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Title: Friends of France - The Field Service of the American Ambulance Described by its Members
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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[Illustration: _La France Guerrière_]



The Field Service of the American Ambulance described by its members.

Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company,
The Riverside Press--Cambridge

Copyright, 1916, by Houghton Mifflin Company
All Rights Reserved




  In appreciation
  of all that their effort
  in America
  has accomplished for this
  Service in France


  INTRODUCTION _A. Piatt Andrew_                                    xvii

  LETTER FROM SECTION LEADERS                                        xix

  I. THE ORGANIZATION OF THE SERVICE _Stephen Galatti_                 1

      _Henry Sydnor Harrison_                                          6

  III. THE SECTION IN ALSACE RECONQUISE _Preston Lockwood_            21

  IV. LAST DAYS IN ALSACE _Everett Jackson_                           51

  V. THE SECTION IN LORRAINE _James R. McConnell_                     61
      With an introduction by Theodore Roosevelt

      _Frank Hoyt Gailor_                                             89

  VII. ONE OF THE SECTIONS AT VERDUN _Henry Sheahan_                 109

  VIII. THE SECTION IN FLANDERS _Joshua G. B. Campbell_              117

  IX. THE BEGINNINGS OF A NEW SECTION _George Rockwell_              131

  X. UN BLESSÉ À MONTAUVILLE _Emery Pottle_                          136

  XI. CHRISTMAS EVE, 1915 _Waldo Peirce_                             139

  XII. THE INSPECTOR'S LETTER BOX                                    148

      Our ambulances--How the cars reach Paris--_En route_ for the
      front--First impressions--The daily programme--Handling the
      wounded--The wounded--Night duty--Fitting into the
      life--_Paysages de guerre_--Soldier life--July 22 at
      Pont-à-Mousson--Incidents of a driver's life--_Three Croix de
      Guerre_--From day to day--From another diary--Further
      pages--A night trip--An attack--_Poilu_ hardships--Winter in
      Alsace--Weeks of quiet--Night--Morning--Stray thoughts--A
      gallant _blessé_--Perils of a blizzard--Poignant
      impressions--In the hospital--New quarters--The poetry of war.

      Champagne, 1914-1915                                           227

  XIII. FOUR LETTERS FROM VERDUN                                     232

  TRIBUTES AND CITATIONS                                             252

  MEMBERS OF THE FIELD SERVICE                                       337












  _La France Guerrière_                                     Frontispiece

  _Dunkirk, May, 1915_                                                 6

  _An American Ambulance in Flanders_                                 10

  _An American Ambulance in Ypres_                                    12

  _Soldiers marching by American Ambulances in a Flemish Town_        14

  _Americans in their Gas-Masks_                                      16

  _The Col de Bussang--the Gate to Alsace Reconquise_                 22

  _Supplies for the Soldiers being carried on Mules over the Vosges
    Mountains_                                                        24

  _At a Valley "Poste" (Mittlach)_                                    24

  _American Drivers in Alsace_                                        28

  _A "Poste de Secours" in the Valley of the Fecht_                   30

  _Sharing Meals at a "Poste"_                                        30

  _La Terre Promise_                                                  36

  _The Harvard Club of Alsace Reconquise_                             42

  _Winter Days in Alsace_                                             54

  _Effect of German Shells in Alsace_ (_Thann_)                       58

  _On the Road to Hartmannsweilerkopf, December, 1915_                58

  _Shells breaking on the Côte-de-Mousson_                            70

  _Watching an Aeroplane Duel in Pont-à-Mousson_                      70

  _In Front of a "Poste de Secours"_                                  74

  _An American Ambulance Driver_                                      74

  _On the Road to Bois-le-Prêtre_                                     78

  _Fontaine du Père Hilarion, Bois-le-Prêtre_                         78

  _Loading the Ambulance_                                             94

  _At a "Poste" at the Very Front_                                   104

  _Soldiers of France_                                               110

  _Americans in their Gas-Masks in front of the Bomb-proof
    Shelter outside of the Headquarters_                             118

  _A "Poste de Secours" in Flanders_                                 122

  _Waiting at a "Poste de Secours"_                                  122

  _A Winter Day in Flanders_                                         124

  _A Group of American Drivers in Northern France_                   128

  _The Cathedral in Nieuport, July, 1915_                            128

  _Some of the Members of Section IV_                                132

  _Approaching the High-Water Mark_                                  134

  _"Poilus" and Americans sharing their Lunch_                       134

  _Richard Hall_                                                     144

  _Richard Hall's Grave_                                             146

  _An Inspection Trip in Alsace_                                     152

  _Within Sight of the German Trenches_                              153

  _Stretchers slung between Two Wheels on their Way from the
    Trenches_                                                        156

