands save the helmsman, to go overside in
order that the machine might be lightened. All day
we stuck to it and the mud stuck to us and night found
us still in the lower hills with several streams yet to
cross. Once, in the darkness, we lost our way and
had to cast about in the gloom for tracks. At last,
long after dark, we glimpsed the flicker of camp fires
and shortly hove to at the lonesome little mountain
village of Zelovia.

Though it was sometime after evening mess, a
friendly cook mended his fire and got us some food.
Then we were glad to spread our blankets on the straw
within one of the stone huts and drift off to sleep.

At daylight we roused out and commenced the
ascent of the pass. With a heavy ambulance the way
would have been impossible and even with the voiture

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legere it was the next thing to it. The others walked
— or rather plodded — and, at times, when the going
was particularly bad, put their shoulders to the car
and heaved. At the wheel, I struggled and threw gas
into her until it seemed the engine must fly to pieces.
But we kept at it without pause, save now and then to
allow the radiator to cool, and at mid-day topped the
divide. The descent, narrow and clogged as it was
with packtrains and other transport, was a particu-
larly nasty piece of navigation, but by mid-afternoon
we were winding through the streets of Fiorina.

Fifteen kilometers south of Monastir, just where
the Serbian-Macedonian line crosses, lie the war-
festered remains of the village of Negocani. Here we
found the Squad. By early January the cars had
suffered so severely from shell fire in Monastir that
the division commander had ordered the retirement
of Section headquarters to this village beyond mid-
calibre range.

It is not a cheerful place, Negocani. Situated in the
center of a barren valley the snows and winds of
winter and the suns and rains of summer sweep its
dreary ruins. On either side, across the plain, the
frowning, treeless Macedonian mountains look down
upon it. Through its one crooked street five armies
have fought and the toll of that fighting is everywhere.
By the roadside, in the adjacent fields, in the very
courtyards are the little wooden crosses, the aftermath
of war's sowing. A third of the mud houses have

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been levelled and those remaining are pocked with
rifle fire or are gaping from shells. Trenches parallel
the road and zig-zag across the fields. The debris of
war litters the place, the very odor of war hangs am-
bient over it.

On the edge of the village stands a two-storied
'dobe building, its windows without glass, its walls
marked with machine-gun fire. This, with its scat-
tering of out buildings, was our billet, our maison de
campagne, and the gods of war never frowned upon
one more forlorn. The upper floor of the principal
building was divided into two rooms by a hall. Ten
men, packed like cartridges in a clip, were quartered
in each of these rooms and four of us, "the hall-room
boys," shared the space between. That hall, I am
convinced — and so are the others who therein shiv-
ered— was the draughtiest place known to man. Over
the glassless windows we hung blesse blankets, which
were about as effective in shutting out the wind as
the putting up of a "no admission" sign would have
been. It was a great place for a fresh air crank, that
hall, though he could never have held to his theories ;
they would have been blown out of his system. The
snow sifted in and swirled about; overhead the roof
leaked and from the open companionway, whence led
the ladder to the ground below, rushed up the winds
of the world. Giles, George, Tom, will you ever for-
get the "hall-room," that bone-searching cold, those
shivery nights, the rousings out before the dawn, the

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A WAR AMBULANCE

homecoming at night to wet blankets? Not while mem-
ory lasts, not "if the court knows itself !"

Below, the two rooms were used, one by the French
attaches of the Section, the other for the sick— for
there was always someone "down." Across a sort of
courtyard, formed by flanking sheds, was a low mud
cowhouse. In this we messed. To obtain sufficient
light we were obliged to knock holes in the walls on
all four sides and when it came to draughts this salle
a manger was a close second to the hall-room. At the
rear our field kitchen or "goulash battery," was drawn
up and here the cook concocted his vicious parodies
on food. There may have been worse cooks — there
are some strange horrors in interior Thibet but I have
never been there— but in the course of a somewhat
diverse career I have never met the equal of our cook
as a despoiler of food and meal after meal, day after
day, week after week he served us macaroni boiled
to the hue of a dead fish's belly, till we fairly gagged
when it was set before us. Sometimes, by way of
change, we had half -raw "dum-dums"— beans— but
macaroni was never long "reported missing" and the
Squad mathematician calculated that during the winter
we consumed sufficient to thrice encircle the globe, with
enough left over to hang the cook. We had "dog bis-
cuits"— hardtack — too. There were two kinds — with
and without worms. By toasting the former the latter
was produced. Our greatest craving was for sweets,
the French army ration substituting inn ordinaire.

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We were seldom ever "filled" and hence was forced
upon us the strictly acquired taste for yogart, or kuss,
as the Albanians call it.

At first, as I have said elsewhere, the Squad scorned
this dish but one by one we grew first to tolerate, then
to accept and, finally to enjoy yogart. To see us
humped up around our plank table eating the stuff and
solemnly discussing the particular "brew," would have
gladdened the heart of Metchnikoff. Daily we dis-
covered new properties in yogart. It possesses the
quality, found but rarely, of mixing well, and being
improved by the introduction of other substances.
Thus it is delicious with sugar, delectable with choco-
late and ambrosial with jam, and we even discovered
"Buster" adding macaroni to his portion, in explana-
tion of which inexcusable faux pas he stated that "it
made the dish go farther."

