"YOU will," said the officer, "drive this ambulance 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 overtake 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 disregard of traffic regulations and the rights of pedestrians. 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 Elysées, across the Place Concorde and then through a maze of narrow streets which the convoy leader seemed to choose because of the density of their traffic. The pace, I suppose, 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 convoy was out of sight by the time the motor was cranked 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 being jerked in the other direction. In the months to come I was to experience some tense and trying moments, 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 another 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 buildings. 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 légère 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 kerosene. The corresponding position on the port side was taken up with a locker, in which were stored a complete 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 sparkplugs, 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 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 AMBULANCE.
At that time, December, 1915, the American Ambulance, an off-spring of the American Hospital at Neuilly, maintained in the field four "Sections," besides one section in Paris for service in connection with the hospital. These field sections, besides auxiliary 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 drivers at this time was not clearly defined. Later the whole Service was militarized and we became members 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 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 1, or to give it its military designation S. S. U. I., Convois Automobiles, that I was now bound. Section 1 is the oldest foreign Section---Section étranger---attached to the Armies. It had its origin in September 1914, when a number of cars, donated and manned by Americans, 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 organized, self-containing unit. Already it had an enviable record. It had served on the Yser and at Ypres, in the bombardment of Dunkirk and had received the attention and commendation of those high in. command. 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 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 leaning 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 winding, tree-lined drive leading up to some stately château, the windows of which were generally shuttered.
Now and then we would pass through a small, somnolent village. The absence of traffic was noticeable; 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 képi and blue tunic, hard at 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 sky was well spent when we reached a good sized town. A sentry challenged, but after inspecting our ordre de mouvement, 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 shouldered 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 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.
LE REVEILLÉ roused us out next morning and after coffee and rolls at a nearby café, 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 cafés. Such is the village of Maracel and here we were destined to spend the next few weeks.
Immediately on arrival, everyone in the Squad had shouted, "Is this Moscow? Moscow, is this Moscow?" 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 remote past of the Section. This inquiry was immediately 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 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 café was commandeered for our mess, the cook installing his galley in a small hut in the rear. The cars, for the moment, were allowed 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 Ambulance attracted its share of these characters and a stranger, more incongruous mélange, 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 1's roster---a former 4th Cavalryman, a professional Portuguese revolutionist, a driver of racing cars, a Legionary who had fought in Senegal, an all-American football center, two professional 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 seller"---you would recognize his name in an instant if I were to give it---a New York undertaker, a Harvard professor of dead languages, a Maine lumberjack; 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 became to recruit the Corps almost wholly from college men who became typal. But when I joined Section 1, 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 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 inclined 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 noël." 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 that night it was to turkey with cranberry sauce and, thanks to the thoughtful kindness of an American woman, there was even mince pie.
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 confidence, 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 parc, 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 influence upon us all and brought a more intimate realization 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 parc, 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 ourselves 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 destined 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 ambulancier. 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 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 éclat fall, be 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 functioning. 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, regardless 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 sympathetic hands he proudly steers its erratic course.
I had "Old Number Nine's" engine down, ground her valves, decarbonized her motor, put in new bushings, replaced a spring leaf, and inspected and tightened 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 windshield.
Permission had been granted us to secure individual quarters within the village limits of Maracel. Freddie and I interviewed a garrulous old dame and after considerable negotiation and expenditure of countless "Mon Dieux" and "alors" succeeded in renting 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 headquarters for pneumonia and rheumatism. It had a stone floor and possessed "a breath," which want of ventilation rendered permanent. We conceived 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 feverish state and exude a small degree of warmth. Our new quarters possessed a table and three chairs so that altogether we were "bien installé." 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 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 thousand inhabitants. Like so many of the French provincial 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 Century. 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 motionless. The seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the years and the centuries are shown and the machinery which operates all this needs winding but once in three hundred years---surely an ideal occupation for a lazy man.
If for no other reason, we shall always remember Beauvais for its pâtisseries. 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, éclairs, 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, evidently considering us the funniest things in the world, we used to consume the flakiest of omlettes aux rognons, crisp pommes de terre frites, tender salades, delicious fricandeau de veau and fromages and other delicacies the mere thinking of which makes my mouth water.
Saturday was market day and the usually somnolent 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 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 comrades. At Beauvais too I saw my first "soixante-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 operations, 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 made evasive response, since he himself was no better informed than we. By the middle of the month the cars were back from the parc 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.