  _Evacuating a Hospital_                                            158

  _Transferring the Wounded to the Train_                            158

  _The End of an Ambulance_                                          166

  _Decoration of Carey and Hale_                                     178

  _A Winter Morning_                                                 182

  _Alsatian Woods in Winter_                                         182

  _The "Poste de Secours" near Hartmannsweilerkopf_                  186

  _Winter in Alsace_                                                 194

  _What Night Trips without Lights sometimes mean_                   210

  _The Dangers of the Road_                                          210

  _Mule Convoy in Alsace_                                            214

  _The "Poste" near Hartmannsweilerkopf after a Bombardment_         214

  _One of our Cars in Trouble_                                       216

  _Coffins in Courtyard of Base Hospital in Alsace_                  216

  _Richard Hall's Car after Shell landed under it_                   218

  _A "Poste de Secours" at Montauville_                              222

  _Saucisse above Verdun_                                            232

  _At a Dressing-Station near Verdun_                                236

  _American Ambulance in Verdun_                                     241

  _American Ambulance at a Dressing-Station near Verdun_             246

  _A Corner of Verdun, July, 1916_                                   250

  _Headquarters of the American Ambulance Field Service, 21 Rue
    Raynouard, Paris_                                                276

  _Some of the Men of the American Ambulance Field Service at
    their Headquarters, 21 Rue Raynouard, Paris_                     278

  _The "Croix de Guerre"_                                            278

  _The "Médaille Militaire"_                                         330

  _"Vive la France!"_                                                346


  _Roger M. L. Balbiani_                                             281

  _Edward Bartlett_                                                  281

  _William Barber_                                                   330

  _Leslie Buswell_                                                   283

  _Joshua Campbell_                                                  283

  _Graham Carey_                                                     285

  _John Clark_                                                       285

  _Edmund J. Curley_                                                 287

  _Benjamin Dawson_                                                  287

  _David B. Douglass_                                                289

  _Luke C. Doyle_                                                    289

  _Brooke Leonard Edwards_                                           291

  _Powel Fenton_                                                     291

  _Stephen Galatti_                                                  293

  _Halcott Glover_                                                   293

  _Richard Hall_                                                     295

  _Dudley Hale_                                                      297

  _Sigurd Hansen_                                                    297

  _Lovering Hill_                                                    299

  _Lawrence Hitt_                                                    301

  _George Hollister_                                                 301

  _Everett Jackson_                                                  303

  _Philip Lewis_                                                     303

  _Walter Lovell_                                                    305

  _James R. McConnell_                                               305

  _Douglas MacMonagle_                                               307

  _William T. Martin_                                                307

  _Joseph Mellen_                                                    309

  _Francis Dashwood Ogilvie_                                         309

  _Waldo Peirce_                                                     311

  _Thomas Potter_                                                    311

  _Tracy J. Putnam_                                                  313

  _Beverly Rantoul_                                                  313

  _Durant Rice_                                                      315

  _George Roeder_                                                    315

  _Edward Salisbury_                                                 317

  _Roswell Sanders_                                                  330

  _Bernard Schroder_                                                 317

  _James Milton Sponagle_                                            319

  _Henry Suckley_                                                    319

  _John Taylor_                                                      321

  _Edward Tinkham_                                                   321

  _Donald M. Walden_                                                 323

  _J. Marquand Walker_                                               323

  _Victor White_                                                     325

  _Walter Wheeler_                                                   327

  _Harold Willis_                                                    327

  _William H. Woolverton_                                            329



     Les États-Unis d'Amérique n'ont pas oubliés que la première page
     de l'histoire de leur indépendance a été écrite avec un peu de
     sang français. (_Général Joffre._)

THE following pages, written and edited in the course of active service
in France, tell, however imperfectly, something of the experiences of a
small group of young Americans who have not been inert onlookers during
the Great War.

Few in number and limited in their activities, this little band of
American ambulance drivers in France is of course insignificant when
compared with the tens of thousands of young Frenchmen who crossed the
ocean as soldiers and sailors to help America in 1777. To the valor and
devotion of these Frenchmen we owe our very existence as an independent
nation, and nothing that Americans have done for France during these
last hard years of trial can be thought of--without embarrassment--in
relation with what Frenchmen did for us in those unforgettable years of
our peril from 1777 to 1781.