Food, or the lack of it, was not the only element
which contributed to our discomfort; there was the
cold. It was not merely the lowness of the tempera-
ture, though the thermometer frequently lingered
around ten degrees below zero, Fahrenheit ; it was the
dampness which accompanied it, the snow and the
never-ceasing, penetrating wind. Fuel was very scarce.
Since history's dawn armies have marched and bivou-
acked in this land and its trees have gone to feed
their camp-fires. So that now wood, save in the hills
remote from the trails, does not exist. What little we
did get was furnished indirectly by the enemy him-

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self for when one of his shells demolished a house we
salvaged the timbers thereof. As an aid to the cooking
we had a little gasoline stove which, when it got under
way, made a noise like a high-powered tractor. It
possessed the pleasing habit of exploding from causes
unknown and altogether was about as safe as a primed
hand grenade. Indeed we had a theory that it was
originally designed as some deadly engine of war,
found too dangerous and relegated to its present use.

Though headquarters had been moved from Mon-
astir, we continued to serve the same sector of line.
Two cars remained constantly in the City on twenty-
four hour service, subject to special call, and from
four to eight, according to need, left one hour before
daylight each morning to evacuate the Mosque dress-
ing-station. Our loads were taken to the new field
hospital, established at Negocani or, as before, to the
evacuation hospital at Fiorina.

Our billet, as I have said, was on the edge of the
village and so stood some two hundred yards from
the main road, to reach which we wound in and out
among some half destroyed houses. The constant
passing and repassing of our cars so churned this
piste that by the end of January it became impassabV
and we were forced to park our cars on a wind-
swept flat by the roadside. This meant additional
vexation, since we were obliged to transport by hand
our gasoline from quarters, where it was stored, to
the cars. As the days wore on, our courtyard and the

21,7

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way to the cars became one great bog, a foot deep in
mud, through which we sloshed about, breaking
through the ice when it thawed and slipping about
when it froze. Only in Manchuria have I seen such
mud.

The dismal cold of these days, their grayness, the
forlorn feeling that to the end of time we were doomed
to slog our weary way down 'valleys dreadly desolate"
I cannot hope to convey. Perhaps the entries in my
journal may reflect "the atmosphere."

Thus: January 21st. "Snow fell during the night
and continued throughout the day. Four of us put
in the morning wrecking some half-demolished build-
ings, getting out the beams for fire wood and then
spent the afternoon crouched around the blaze. I
have never experienced such penetrating cold. In
this windowless, doorless house with an icy wind
searching one's very bones but one thought is possible,
the cold, cold, cold. The mountains, seen through the
swirling snow have taken on an added beauty, but
this village, if anything, seems more desolate. At dusk,
set out for Monastir where "Beebs" and I are now on
twenty- four hour service, quartered at the old canton-
ment. As we entered the city, the road being clogged
with transport, the enemy shelled. I thought they had
"Beebs," but his luck held. Another salvo has just
gone over, evidently for the crossroads."

And on the 23rd: "A piercing cold day. Tried to
write a letter this afternoon but gave it up as my

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fingers were too numb to hold the pen. Worked on
my car this morning. Meals unusually awful — that
horrible wine-meat stew, of course macaroni. Have
blanketed the windows. Possibly we can now sleep
without holding on to the covers. The roof still leaks,
but of course one can't expect all the luxuries."

The following day was "Cold and overcast with a
biting wind. Up and in Monastir before daylight,
evacuating three bad cases to Fiorina. Made a find
in a newly shelled house in Monastir, a window with
three unbroken panes. Have installed it at the head
of my bed. It ought to help. For the last three nights,
in spite of all my blankets I have been unable to sleep
for the cold. Today we saw the sun for the first time
in two weeks. The impossible has been attained ; our
courtyard is even deeper in mud. Service never wrote
truer words than :

"It isn't the foe we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud;
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns —
It's the Mud, Mud, Mud."

Our costumes these days were more practical than

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pretty. Beneath our tunics we wore woolen under-
wear and sweaters, and over them sheepskin coats. On
our feet, felt lumberman's boots over which were
drawn rubber half-boots. Our heads and faces were
covered with woven helmets on top of which we wore
fatigue caps, or, when under fire, steel helmets. Our
hands were encased in wool gloves with driving gaunt-
lets pulled over. Altogether we were about as bulky
as a Russian isvozatik.

Towards the end of January we took over another
segment of the line, a section southeast of Monastir,
collecting our blesses from a village called Scleveka,
situated on the banks of the Tcherna, some twenty-
five kilometers from Negocani. Scleveka was the high-
est point reached by wheeled transport, though some
fifteen kilometers back from the line. From here
munitions and ravitaillement were carried into the
mountains on mule back, the wounded coming out by
the same torturing transport. A few kilometers before
reaching Scleveka we passed through the town of
Brode, the first Serbian town re-taken by the Allies
after the great retreat of 191 5, the point at which
the Serbs first re-entered their country. Here the
Tcherna was crossed by two bridges. Through the
pass beyond poured French, Serbs and Italians to
reach their alloted segment of line. The congestion
and babble at this point was terific.

We saw much of the Italians. Long lines of their
troops were constantly marching forward, little men

220

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with ill-formed packs. As soldiers they did not im-
press us, but they had a splendid motor transport, big,
powerful cars well adapted to the Balkan mud and
handled by the most reckless and skilful drivers in
the Allied armies. The men were a vivacious lot and
often sang as they marched.

In marked contrast were the Serbs, "the poor rela-
tion of the Allies." For the most part they were
middle-aged men, clad in non-descript uniforms and
with varied equipment. They slogged by silently —
almost mournfully. I never saw one laugh and they
smiled but rarely. They were unobtrusive, almost un-
noticed, yet when a car was mired, they were always
the first to help and withal they were invested with a
quiet dignity which seemed to set them apart. I never
talked with a soldier of any army who had seen them
in action, but who praised their prowess.

