IT was ten-fifty on a snowy, murky morning---Friday, March 10th---that our convoy came to a stop in the village of Méricourt, 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 Méricourt. 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, shattered homes, a cesspool in its center, rats everywhere. This is Méricourt: merry hell would be more expressive 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 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 disinfected, 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 longing for the great outdoors.
We established our mess in what in peace times was a tiny café, 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, exhibiting a hand grenade, accidently set it off, killing himself, 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 remaining 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.
Méricourt 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 recall but one or two occasions during our entire stay when shells passed over.
As on the Aisne, we got our wounded from a number 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 usually made to the town of Villers-Bretonneau where were located a number of field hospitals, or to an operating hospital at the village of Cérisy 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 intermittent 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 Eclusier, 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 batteries for which the Boches were continually "searching."
We went into action on the afternoon of the same day we reached Méricourt. My orders were to go to a point indicated on the map as the Route Nationale, there pick up my blessés and evacuate them to the town of Villers-Bretonneau. I was farther instructed 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 solution. With these cheering instructions I set out. I reached the village of Proyart through which my route lay, noted with interest the effect of bombardment, 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 transversed 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 who informed me that the crest of the hill was in full view of the enemy and under fire from the machine 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 quarters 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, lessening the chance of an explosion. The Quartermaster who was with me, and I were wholly unable to extricate 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 steering rod, the cause of the spill, and a small radiator 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 Méricourt we passed over a stretch of road marked with the warning sign "This road under shell fire: convoys or formed bodies of troops will not pass during daylight." 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 desolation 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 had there met their doom haunted its grewsome, cluttered 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 bombardment 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 batteries 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 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 behind 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 sandbags which, while not rendering it by any means shellproof, did protect it from shrapnel and éclat. 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 mortuary where those who died after being brought in 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 awaiting their last bivouac. On one side of the room was a small, silver crucifix above which hung the tricolored 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 occasion 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 elaborate 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 galvanized 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 running 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 fragments and were draped with curtains to keep out the poison gas. Beside these curtains stood tubs of antigas 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 occupation 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, 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 combination 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 immobility 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-demolished 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 military 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 Canton in London, and who spoke excellent English---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 a wrecked château 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 Cérisy some fifteen or more kilometers back of the line where was located an operating hospital. Here we maintained always one car for the transportation of such wounded as required evacuation to railhead. At this station we were privileged to sleep on stretchers in the same tent with the wounded. Personally I found one night in their quarters was quite enough for me. The groaning, the odor of anaesthetics, 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 Méricourt. Our schedule kept us busy without overworking us and there was just enough risk in the life to lend it spice. We had a splendid commander, an efficient chief, and as a result the squad worked in entire 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 between ourselves and the French could not have been more cordial. The innate courtesy and kindness which is so characteristic of the people found expression 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, evacuating to Cérisy. At four this afternoon, with Brooke as orderly, made same route, evacuating to Villers Bretonneux. There were so many blessés 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 Chuignolles. 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 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 opening 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 Cérisy. 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 Médecin 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 képi; 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. Visited 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 afternoon attempted to take a nap but a confounded battery 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 blessés, 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 Méricourt. 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, tramways, 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 transported on a magic carpet, I found myself in the midst of peace where dainty women tripped by, children 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 stupefying. 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 beautiful windows were screened as precaution against bomb éclat, but of the precautions such as I later saw in Bar-le-Duc, there were none.
Amiens at this time was the administrative headquarters of the English army of the Somme. Its streets were alive with English officers and Tommies. There were many "Jocks" in 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 advantage, and in their whipcords and shining Sam Browns they were the last word in military sartorialism.
Having now been at the front for three months I 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 assignment of taking this in. This car had lost its mudguards 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, graceful 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 sufficient to set the little waitress off into a severe attack of giggles. By four that afternoon we were in Paris. After one hundred days in the war zone, it seemed like another world. We took the military oath not to reveal information likely to be of value to the 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 consuming unlimited quantities of white bread and fresh butter. Often we found ourselves subconsciously listening 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 Méricourt. 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.
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 kilometers 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 thousand brown guns bobbing and twenty thousand bayonets 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 sick. Instead we were attached to the incoming division, 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 commission, 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 returned. Now for the blanket and, thanks to the dugout, a reasonable assurance of greeting tomorrow's sun."