The little group of Americans told of in this book who, during the past
two years, have dedicated valiant effort and, not unfrequently, risked
their lives in the service of France, can best be thought of as only
a symbol of millions of other Americans, men and women, who would
gladly have welcomed an opportunity to do what these men have done--or
more. For, notwithstanding official silence and the injunctions
of presidential prudence, the majority of Americans have come to
appreciate the meaning, not only to France, but to all the world, of
the issues that are to-day so desperately at stake, and their hearts
and hopes are all with France in her gigantic struggle. They share with
the world at large a feeling towards the French people of sympathy,
of admiration, and, indeed, of reverence, such as exists towards the
people of no other country; and millions of them, like these volunteers
of the American Ambulance, have been tortured by a longing to have some
share with the people of France in defending the ideals for which, as
they feel, America has always stood, and for which France is now making
such vast, such gallant, and such unflinching sacrifice.

The service to France of Americans, whether ambulance drivers,
surgeons, nurses, donors and distributors of relief, aviators, or
foreign _légionnaires_, when measured by the prodigious tasks with
which France has had to cope during the past two years, has indeed
been infinitesimally small; but their service to America itself has
been important. They have rendered this inestimable benefit to their
country. They have helped to keep alive in France the old feeling
of friendship and respect for us which has existed there since our
earliest days and which, otherwise, would probably have ceased to
exist. They have helped to demonstrate to the chivalrous people of
France that Americans, without hesitating to balance the personal
profit and loss, still respond to the great ideals that inspired the
founders of our Republic. They have helped France to penetrate official
reticence and re-discover America's surviving soul.

When all is said and done, however, the _ambulanciers_ themselves
have gained the most from the work in which they have taken part. It
is a privilege even in ordinary times to live in this "_doux pays de
France_," to move about among its gentle and finished landscapes, in
the presence of its beautiful architectural heritages and in daily
contact with its generous, sensitive, gifted, and highly intelligent
people. Life in France, even in ordinary times, means to those of
almost any other country daily suggestions of courtesy, refinement, and
thoughtful consideration for others. It means continual suggestions of
an intelligent perspective in the art of living and in the things that
give life dignity and worth.

The opportunity of living in France, as these Americans have lived
during the past two years of war, has meant all this and more. It has
meant memories of human nature exalted by love of country, shorn of
self, singing amidst hardships, smiling at pain, unmindful of death.
It has meant contact with the most gentle and the most intelligent
of modern peoples facing mortal peril--facing it with silent and
unshakable resolve, victoriously resisting it with modesty and with
never a vaunting word. It has meant imperishable visions of intrepidity
and of heroism as fine as any in the records of knight-errantry or in
the annals of Homeric days.

Nothing else, surely, can ever offer so much of noble inspiration as
these glimpses of the moral grandeur of unconquerable France.

          A. PIATT ANDREW
              _Inspector General of the Field Service_


[Illustration: A la Françoise et Carrément]

THE publication of this book presents an opportunity of showing our
appreciation of the extraordinarily successful work of A. PIATT ANDREW
in reorganizing and furthering the work of the Field Service of the
American Ambulance.

Those of us who were in the service before his arrival and have
continued to work under him have been able to judge the effects of
his efforts, and to realize the amount of activity, patience, and
tact necessary to overcome the numerous difficulties which presented
themselves. It was through the confidence placed in him by the
French military authorities that the small American squads, after
reorganization to army standards, were allowed to take positions of
trust at the front. As a result of his untiring efforts in America
funds were raised and cars donated to continue and advance the work.

No more striking proof can be given of the change in value to the Army
of our Service, and of the change in the attitude of the authorities
towards it, than the recent request of the Automobile Service to the
American Ambulance for other Sections. When Mr. Andrew began his work
we were seeking an opportunity to widen our sphere of work. Now the
efficiency and usefulness of the service are such that the Army has
requested that it be increased.

We all owe much to Mr. Andrew: his devotion to the cause has inspired
all those working with him.