The going, or rather ploughing, beyond Brode was
particularly atrocious and it frequently took from two
and a half to three hours to cover the fifteen kilo-
meters. At one point the way was divided by two
lonely graves which lay squarely in the middle of the
road, the traffic of war passing and repassing on either
side. Brode service was particularly uninteresting as
the point at which we collected our blesses was too
far back of the line to offer the excitement afforded
by being under fire, save when there was an air raid.
Then too the roads were so congested and in such
terrible condition that the driving was of the most try-

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ing sort and it frequently meant all day evacuation
without one hot meal. Our work at this time was par-
ticularly heavy; we were serving three divisions, the
one back of Monastir, the Brode division, and the divi-
sion in Albania. In short we were covering the work
of three motor Sections. My journal reflects our
life:

February 6th: "Our hopes of spring and bright
weather shattered. This has been one of those dismal,
iron days which emphasize the grimness of war.
Evacuated from Necogani to Fiorina. The rumor
persists that America has declared war against Ger-
many. If this be so we have a time of trial ahead.
War as a theory is a magnificent, spectacular adven-
ture— playing bands, dashing horses, flying colors; as
a reality it is a gray, soul-wearying business, a busi-
ness of killing and being killed, a business from which
there can be no turning back and the learning of which
will mean much agony for America.

February 7th : "A hard day. Up before four, slop-
ping through the mire to the cars. Heavy rain, so I
got quite well wet. In Monastir before daylight. An
enormous shell hole — must be 210 — near the bridge,
made since I crossed last. Rain ceased by noon and
I worked till night on my gear case.

February 8th: "Temperature fell during night. In
snow, driven by biting northeast wind, I worked on my
car throughout the morning and till two this afternoon.
By this time I was numb with cold. Unable to use

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gloves in handling tools with the result have frozen two
fingers of my left hand. Tonight the snow is coming
down harder than ever though wind has abated some-
what. It promises to be our coldest night. The water
bottle at the head of my flea-bag has frozen solid.

February 9th : "Up at four-thirty to greet the coldest
day of the winter. Had great difficulty in breaking
the ice in the creek to get water for my radiator. In
the still, driving snow to Monastir. Evacuated to
Scleveka. From there to Brode, evacuating again to
Scleveka, then two more round trips, reaching quar-
ters at four this afternoon, where I got my first hot
food of the day.

February 12th : "It's a cold, snowy night with a wind
whistling through every crack of this shelterless shel-
ter. Occasionally a patch of snow flops down on the
pup tent I have rigged over my bed, but I am fairly
snug in my bag. Left Monastir this morning at 6:30,
having been on service there all night and evacuated

to S . On the return trip my engine refused duty.

Finally diagnosed the trouble as a short circuit in the
main contact. On removing the point, a matter of con-
siderable difficulty, as I had only a large-sized screw-
driver, found a small fragment of wire. I was unable
to fish it out and it dropped back into the gear case.
However, the short circuit was broken, for the mo-
ment—and I got the engine started. As I reached the
triangle at the entrance to the City the wiring again
short circuited and the engine died. It was now day-

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light and here I was, stuck in the most bombarded
spot in all Monastir, in plain view of the enemy glasses.
For an hour I worked — and such an hour. I could feel
the eyes of every man in the enemy forces fastened
upon me. At last I succeeded in removing the bit of
wire and praise be to Allah — not a shell came in dur-
ing this time.

February 13th: "I got in at the end of a perfect
day at 1 130 A. M., having experienced the usual delay
at the Greek hospital, then getting lost in the pitchy
blackness of Monastir's streets, finally crawling for
five kilometers at a snail's pace through an incoming
division of troops to reach a point where it was safe
to turn on the lights. The run to Fiorina was a tor-
ture as my load were all badly hit and the road is so
terrible that it's almost impossible to prevent the
wrenching of the blesses. Returning found Fico en
panne with a loaded car, so we transferred the wounded
and I again evacuated to Fiorina. Then the weary
grind back to quarters."

During all these days the enemy continued to rain
his fire upon Monastir. Gradually but none the less
surely the city was withering away. Here a house,
there a shop or bazaar became a mass of debris. Huge
holes gaped in the streets ; tangled wire swung mourn-
fully in the wind ; once I saw a minaret fairly struck,
totter a second and then pitch into the street, trans-
ferred in a twinkling from a graceful spire into a heap
of brick and mortar, overhung by a shroud of dust.

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Though perhaps half of the city's forty thousand in-
habitants had fled as best they might, as many more
remained. Generally they stayed indoors, though the
flimsy walls offered little protection and there were no
cellars. When they emerged, it was to slink along in
the shadows of the walls. Scuttling, rather than walk-
ing, they made their way, every sense tensed in anti-
cipation of the coming of "the death that screams." If
Verdun had seemed the City of the Dead, Monastir
was the Place of Souls Condemned to Wander in the
Twilight of Purgatory. The fate of the population
civile was a pitiable one. In a world of war, they had
no status. Food, save the farina issued by the mili-
tary, was unobtainable and fuel equally wanting.
Scores were killed. As for the wounded, their situa-
tion was terrible. Drugs were too precious, bandages
too valuable and surgeons' time too well occupied for
their treatment. Their case would have been with-
out hope had it not been for a neutral non-military
organization of the Dutch which maintained in Mon-
astir a small hospital for the treatment of civilians.
This hospital established in a school did splendid work
and its staff are entitled to high praise and credit.

"Their's was not the shifting glamour
Where fortune's favorites bask,
Their's but the patient doing
Of a hard, unlovely task."

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From this hospital, one morning, I got the strangest
load my ambulance ever carried — four little girls. As
I lifted their stretchers into the car, their weights
seemed as nothing. Three were couches, the fourth,
a bright little thing, wounded in the head by H. E.
eclat, sat by my side on the driving seat and chatted
with me in quaint French all the way to the hospital.