IT was night when we crossed a wooden bridge spanning 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 which our hurried departure from Beauvais had interrupted. 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 morning. 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 speculated on just what my sensations would be and wondered 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 afternoon 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 bobbed shoes told us of the passing of a column. Petit déjeuner 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 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 efficiency. 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 common. 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 Médaille 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 harness and trappings were of finest pigskin. Around his middle was wound a flaming crimson sash. From beneath 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 burnished 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 château. 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 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 occasionally 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 mudguards, the C. O. had been searching for a cantonment. About three, he returned and with considerable complacency informed us that he had succeeded in having a beautiful château assigned us. Château 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 modem structure of perhaps fifty rooms, the château stood in the midst of its own beautiful park at the foot of which passed the tranquil Aisne. In general appearance and in surroundings, the place resembled a modern country club. As we parked our cars in the open space facing the magnificent entrance we felt that at last our paths were to be cast in pleasant places.
But our disillusionment, which shortly commenced, 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 feature 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 Château 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 January 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 southeastward in the direction of Soissons. Through villages 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 "2 Officiers," 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 Compiègne-Soissons route---and reaching a forlorn little village, shut off our motors. This was our station. We were at the front.
AS you come along the Compiègne-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 resolves 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 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 accommodate 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 cantonment. 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 precedent to passing, a circumstance which sometimes gave rise to embarrassment when the password was forgotten.
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 Compiègne 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 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 provided 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 villages 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 Pierrefonds, a pleasant town overshadowed by the fairy-like castle from which it takes it name. It was 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 kilometers, to the west of Julzy is the old city of Compiègne, reminiscent of Robert Louis Stevenson, and here too were located evacuation hospitals. Its curious town hail, its venerable houses, and dark, mysterious 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 disposed 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 9:30 P.M. but as there were always some individuals who wished to write or play chess or read after this 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 Liège. 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 blessés---wounded---were picked up at regularly established 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, Compiègne, 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 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 sécours, 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 leading 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 degree of accuracy. Our station at Vic was located in the carriage house of a château 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 château, the place being fairly safe from shell éclat 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 Compiègne 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 actuality, 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 assis---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.
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 Bocheland 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 château, a hundred yards away. After lunch I went out with a soldier to look for the fusé, 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 unable to analyze or describe my sensations and I question whether a trained psychologist would be much better off. There is something "disturbing" about shell fire which is not conducive to abstract or analytical 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 château, getting one of the stretcherbearers. 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 éclat, 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, médecin, 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 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 blessés required an immediate operation, so I passed on through Vic and headed for Compiègne, reaching there about 7 o'clock and evacuating 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 fleabag. The blankets were barely around me when a brancardier came in with a call for the poste at Hautebraye. 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 holes to permit of fast driving with so badly wounded a man and so we crept back to Vic. The order was again to Compiègne. 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 8:30,---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 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 experience at night driving without lights. To you gentlemen 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 yourself with your head thrust over the wheel, your eyes staring ahead with an intensity which makes them 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 mayhap 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 l'amour de Dieu, vite; ils 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 conditions. 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 communiqué 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 there it was very real. The big guns spat their exchange 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 coining 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, during which I have driven close to three hundred kilometers, 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 Compiègne, 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 3. Tonight I am bien fatigué. 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 "à un endroit particulièrement exposé, au moment où les obus tombaient avec violence, a arrêté sa voiture pour prendre des blessés qu'il a aidé avec courage et sang-froid." A week later he was decorated, 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 capable 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 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 quantity 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 increasingly 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 blessé, 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 opiate given the blessé 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 vive" 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 member 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, however small the way, we were helping.
It was about this time that the Service was militarized 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 duration of our enlistments. We were permitted to enlist for six month periods with optional three months extensions, and were not compelled to serve "for duration." 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 expired, they left, their places being taken by new recruits. 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 château or dugout, always sure of himself and could tell one of our khaki uniforms a mile, away, 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, squatting 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 continued 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 through miles of winding connecting boyaux 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 disappointingly 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, assembled 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 convoy had reached Compiègne we were all rather well numbed. When the C. O. halted in the town, he had failed to note a pâtisserie 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 Montdidier, 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 Pierrefonds 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 café 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 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 following day for a station on the Somme. He refused to confirm the rumor that our destination was "Moscow."