              _Commander of Section III_ (_Alsace_)

              _Commander of Section II_ (_Lorraine_)

          H. P. TOWNSEND
              _Commander of Section I_ (_Flanders_)




APRIL 1915-APRIL 1916

DURING the first eight months of the war the American Ambulance
continually hoped to extend its work to an Ambulance Service actually
connected with the armies in the field, but not until April, 1915, were
these hopes definitely realized. The history, however, of these first
eight months is important; its mistakes showed the way to success; its
expectations brought gifts of cars, induced volunteers to come from
America, and laid the basis upon which the present service is founded.

A gift of ten Ford ambulances, whose bodies were made out of
packing-boxes, enabled the American Ambulance, at the very outset of
the war, to take part in the transport service, and as more and more
donations were made small squads were formed in an attempt to enlarge
the work. These squads, each of five cars, were offered for service
with the armies, but owing to their inadequate size were in every case
attached by the Government to existing services well in the rear. So
there were small squads at Saint-Pol, Amiens, Paris Plage, Abbeville,
Merville, and Hesdin, attached to British or French Sections, and
they were engaged in evacuating hospitals, work which clearly could be
better done by the larger cars of Sanitary Sections already attached to
these hospitals.

In April, 1915, through the efforts of A. Piatt Andrew, who had then
become Inspector of the Field Service, the French authorities made a
place for American Ambulance Sections at the front on trial. A squad
of ten ambulances was sent to the Vosges, and this group attracted the
attention of their commanding officers, who asked that it be increased
by ten cars so as to form it into an independent Sanitary Section. As
soon as this was done, the unit took its place in conjunction with a
French Section in an important Sector on the front in Alsace.

With this initial success a new order of things began, and in the
same month a second Section of twenty cars was formed and was
stationed, again in conjunction with an existing French service, in the
much-bombarded town of Pont-à-Mousson.

In the meantime, two squads of five cars each had been working at
Dunkirk. These were now re-enforced by ten more and the whole Section
was then moved to the French front in Belgium, with the result that
at the end of the month of April, 1915, the Field Service of the
American Ambulance had really come into existence. It comprised three
Sections of twenty ambulances, a staff car, and a supply car--Section
Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 1, as it was called, stationed at Dunkirk;
Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 2, stationed in Lorraine; and Section
Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3, in the Vosges.

The story of the next year is one of real achievement, in which the
three Sections emerged from the test with a record of having fulfilled
the highest expectations of proving their utility to France. Section
1, having given an excellent account of itself in the long-range
bombardments and air-raids at Dunkirk, was rewarded by being intrusted
with important work in Belgium at Coxyde, Nieuport, Poperinghe,
Elverdinghe, Crombeke, and other _postes de secours_ in that Sector of
the French front.

Section 2 had to win recognition in a region already served by a French
Sanitary Service and to which it was attached to do secondary work. The
Section not only accomplished its own work, but made it possible for
the French Section to be withdrawn, taking over the _postes de secours_
on the line, and finally becoming independently responsible for an area
renowned for its continual heavy fighting.

The record of Section 3 is slightly different. It first successfully
took over the existing service, and then, pushing on, opened up to
motor transport hitherto inaccessible mountain _postes de secours_.

With the three Sections thus established, it is interesting to note why
they have been a recognized success so shortly after their possible
usefulness was appreciated.

In the first place, an admirable type of car was selected. Our light
Ford ambulances, stationed as they were in Belgium, in Lorraine, and
in Alsace, faced three separate transportation problems. At Dunkirk
they found the mud no obstacle; at Pont-à-Mousson they outgeneralled
the _ravitaillement_ convoys; in the Vosges they replaced the mule.
They were driven, too, by college men or men of the college type, who
joined the service to be of use and who brought to the work youth and
intelligence, initiative and courage. There have been to date in the
Field Service 89 men from Harvard, 26 from Yale, 23 from Princeton, 8
from the University of Pennsylvania, 7 from Dartmouth, 6 from Columbia,
4 from the University of Michigan, 4 from the University of Virginia,
18 American Rhodes scholars from Oxford, and representatives of more
than thirty other colleges and universities. Twenty-eight men have
already been cited and awarded the _croix de guerre_.

In November, 1915, at the request of General Headquarters, a fourth
Section, made possible through the continued aid of generous friends
in America, took its place in the field. In December, 1915, Section 1
was moved to the Aisne. In January, 1916, Section 3 was transferred to
the Lorraine front, in February Section 2 was summoned to the vicinity
of Verdun at the moment of the great battle, and in March definite
arrangements for a fifth Section were completed.