This was the last load I was to carry for many a
day. It was the 16th of February. Since the 13th I
had been unable to keep any food down, but had man-
aged to stay at the wheel. Now on reaching Quarters
I found myself too weak and dizzy to stand. The
weeks and days which followed were weary ones.
"Enteric fever and jaundice" the doctor pronounced
it, limiting me to a milk diet. As there was no milk,
matters were further simplified. It was too cold to
hold a book and read, even had I been able to do so,
thus day after day I lay on my back watching the
snow sift through the cracks and listening to the
rumble of the guns. February passed and March came
in with terrible weather and still I was unable to
struggle out of my bag. The doctor became keen on
evacuating me to Fiorina and from there to Salonika,
from whence I would be carried to France on a hos-
pital ship. But I had seen enough of field hospitals
to give me a horror of them, besides which I could not
bear the thought of leaving the front in this ignomin-
ious fashion and before the end of my enlistment. So I
begged for a respite. The Squad was very kind and

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A WAR AMBULANCE

gave me every care their limited time and our sur-
roundings permitted.

Meanwhile the days grew perceptibly longer and
the sun, when it appeared, had a feeble warmth. A
new Section coming out from France relieved our
cars in Albania and Giles and the others coming back
from Coritza reported that the city was under frequent
plane bombardment and the population demoralized.

For some time the talk of an attack on Hill 1248
and the line back of Monastir had been growing.
There seemed little doubt now that such an attack
would shortly be launched with the object of driving
the enemy back and freeing the city from artillery fire.
Daily our fire grew more intense and, at times, lying
in my bag, I could hear it reach the density of drum-
fire. The fellows coming in reported the roads as con-
gested with up-coming troops and new batteries going
into position. Word came in that the Section was to
hold itself in readiness to shift quarters to Monastir.
Then, at last one night came the order that on the
following day the Squad would report for action in the
city.

227

CHAPTER XVIII
"the wild disharmony of days"

FOR several days I had been up and I have seldom
felt keener disappointment than when, at dusk,
I watched the cars roll out at five minute intervals,
headed for Monastir and action, and realized that I
was not to be one of them. The doctor had absolutely
forbidden my handling a wheel as yet, save for very
short periods and I was to remain at Negocani with
two of the mechanicians, Vincent, the second cook,
and Le Beau, the chef de bureau. Lieutenant De Rode
with that thoughtful tact which characterized him as
a man and made him the most beloved of commanders,
endeavored to console me by saying I would be of
much use by remaining at Negocani, subject to call
with the rescue car. But this did not prevent a realiza-
tion that I was not sharing to the full the risk and work
of the Squad. However, I had been in the army long
enough to acquire its philosophy and to down my dis-
appointment with "c'est la guerre."

And the days which ensued were not without their
compensations. Vincent proved an excellent cook and
a sympathetic nurse and all the Frenchmen bons
camarades. The weather had grown markedly milder

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A WAR AMBULANCE

and I was able to walk about a bit. Not far from
quarters the French had built a huge wire pen, ca-
pable of containing a thousand men and as the attack
pressed forward, this began to fill with prisoners. I
used to walk over to the corral and watch its be-
draggled tenants come in. Mostly they were Bulgars
but there were also some Germans, Austrians and
Turks.

It was on the 16th of March — exactly one month
since I had left the wheel — that I again climbed into
the driving seat for a run up for ravitaillement some
six kilometers from Monastir. From this point a
splendid view could be had of our curtain fire as it
burst on the slope of Hill 1248. Our own division, the
— Colonials, had not as yet I learned, attacked but
were awaiting the consolidation of the newly won po-
sitions. The general opinion, I gleaned, was that the
attack was not marching any too well.

On the following days I responded with the "rescue
car" to several calls of distress and on the 19th,
just a week after the Squad had gone up, I got permis-
sion to join them in Monastir.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when I left
Negocani. Passing the corral, I noticed that since
morning the number of prisoners had been augmented
and that now there must be close to a thousand within
the enclosure. About five kilometers outside the city,
I began to encounter a stream of wounded — head and
arm cases — plodding along the roads, the bloody back-

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wash of the attack. Evidently the volume of wounded
was so heavy that the ambulances were all needed to
transport the more serious cases. The noise of the
guns had now grown very loud. Back of the city
Hill 1248 reared its barren slopes. All along its crest
shells from our batteries were breaking. It seemed
impossible that anything could endure in that zone and
yet even then the enemy crouched there awaiting the
onslaught of our division. Below, the spires of the
minarets reared their graceful forms and caught the
rose-hue of the setting sun, but no muezzin appeared
on their escarpments to summon the faithful to prayer.
The narrow, stone bridge a half mile from the city's
entrance showed it had been the object of the re-
newed interest of the enemy. Scores of shell holes
flanked it but as yet it remained intact. From here
on, the way was scattered with the freshly-killed car-
casses of horses. Newly posted batteries marked the
entrance to the city and as I entered a salvo banged
out like the slam of hell's door.

The Squad had been literally shelled out of the old
cantonment and had moved to another, my directions
for finding which were rather vague. I had simply
been told to go up the main street to a point where a
building had been blown into it and turn to the left.
But as buildings had everywhere been blown into
the street, this availed me little, save as indicating the
general quarter. It was now dusk, I was anxious to
locate the cantonment before darkness fell, as of course

230

A WAR AMBULANCE

lights were strictly forbidden. Cruising about through
the southwest portion of the town, I glimpsed one of
our cars as it vanished around a corner. Proceeding
in the direction from which it had come, I presently
came on a large, windowless stone building in the door-
way of which stood one of the fellows. The building
proved to be the new cantonment, formerly some sort
of a school. As billets go, it was very good, one of
the few solidly constructed buildings in Monastir.