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 receiving 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 relinquished 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 carbide 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 looking 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 Méricourt. The village, which had looked so forbidding to us when we had first arrived, through the familiarity of three months' residence had grown 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 café, 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 probably 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 midway 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 Méricourt. 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 something was in the air. Ammunition dépôts began to appear, placed just out of gun range; génie parcs with enormous quantities of barbed wire, trench flooring and other construction materials were established; a new road was being built from Bray to Cappy; additional 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, caterpillar batteries, armored cars, mobile anti-aircraft guns, stone boats, mobile soup kitchens, oxygen containers to combat poison gas, field artillery, searchlight 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 ammunition, 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 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. Between 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 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 artillery fire put fear into their souls. It was said they never took or were taken prisoners and many grewsome tales were current regarding this. Most certainly 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 neighbors; some horse transport convoys also creaked their way in. Horses by the hundred plunged and pulled at restraining ropes or stood with downcast heads---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-important 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 magnifique! but the waiting, the waiting, why can't they end it? Send us in. Quant à moi---I go with the second wave, and if I come out, après 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, c'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 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 exhilarating, 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 being determined, our C.O. 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 quarters at eight this morning, reaching Cappy an hour later, taking on a load, evacuating at once to Villers-Bretonneux. This afternoon evacuated to Chuignolles. 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 evacuation 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 conjectures 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 preparations for the attack. Replaced? No, it could not be. We would find out there had been a misunderstanding. 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 talking, 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 Cérisy. It was my last evacuation from Cappy. I reached quarters about noon, finding the Squad at mess. One glance at the fellows confirmed the morning'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 tomorrow. Somewhere back in Automobile Headquarters in Paris a wire had been pulled and that wire attached 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 Médecin 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 "c'est la guerre," struck our tents and prepared for the morrow's departure.
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 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. Before 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 frantically 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 ambulance 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 laggards 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. 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 "making 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 possibilities for getting in the way and no end of new things at which to bark.
We did not enter Amiens, the C.O. having a penchant 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 influence 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. Throughout 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, having come one hundred and fifty kilometers.
The convoy had drawn up along the main street and at a nearby café we had dinner. For quarters we 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 restaurants 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 picturesque 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 roiled 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 Chateau Thierry. War seemed very far away. We shook off some of the dust which fairly encased us and sought the cool interior of a café. There we were not long to be at ease, however, for that night's destination, Chalôns, 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 Chalôns. 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: "Chalôns, 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 century. 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 softening influence of time blurred their harsh outlines; 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 noonings; 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 speculation 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 État-Major for orders. The first thing we noticed was that practically every building bore a placard with the legend, "Cave voûtée-----personnes," and around 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 transparency. 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 condition of listless indifference---thus did Bar-le-Duc impress 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 rumbled by. While winter ended, spring came and passed, and summer blossomed, the thundering guns had not ceased to sound. For five months this unrelenting 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 Véil---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 painful 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 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 C.O., 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 invariably "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 pointing 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 Sacré---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 supporting 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. 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 Sacré. 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, described a half arc and disappeared. Once a tremendous light illuminated the whole northern sky. Possibly 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 roadside. 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 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 Véil, 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 motionless 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 kilometers 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 demolished villages, not knowing how near I might be to the line, before I finally again emerged on the Voie Sacré and reached Dugny. Here I was surprised to see another Section of the American Ambulance.
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 couchés, 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 committed. It was disheartening to work by a convoy of eighty camions, dodging in and out to avoid cars coming 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 Véil, 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 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 permission to go into Bar-le-Duc in the "chow" camion. We had just completed a hot bath and were making for a pâtisserie 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.
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 northward 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 Verdun. 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 occupancy the enemy searched this road with 130s. These bombardments usually took place around two in the afternoon and at that hour it was considered unsalubrious to adventure up the Verdun road which skirted 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 carpeted 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, presumably 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 arrangement 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 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 factory would have been a haven of quiet. Though our cars were parked flush with the road I preferred mine as a chambre à coucher 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 dressing 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 Ontario I encountered an old Scotchman whom I quizzed regarding some rapids I contemplated shooting. "Mon," he replied, "they're pr-rodugious, extraordinaire." 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 particularly ghastly place strongly recalling Bairnsfather's cartoon, "Dirty work at the cross roads." Our directions for finding the place were "to go to the fifth smell beyond Verdun,"---directions inspired by the group of rotting horse carcasses which were scattered 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 pretense 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 arrangement that a man would be able to get one full night's rest out of three and sufficient day repos to keep him fit.
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 Chaussée, through which egress was had to the Faubourg Pavé 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 narrow 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 considered reasonably accurate shooting. Just beyond the bridge the road turns sharply to the left, making a steep ascent and comes out to the east of the city, passing by several barracks or casernes. Et 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 shattered 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 reduced to heaps of débris. 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 protection 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 readied 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 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 blessés 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 operating-room where cases too urgent to permit of delay were put under the knife. There was no confusion 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 éclat 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 Bellray 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. 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 Verdun 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 bombardment. 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 apparently 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 dust above me. My first impression---that this was a particularly unhealthy spot---here found confirmation. 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 brancardier 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 flickering 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 communiqués show there were attacks 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 regard 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 blessés. "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: "Ils 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 returning and that he leaned out and shouted: "Be careful, they are shelling the road ahead," and that I proceeded on my way, half-dead for want of sleep, wondering dully how a chap was to "be careful."
I remember a night when, the road blocked, I was forced to make a détour through the woods, I ran into 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 tine. 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, suddenly, 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 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. Éclat 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, completing 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 other 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 quarters were now shared with gas victims, the poor chaps coughing almost continuously. We were all feeling 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 Sacré 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.