So April, 1916, finds the three old Sections still on duty at the
front, the fourth already making its reputation there, and a fifth
being fitted out. Confidence has been gained; we have learned our
parts. The problem of the future is, first, to maintain efficiency,
and at the same time to be ready to put more cars and more men in the
field. Our vision is to play a larger rôle in behalf of France, and
with the continued coöperation of the donors of ambulances and the same
spirit of sacrifice on the part of the men in the field, it should be

            _Assistant Inspector_

[1] Since the writing of this chapter three more Sections have gone
into the field and an eighth is in process of formation. More than
fifty American colleges and universities have been represented, and
more than fifty members of the service have received the _Croix de
Guerre_ or the _Médaille Militaire_. (_November, 1916._)




IN June, 1915, it was the pride of the Section in Flanders, Section
1, to feel that it had come closer to war than any other division of
the American Ambulance. In June, 1916, the point of pride is to know
that those first intense experiences have long since been duplicated
and eclipsed. The competitive principle does not enter, naturally; the
significance is that in this twelvemonth the service of the Americans
has been steadily extended and vitalized. And in attempting to express
here something of the whole through one of its parts, I need only
suggest that the initial adventure in the North, comprehending in a
few crowded weeks a fairly full range of experience behind the lines,
perhaps still stands as typical and illustrative of all the rest.

[Illustration: DUNKIRK, MAY, 1915]

In Dunkirk we witnessed, and within our powers tried to cope with,
what yet remains, I believe, the most sensational artillery exploit in
history. It is remembered that the little cars of the Americans often
ran those empty streets, and pursued those deafening detonations,
alone. Here, at our base, we shared the life of a town under sporadic,
but devastating, bombardment; forward, in Elverdinghe, we shared the
life of a town under perpetual, and also devastating, bombardment;
still further forward, in Ypres, we beheld a town bombarded from
the face of the earth in a single night. We shared no life here, nor
yet in Nieuport, for there was none to share. In the salient around
Ypres, we played for many days our small part in that vast and various
activity forever going on at the back of the front. Here we saw and
learned things not easily to be forgotten: the diverse noises of shells
going and coming, of _arrivées_ and _départs_; the stupendous uproar
of the "duel" before the charge, which makes the deepening quiet of a
run-back come like a balm and a blessing; the strange informality of
roadside batteries, booming away in the sight of peasant families and
every passer; the silence and the stillness, and the tenseness and the
busyness, of night along the lines; the extreme difficulty of hiding
from shrapnel successfully without a dug-out; the equal difficulty of
driving successfully down a shell-bitten road in darkness like ink;
the glow against the sky of a burning town, and the bright steady
dots of starlights around half the horizon; the constant straggle of
the evicted by the field-ambulance's front-door, and the fast-growing
cemetery at the back-door; the whine and patter of bullets by the
_postes de secours_ and the business-like ripple of the machine-guns;
the whir of Taubes, the practical impossibility of hitting them from
the ground, and the funny little bombs sometimes dropped by the same;
the noises made by men gone mad with pain; the glorious quiet of men
under the acetylene lamps of the operating-table; "crowd psychology,"
and why a regiment becomes a "fighting machine," and how tender hearts
are indurated with a toughening of the skin; the high prevalence of
courage among the sons of men; drawbacks of sleeping on a stretcher in
an ambulance; the unkemptness of Boche prisoners; life, death, and war,
and the values and meanings thereof.

Such things, as I know, passed into the experience of Section 1, in
Flanders. And these things, and more, have similarly passed into the
experience of scores of young Americans since, in their life and
service behind the lines of France.

It is the composite experience which the following pages narrate; it is
the composite service which the mind holds to with most satisfaction.
We were the _Service Sanitaire Américaine_: a proud title, and we
wished, naturally, to invest it with the realest meaning. That in this
year 1915-16, the American service has been rendered efficiently and
even valuably, this volume as a whole attests, I think. That it has
been rendered with the requisite indifference to personal risk is also,
I hope, supported by the record. A transient in the service, who by no
means bore the burden and heat of the day, may be permitted, I trust,
to say these necessary, or at least these interesting and pertinent,
things with complete detachment.