As soon as I entered the Chief handed me a gas
mask and warned me to keep it slung. The night
before the enemy had, for the first time, shelled with
gas. As a result, 344 civils had been killed and some
few soldiers. Dead horses, dogs and the few remain-
ing fowls now lay about the streets, suffocated by the
deadly chlorine. Those of the Squad who had been
in quarters, had experienced a very close thing of it.
A number of shells had struck around the building —
two actually hitting it. Several of the men had been
nearly overcome before they were awakened and their
masks fixed. As evidencing the luck with which the
Squad was "shot," one shell — a H. E. — had entered
the building and exploding inside, had wrecked things
generally, tearing several beds to shreds. It so hap-
pened that the men quartered in this room were out
on duty at the time.

The Chief informed me that, for the present, he
would only call on me in case of a "general alarm,"
for which I was very glad, since I was still feeling a

231

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

bit crumpled. So I sought out a comer where two
walls intervened between me and the enemy's line of
fire and spread my bag. The shells were crashing in
rather steadily — from two to six thousand now fell in
the city in each twenty-four hours — but, though our
guns to the number of two or three hundred were
adding their din, I slid off to sleep.

Our division had now "gone in" ; there was no lack
of work for the Section. Heretofore our orders had
always been to move our cars only during the hours of
darkness, lest they draw the enemy's fire. Now, on
account of the volume of wounded, it was necessary
to disregard this caution and we "rolled" continuously
throughout the twenty- four hours.

It is not possible to convey an idea of the horror
of Monastir during this period. The panic-stricken
population fleeing the city, the burning houses — for
the enemy had added incendiary shells to his repertoire
of frightfulness — the rotting carcasses of the gassed
animals, the field dressing-stations with their black-
ened, bloody occupants, the debris-littered streets and
shattered houses, the air itself, bearing the breath of
death, these gave to Monastir an awfulness that can-
not be expressed in words. Another horror was added
late in the afternoon of the 20th when the enemy's
planes flew over the city dropping a salvo of bombs.
The fire of our anti-aircraft guns did not seem to
have the slightest effect and the flying crosses circled

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A WAR AMBULANCE

their leisurely way about before turning southward
back of our lines.

This same afternoon we received word that our
division was being withdrawn from the lines and that
consequently Squad headquarters would be moved back
to Negocani. Immediately after evening mess, I se-
cured a load from the dressing-station and started
back for Fiorina. As I left the town, the enemy planes
were coming back and our guns were again opening
on them. A little farther along I came upon their
work. The road at this point — just out of range
of the enemy artillery — was lined on either side with
ravitaillement depots, large tents, where the stores were
sheltered, and scores of smaller tents occupied by les
tringlots. Here the aircraft, hovering low, had
dropped some forty bombs but a few moments before
I reached the scene. A dozen or more torn corpses
were scattered about and surgeons were hard at work
over the wounded, of which there were several score.
Mangled horses were lying about and great pools of
blood reflected the last light of the day. Fresh earth
flared away from the bomb holes and the excited hum
of men's voices rose in the evening air. My car was
already full so there was little I could do, save carry
a doctor a little way down the road from one group
of wounded to another.

This air raid was the first of many with which the
enemy harassed our lines of communication and
depots. They penetrated as far as forty kilometers

233

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

back of the line, driving our transport camps from
the open plain to the shelter of the mountains. At
this time our own air service seemed inferior to that
of the enemy, both in personnel and in machines,
and offered us little protection. The anti-aircraft
guns, especially those mobile ones mounted on high-
power motors served best for though they rarely made
a hit, they did keep the crosses at a height of six or
seven thousand feet and prevented their bombing with
any great accuracy.

Normal fighting was now resumed; the attack had
failed and a period of comparative quiet set in. While
the enemy had at several points been forced back a
kilometer or more, the chief object of the offensive —
the freeing of Monastir from artillery fire — had not
been achieved and the commanding mountains back
of the city still remained in his hands. Hill 1248 had
changed hands no less than seven times and the losses
on both sides in prisoners and dead were heavy. So
far as we were concerned, the net result was the taking
of some two thousand prisoners, mostly Bulgars,
though with a sprinkling of Austrians and Germans.
Much of the artillery brought up for the attack was
now withdrawn, preparatory to shifting to another
front in support of the British, who were shortly to
launch an attack.

As March waned the snow, leaving the plains, re-
ceded slowly up the mountain sides; the few shrubs
put forth their leaves, doing their puny best to relieve

234

A WAR AMBULANCE

the barren grayness of the landscape ; millions of frogs
tuned up their batrachian banjos ; back of the line the
peasants drove their caribaos, pulling the crude wood-
en-shafted ploughs; mosquitoes and flies began to
appear; quinine and pith helmets were issued; at
night we no longer drained our radiators to prevent
freezing — in short, spring had come to the Balkans.

With the coming of spring and the drying of the
mud, walking became popular with us. Scattered
about the valley and nestled in the foothills were nu-
merous villages which were made objectives. Perhaps
the most interesting was Kenali, lying about four kilo-
meters across the valley southeast of Negocani. Here
it was that the Bulgars made their last stand before
falling back on Monastir and where on November
14th the decisive battle of Kenali was fought. The
story of that battle was seared into the earth, as plain
to read as though written in print. The enemy had
entrenched on a triangular salient which rose some
eight or ten feet above the dead level of the valley
floor. From this elevation he could rake the ap-
proaches with machine gun fire. But it was not rapid-
firers that won the battle ; it was the French artillery
which, concentrating on that salient, had swept the
ground with such deadly accuracy that the terrain be-
fore the elevation showed scarcely a mark of fire, while
the trenches had been wiped out of existence and the
earth for scores of yards rearward had been tossed
about as though by subterranean ebullition. Half-

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BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

buried in the harried soil lay the rotting bodies of
men. Here a leg, there an arm protruded. On some
the flesh was intact; others had been picked clean by
the carrion birds and where a head appeared the eyes
had been plucked out. Not a green thing, not a leaf
or blade of grass grew within the cursed area. It was
as though some blight had descended and, wiping out
all life, had poisoned the earth itself.

On the opposite side of the valley, crowning the
lower hills, were a number of quaint old monasteries.
There also we made pilgrimage. They, too, had suf-
fered from the scourge of war. Half-wrecked, de-
spoiled of their hangings, deserted by the monks, they
stood desolate, looking out over the valley and the
distant passing of war's panorama. Sometimes we
trudged over to Fiorina, hopping a camion en route.
The town had taken on added activity. The refugees,
who daily poured out of stricken Monastir in a pitiful
stream, flowed into Fiorina and filled its queer streets.
Business took on unwonted activity and the coffee-
houses and yogart shops were crowded, so that fre-
quently when we went into "Jonn's" place he in-
formed us, "Yogart, no got."

With the coming of spring, the location of the
Squad in the low-lying ground of Negocani became
unhealthful. Fever, the bone-shaking Balkan type,
was prevalent and the need became imperative to seek
the hills. Such a move was made the more desirable
because of the increasing activity of the enemy planes.

236

A WAR AMBULANCE

Brode service had now been abandoned and there
was no longer need of remaining at a mid-way point ;
we could move nearer to Monastir. The C. O., ever
careful of the health of his command, began to cast
about for a spot which would combine a high altitude
with accessibility. On the nth of April it was an-
nounced that on the following day we would leave
Negocani.

237

CHAPTER XIX

THE CLUTCH IS THROWN OUT

JUST where the long, barren valley at the head of
which stands Monastir narrows down, where the
jutting foot-hills encroaching on the plain form a
series of ravines, we pitched our camp. A single spur
intervened between us and the city, which, as the
plane flies, was three kilometers away. To reach the
camp, we left the main road by an ascent at first
gradual but becoming rapidly steeper, and wound up
from the plain into the hills a distance of two kilo-
meters or more. At a height of, perhaps, five hundred
feet, the ravine through which the way led flattened out
into a small park-like pocket, along one side of which
roared a mountain torrent. Here our cars were
parked. Here, too, was established the mess tent, the
stores tent and the atelier. On both sides the hills rose
sharply and beyond, the mountains. On the crest of
the hills, a hundred feet above the cars and mess tent,
we pitched several large "snoring-tents."

The sides of this hill were scarred with earth plat-
forms, formed by digging into the sides of the hill.
These had originally been constructed and used by

238

A WAR AMBULANCE

Bulgar and German soldiers, who had been forced to
abandon them when the French advanced on Monastir
By erecting a ridge pole on two supporting poles, cov-
ering this frame with two pup tents and stretching the
whole over one of these excavations, a very snug
"wickyup" was formed. A number of us preferred
this style of residence to a tent and the "Aztec Col-
ony" formed no mean proportion of the Squad roster.

Giles and I were the joint proprietors of one of these
cliff dwellings. Its inner and end walls were formed
by the hillside, its other two walls by earth and stone
removed in excavating. When the wind blew, the
canvas roof had a disconcerting way of billowing out
like a captive Zeppelin. When it rained, sociable little
streams of water strolled unobtrusively in and spread
themselves over the mud floor. Between times the
walls fell in on us. Altogether that "wickyup" re-
quired about as much attention as a colicky baby and
nearly wore us out with its demands. But the view
offered from its V-like door compensated for much.
Lying stretched out on our blankets, we could look
out on a scene than which I have seldom seen one
more beautiful. Below, the valley floor spread out to
the mountains on the farther side. The play of light
and shade over its surface gave a constant change of
aspect. There were many strata of colors, blue, brown,
pink, green, gray and then the crowning white of the
mountains. Now and then a haze would settle down
and fill the valley, so that we seemed to be gazing

239

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

out on some great lake. Then the mist would rise
and again we could discern the toy villages scattered
about or perhaps make out some puny, crawling trans-
port, overhung with a yellow dust-cloud, wending its
laborious way. Again a storm would sweep along,
away down there below us, blotting out the sunshine in
its progress and leaving a glistening trail. Off in the
distance, it all seemed very peaceful and war very far
away, save for the muttering of the guns, which, in-
deed, might have been thunder. But then suddenly
nearby guns, the anti-aircraft batteries might go into
action. In the sky planes haloed with bursting
shrapnel puffs, darted and dodged while, beneath,
scurrying mites of men ran crazily about and clouds
of smoke and dust showed where bombs were bursting.
At night the picture changed. It took on the added
mystery of obscurity. The stars sent down a silvery
glow. Sometimes a light flashed weirdly in the im-
mense gloom and now and then the darkness was
ripped apart by the searing flare of a rocket and the
quiet, which had descended with the going down of
the sun, would be pierced with the crackle of machine
gun fire or shattered, perhaps, with artillery.

From the next ridge beyond ours, we could look
down upon Monastir and the enemy. In turn we were
in his view and range. Beyond we could see plainly
the road to Prelip, down which came his transport,
commanded by our fire.