I remember the hour of Section 1's "baptism of fire." We stood in the
lee (or what we hoped was the lee) of the Petit Château at Elverdinghe,
while German shells whistled over our heads and burst with a wicked
crash about the little church, the typical target, a couple of hundred
yards away. (What interest we felt when a fragment of shell, smoking
hot, fell almost at our feet, and what envy of the man who gathered in
this first memorable "souvenir"!) We were just down from Dunkirk; we
were greener than the grass that blew; and that the novel proceedings
were acutely interesting to us will never be denied. Perhaps each of us
secretly wondered to himself if he was going to be afraid; certainly
all of us must have wished, with some anxiousness, that those strange
whistles and roars would turn themselves another way. And still, when
the young Englishman who ran the ambulance service there appeared at
that moment and asked for two cars to go down the road to Brielen
(which was to go straight toward the trouble), it is pleasant to
remember that there was no lack of volunteers, and two of my companions
were cranking up at once. There was never any time later, I am sure,
when the sense of personal danger was so vivid in the minds of so many
of us together.

Every ambulance-driver must have his bad quarters of an hour, no
doubt--and some of the worst of them may concern, not himself at
all, but his car or his wounded. And if it is said that these young
Americans, amateurs and volunteers, have acquitted themselves well in
sometimes trying circumstances, there is no intention to over-emphasize
this aspect of their service. A volume might be written on the
developmental reactions--all but mathematical in their working--of
war-time. Nor does it seem necessary to add that the risk of the
_ambulanciers_, at the worst, is small in comparison with that of those
whom they serve, and from whom in turn they get their inspiration--the
intrepid youths in the trenches.

We came to know these youths very well--the gallant and charming
_poilus_ who have so long carried the western front upon their
shoulders. We sincerely admired them; and on them largely we formed our
opinions of France, and of the war generally, and of war.


From the standpoint of observation, indeed,--and doubtless it is
observation one should try to record here,--I believe we all felt the
peculiar advantage of our position to have been this, that we mingled
with the soldiers on something like equal terms. We were not officers;
we were not distinguished visitors dashing up in a staff-car for an
hour of sight-seeing. We were rankers (so far as we were anything), and
we were permanent; and in the necessities of our work, we touched the
life of the common fighting man at every hour of the day and night, and
under almost every conceivable circumstance. We were with the _poilus_
in the hour of rout and disaster; we were with them in the flush of
a victorious charge brilliantly executed. We crawled along roads
blocked for miles with them, moving forward; we wormed into railroad
stations swamped with the tide of their wounded. Now we heard their
boyish fun, and shared their jokes in the fine free days off duty; and
now we heard, from the unseen well of the jolting car, their faint
entreaty, _Doucement, doucement!_ We saw them distressed by the loss of
their precious _sacs_, or elated by the gift of a button or a cheese;
we saw them again, in silence and the darkness beside the Yser, very
quiet and busy, with the ping and whine of many rifles; and again we
found them lying on straw in dim-lit stables, bloody and silent, but
not defeated. Now they gave us tobacco and souvenirs, and told us of
their _gosses_, and helped us tinker with our cars, about which some of
them, mechanicians in happier days, knew so much more than we did; and
now they died in our ambulances, and sometimes went mad. We saw them
gay, and we saw them gassed; we found them idling or writing letters
on the running-boards of our cars, and we found the dark stains of
their fading lives upon our stretchers; we passed them stealing up like
stalwart ghosts to action, and we left them lying in long brown rows
beside the old roads of Flanders.

And to me at least it seemed that the dominant note and characteristic
quality of the _poilu_, and all his intense activity, was just a
disciplined matter-of-factness, a calm, fine, business-like efficiency,
an utter absence of all heroics. Of his heroism, it is superfluous
to speak now. My observation convinced me, indeed, that fortitude is
everywhere more common and evident, not less, than even rhapsodical
writers have represented. There seems literally no limit to the powers
of endurance of the human animal, once he is put to it. Many writers
have written of the awful groanings of the wounded. I must say that,
though I have seen thousands of wounded, the groans I have heard
could almost be counted upon the fingers of my hand. Only once in my
experience do I remember seeing any signs of excitement or disorder.
That was in the roads around Poperinghe, in the first threatening hours
of the second battle of Ypres. Once only did I get any impression of
human terror. And that was only a reminiscence, left behind by women
and children in the tumbled empty houses of Ypres. But in all the
heroism, unlimited and omnipresent, there is observed, as I say, little
or no heroics. That entire absence of drum and fife, which strikes and
arrests all beholders at the front, is significant and symbolic. These
men muster and move forward to the risk of death almost as other men
take the subway and go downtown to business. There are no fanfares at
all, no grand gestures, no flourishes about the soul and "la gloire."

It is true, no doubt, that the ambulance-driver views the scene from
a somewhat specialized angle. His principal association is with the
sequelæ of war; his view is too much the hospital view. Yet, it must
be insisted, he becomes quickly and strangely callous on these points;
and on the whole would be less likely to overstress the mere horrors
than someone who had not seen so much of them. On the other hand, as I
have suggested, he has extraordinary opportunities for viewing war as a
thing at once of many parts and of a marvellously organized unity.


Personally I think that my sharpest impression of war as a whole
came to me, not along the _postes de secours_ or under the guns at
all, but at the station _place_ in the once obscure little town of
Poperinghe, on the 23d of April, 1915.

That, it will be remembered, was a fateful day. At five o'clock on the
afternoon before (everybody was perfectly specific about the hour),
there had begun the great movement now known as the Second Battle of
Ypres (or of the Yser). The assault had begun with the terrifying
surprise of poison-gas; the gas was followed by artillery attacks of a
ferocity hitherto unequalled; Ypres had been wiped out in a few hours;
the Germans had crossed the Yser. Thus the French and English lines,
which were joined, had been abruptly pushed back over a long front.
That these were anxious hours for the Allies, Sir John French's report
of June 15 (1915) indicates very plainly, I think. But they were far
from being idle hours. To-day the whole back country, which for weeks
had swarmed with soldiers, was up. For miles around, Allied reserves
had been called up from camp or billet; and now they were rushing
forward to stiffen the wavering lines and stem the threatening thrust
for the coast.

At three o'clock on this afternoon, I stood in Rue d'Ypres, before the
railway station in Poperinghe, and watched the new army of England go
up. Thousands and thousands, foot and horse, supply and artillery, gun,
caisson, wagon and lorry, the English were going up. All afternoon
long, in an unending stream, they tramped and rolled up the Flemish
highroad, and, wheeling just before me, dipped and disappeared down a
side-street toward "out there." Beautifully equipped and physically
attractive--the useless cavalry especially!--sun-tanned and confident,
all ready, I am sure, to die without a whimper, they were a most likely
and impressive-looking lot. And I suppose that they could have had
little more idea of what they were going into than you and I have of
the geography of the nether regions.

This was on my left--the English going up. And on my right, the two
streams actually touching and mingling, the English were coming back.
They did not come as they went, however. They came on their backs, very
still and remote; and all that you were likely to see of them now was
their muddy boots at the ambulance flap.

Service Sanitaire as we were, I think Section 1 never saw, before
or since, such a conglomeration of wounded as we saw that day at
Poperinghe. Here was the rail-head and the base; here for the moment
were the Red Cross and Royal Army Medical Corps units shelled out of
Ypres; here was the nervous centre of all that swarming and sweating
back-of-the-front. And here, hour after hour, into and through the
night, the slow-moving wagons, English, French, and American, rolling
on one another's heels, brought back the bloody harvest.


The English, so returning to Poperinghe _gare_, were very well cared
for. By the station wicket a large squad of English stretcher-bearers,
directed, I believe by a colonel of the line, was unceasingly and
expertly busy. Behind the wicket lay the waiting English train,
steam up for Boulogne, enormously long and perfectly sumptuous: a
super-train, a hospital Pullman, all swinging white beds and shining
nickel. The French, alas, were less lucky that day. Doubtless the
unimagined flood of wounded had swamped the generally excellent
service; for the moment, at least, there was not only no super-train
for the French; there was no train. As for the bunks of the station
warehouses, the _hôpital d'évacuation_, they were of course long since
exhausted. Thus it was that wounded _tirailleurs_ and Zouaves and black
men from Africa, set down from ambulances, staggered unattended up
the station platform, sat and lay anyhow about the concrete and the
sand--no flesh-wounded hoppers these, but hard-punished men, not a few
of them struck, it was only too manifest, in the seat of their lives.
This was a bloody disarray which I never saw elsewhere, and hope never
to see again. Here, indeed, there was moaning to be heard, with the
hard gasp and hopeless coughing of the _asphyxiés_. And still, behind
this heavy ambulance, rolled another; and another and another and

On my left was the cannon fodder going up; on my right was the cannon
fodder coming back. The whole mechanics of war at a stroke, you might
have said: these two streams being really one, these men the same men,
only at slightly different stages of their experience. But there was
still another detail in the picture we saw that day, more human than
the organized machine, perhaps, and it seemed even more pathetic.