We had moved into the hills to escape the heat of

240

A WAR AMBULANCE

the plains, believing winter to be over. We had barely
become established before an unceasing, freezing wind
set in from the mountains. A vardar, it is called. It
carried with it small particles of sand and grit which
penetrated every crack and crevice, filled our eyes,
impregnated the food and generally made life miser-
able. Our "wickyup" suffered severely and many
times, day and night, we were forced to go aloft and
mend sail as the roof threatened to fetch loose and
leave for parts unknown. The vardar blew itself out
in three days and we had just begun to believe that
perhaps, after all, life was worth living, when the
glass fell and a wet, clinging snow set in. It was hard
to determine just what season was being observed.
At no time in the winter had we suffered more than
we did in the next few days. On leaving Negocani,
with gypsy-like improvidence, we had abandoned our
sheep-skins and woolens, so the cold caught us en-
tirely unprepared. The snow continued intermittently
for three days. When not on duty, we lay in our bags,
as the only method of keeping reasonably warm. We
spent the time in sleeping and in talking of les meilleurs
fois, of wonderful meals we had eaten and of still
more wonderful ones we should have if we ever saw
Paris again.

I had seen considerable of Monastir service during
April and on the night of the 29th it again fell to my
lot to go on duty there. With Giles I left camp at
eight o'clock. The snow, at the time, was beating

241

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

down in such masses that all objects were obscured
and we drove simply by "feel." Only our perfect
familiarity with Monastir's streets enabled us to make
our way through the city.

For some time, since the attack, in fact, we had been
securing our blesses from beyond the city, from the
line itself. The place was known as La Grande
Roche, from a huge boulder which rose beside a ravine
at this point. This poste could only be approached
at night, as the enemy was very near and half en-
circled it, his line bending back on either flank. To
reach La Grande Roche it was necessary to traverse
the city, ascend a slight hill, along which batteries
were posted, cross a small stream by a bridge which
we ourselves constructed, then proceed across a wide
open space to a point from whence led a mule road.
From here the way wound through a fringe of woods,
finally crossing a narrow, shell-damaged viaduct down
to the Rock.

No man of the Squad ever saw this route, save by
the light of the moon or the stars, for it was swept
by the enemy's machine guns and to attempt a passage
in daylight would have meant certain death. On this
night — the darkest, I think I ever drove — it was im-
possible to see the hood of the car before one. The
streets were so mapped on our minds that we did
not need to see to make our way through them, but
on this route it was impossible to cross the wide open
space and find the exit road on the other side. In

242

A WAR AMBULANCE

order, therefore, to proceed, we found it necessary for
one man to walk immediately in front of the car,
his back against the radiator, calling directions to
the man at the wheel. As Giles' car was not behaving
well, I drove mine while he acted as my eyes. Even
with this arrangement, it was often necessary for us
to halt, while we both cast about in the intense dark-
ness for the way. It was desperate, tense work for
occasionally a flare-bomb would go up and leave us
in a sphere of light feeling as conspicuous as an actor
who has forgotten his lines. Three torturing trips we
made that night. Twice when we were near the
"Great Rock," shrapnel screamed overhead and burst
a little beyond us in the ravine. Once we lurched
fairly into a shell hole. Fortunately it was on our
outward trip and we had no wounded on board, so
we were able to get the car out.

Somehow the night passed — one of the longest I
ever experienced — and the gray,snowy dawn appeared.
With our loads we drew out of the ambulance yard,
passed down the Street of the River, crossed the dilapi-
dated wooden bridge and wound through the shattered,
deserted bazaars out upon the main street and then —
though I did not know it — I passed out of Monastir
for the last time.

The period of our enlistment with the Army of
the Orient was nearing its end. The news that Amer-
ica had entered the war had now been definitely con-
firmed. Some of the Squad — about half believing that

243

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

they could do greater service to the cause by con-
tinuing with the French, were re-enlisting. Others of
us were anxious to get to France or the States at the
earliest moment, some to enter French aviation, others
to join our own army. Finally the 23rd of April, the
last day of enlistment arrived. Yet no men had
reached us to take our places so we continued to serve
as before. The date was notable only that it brought
us our last snow.

Since leaving the valley, we had experienced a sense
of security which our position there, exposed to the
fire from hostile planes, had not permitted. But this
feeling was rudely shattered on the morning of the
24th. It was a fine, clear morning, the first for many
days. The men were scattered about the camp, work-
ing on their cars, in the sleeping tents or the "wicky-
up." Over by Monastir the anti-aircraft guns were
banging away at some planes, a procedure which had
long ceased to hold any interest. As the "crosses"
passed out of range, quiet settled down. Then we
became aware of the hum of propellers overhead.
Scarcely a man looked up — taking for granted that
the noise was of our own planes. Suddenly without
warning there was a sickening swish terminating in
an explosion and the camp stampeded into action.
Before a man could reach the cover of the overhang-
ing rocks two more bombs swished down. The eclat
spun spitefully through the air and whanged into the
hillside. The planes passed on, followed by the fire

244

A WAR AMBULANCE

of our guns. For a while we lay flat against the rocks
and then cautiously issued from our holes. One of
the bombs had struck near the cars, the others just
across the ravine. A Frenchman had been hit by
glancing eclat: that was all. The Squad's luck had
held. A fraction of a second's difference in the release
of the bombs and — but why speculate?

Three days later a courier coming into camp brought
the word that six men of the relieving Squad were
in Salonika. This meant that six of us could leave
that very night. So we drew lots to determine the
six. My slip bore a cross. I was to leave.

For the last time the Squad sat down to mess. We
knew that in all probability we should never all mess
together again — as I write these lines, already two of
the Squad have paid their highest toll — but sentiment
or heroics are the last emotions that could find place
in the Squad, so the last mess was much like many
others. Six times "For he's a jolly good fellow" rose ;
there were six rounds of cheers — and the last mess
was over.

There was a deal of hand shaking and back-pound-
ing, more cheering and we rolled out, the six of us,
in two of the ambulances. Just beyond where the
camp road joined the main road we passed out of
range of the enemy's guns.

Darkness had fallen when we reached Fiorina Sta-
tion. A dumpy little engine, to wrhich was attached
a long line of freight cars, wheezed impatiently at the

245

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

platform. There was but time to heave our dunnage
into an empty box car and swing on ourselves, and
the train bumped out. Throughout the night we
lurched and rattled about, getting but fitful naps in
our bags.

At noon the next day we reached Salonika. It was
a case of rus in urbe. To us after months of grime
and grind at the front, the city seemed magnificent.
It was Saturday and that afternoon the band played,
in the place. None of us, I fancy, will ever forget
the thrill of pride which ran through us as we stood
at salute that afternoon and heard there in that exotic
setting for the first time during the war, the wonderful
strains of the Star Spangled Banner.

For three days we remained in Salonika, dividing
the time between taking hot baths and eating sticky
Turkish pastry. The morning of the fourth saw us
on the quay, preparatory to going aboard the transport.

It was on the quay we encountered the Comman-
dant. Someone of the Squad in Albania had done him
a favor and he was not the man to forget it. It was
his kindness and consideration that was to make our
voyage on the transport not only endurable but enjoy-
able. He was a Chasseur d'Afrique, a splendid type
of the French professional soldier. His face was
keen and aggressive, with an eye which glinted like
a bayonet and a mouth that in anger could thin to a
sword edge, yet I have never seen a man of greater
courtesy. Across his breast stretched the ribbons of

246

A WAR AMBULANCE

seven decorations. His favorite gesture was a sudden
advancing of his clenched right hand as though raising
a sword in charge, and when he assured us that if
there was anything we wanted, we were to tell him,
and he would see that it was done "avec impressment,"
we felt that indeed that thing would be done "avec
impressment." We shall long remember the Com-
mandant.

Our transport, Le Due d'Aumale, steamed out of
the harbor with two others, convoyed by three de-
stroyers, a cruiser and a dirigible. During the night
we were wirelessed the approach of two enemy sub-
mersibles. Under forced draught, we made for the

emergency harbor of , where we glided safely

in behind the torpedo net. Here we found a score
of ships, transports, freighters and their fighting con-
voys. We lay in this little harbor for three days,
putting in the time pleasantly enough, sailing, swim-
ming and burro-riding ashore. Late in the afternoon
of the third day, with our convoy in line of battle,
we steamed forth.

Two days later we entered the harbor of , in

Italy. That same night we entrained and the follow-
ing day reached Rome, where we broke our journey
for forty-eight hours. At Turin we again stopped over
and finally, just a fortnight after leaving camp in
Serbia, we reached Paris and reported to Army Head-
quarters for discharge.

* * * *

247

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF

The captain looked up from the papers. "So,
monsieur, you have served as a volunteer for eighteen
months. It is long; two service stripes mean more
than days — they mean a lifetime. I congratuate you,
and for France, I thank you." My hand snaps up in
salute — my last salute, for the clutch is thrown out.

THE END.

248

FACE TO FACE
WITH THE WAR

A Group of Books That
Will Help You to Under-
stand the Present Struggle.

NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE"

By BERNARD ADAMS

334 Pages. With maps. $1.50 net.

"'VTOTHING of Importance" say the

taken this phrase as a title for the series of
swift, vivid impressions which compose his
book; his chapters, with their glimpses of
scenes in billets, in the trenches, of snipers,
working parties and patrols, bring the reader
more clearly in touch with the reality of war-
fare than do many more spectacular books.

"Few, very few books have come out of
the war more real in their message or more
poignant in their appeal." — The Cleveland Plain
Dealer.

"Of the scores of books which are pushing
their way into print nowadays as part of the
war propaganda, none more truthfully and
satisfactorily fulfills its mission than 'Nothing
of Importance'." — The Springfield Union.

communiques when there is no big
action to report. Lieut. Adams has

Publishers, Robert M. McBride & Co., New York

How five thousand men founded a Brit-
ish community in the heart of Germany.

INTERNED IN GERMANY

By H. C. MAHONEY

jpo pages. Illustrated. $2.00 net.

IF you would know what life at a German
prison camp is like, live through it in this
book. The author, a British civilian, was
a guest at four, ending up with a long sojourn
at the notorious Ruhleben. Here is the story
of the life that he and his fellow-prisoners
lived; how they organized their own com-
munity life, and established stores, banks,
churches, theatres — in fact all the appurten-
ances of civilized life. There are also numer-
ous stories of escapes, of adventures in the
camp and even of the treachery of some of
their pro-German fellow-prisoners.

The book shows a side of the war which
has not previously been dealt with in full
detail, and it is, besides, an unusual record of
hardship and suffering and of the many ways
in which the indomitable spirit of these men
rose above the trials of prison life.

Publishers, Robert M. McBride & Co., New York

The Red Battle Flyer

CAPTAIN MANFRED VON RICHTHOFEN

12 mo. Illustrated. $1.25 net. Postage extra.
At all Bookstores

By Captain Manfred von Richthofen

THE most famous of German aviators was
Freiherr von Richthofen who was killed in
action in April of this year, after being
credited with eighty aerial victories.
This book is the story of this German's ex-
ploits and adventures told in his own words. It
is the story of countless thrilling battles in the
air, of raids, and of acts of daring by the flying
men of both sides.

"Richthofen's Flying Circus" has become fa-
mous in the annals of aerial warfare. This book
tells how the "Circus" was formed and of the ad-
ventures in which its members participated.

"The Red Battle Flyer" is offered to the Ameri-
can public, not as a glorification of German achieve-
ments in the war, but as a record of air fighting
which, because of its authorship and of the in-
sight it gives into the enemy airman's mind, will
prove of interest and value to our own flyers as
well as to readers generally.

Publishers, Robert M. McBride & Co., New York

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Full text of "Behind the wheel of a war ambulance"

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