Behind me as I stood and watched the mingling streams of soldiers, the
little square was black with _réfugiés_. Farther back, in the station
yard, a second long train stood steaming beside the hospital train, a
train for the homeless and the waifs of war. And presently the gate
opened, and these crowds, old men and women and children, pushed
through to embark on their unknown voyage.


These were persons who but yesterday possessed a local habitation and a
name, a background, old ties and associations, community organization,
a life. Abruptly severed from all this, violently hacked off at the
roots, they were to-day floating units in a nameless class, droves
of a ticket and number, _réfugiés_. I walked up the platform beside
their crowded train. A little group still lingered outside: a boy, a
weazened old man, and three or four black-clad women, simple peasants,
with their household goods in a tablecloth--waiting there, it may be,
for the sight of a familiar face, missed since last night. I asked
the women where they came from. They said from Boesinghe, which the
Germans had all but entered the night before. Their homes, then, were
in Boesinghe? Oh, no; their homes, their real homes, were in a little
village some twenty kilometres back. And then they fixed themselves
permanently in my memory by saying, quite simply, that they had been
driven from their homes by the coming of the Germans in October (1914);
and they had then come to settle with relatives in Boesinghe, which
had seemed safe--until last night. Twice expelled and severed at the
roots: where were they going now? I asked the question; and one of the
women made a little gesture with her arms, and answered, stoically: "To
France"--which was, as I consider, the brave way of saying, God knows.
As the case seemed sad to me, I tried to say something to that effect;
and, getting no answer to my commonplaces, I glanced up, and all the
women's eyes had suddenly filled with tears.

And outside the English were still going up with a fine tramp and
rumble, nice young clerks from Manchester and green-grocers' assistants
from Tottenham Court Road.

I have never forgotten that the very last soldier I carried in my
ambulance (on June 23, 1915) was one whose throat had been quietly
cut while he slept by a flying sliver of a shell thrown from a
gun twenty-two miles away. But it will not do, I am aware, to
over-emphasize the purely mechanical side of modern war, the deadly
impersonality which often seems to characterize it, the terrible
meaninglessness of its deaths at times. Ours, as I have said, was
too much the hospital view. That the personal equation survives
everywhere, and the personal dedication, it is quite superfluous to
say. Individual exaltation, fear and the victory over fear, conscious
consecration to an idea and ideal, all the subtle promptings and stark
behavior by which the common man chooses and avows that there are ways
of dying which transcend all life: this, we know, must have been the
experience of hundreds of thousands of the young soldiers of France.
And all this, beyond doubt, will one day be duly recorded, in tales to
stir the blood and set the heart afire.

And the fine flourish is not altogether wanting even now. As some
offset to the impression of pure blood and tears, let me quote a
document showing that the courage of France still sometimes displays
itself with the dash of purple. Before me is a copy of the official
proclamation of the Mayor of Dunkirk, posted through the town after the
stunning surprise of the first bombardments. It runs as follows:--


     _Les Bombardements que nous venons de subir ont fait surtout des
     victimes dans les rues._

     _Je recommande_ ESSENTIELLEMENT _aux habitants de s'abriter dans
     les caves voutées et de ne pas se fier même à des écarts de tir
     assez longs pour sortir_.

     _Dunkerquois, nous avons à supporter les risques de la guerre,
     nous les supportons vaillamment._

     _Notre ville peut avoir à payer son tribut au vandalisme de nos
     ennemis comme d'autres villes_, NOUS GARDERONS HAUT LES COEURS.

     _Les ruines seules seront allemandes, la terre restera française
     et après la_ VICTOIRE, _nous nous retrouverons_ PLUS FORTS, PLUS




     The bombardments to which we have been subjected have caused many
     casualties in the streets.

     I most emphatically urge all persons to seek shelter in vaulted
     cellars, and not to trust even to intervals in the firing long
     enough to go out.

     People of Dunkirk, we have to put up with the hazards of war, and
     we are doing so courageously.

     Our city may have to pay its tribute to the vandalism of our foes,
     like other cities; we will keep our hearts serene and high.

     The ruins alone will be German, the soil will remain French, and
     after the Victory, we shall meet again, stronger, more determined,
     and prouder than ever.

     _Vive_ Dunkirk forever, and _Vive la France_!

And the best part of this ringing manifesto, as it seems to me, is that
it is all quite true. Dunkirk will live long, and so will France; and
after the victory the citizens will find themselves, we cannot doubt,
prouder and more resolute than ever.

In the immense burden which France is bearing, the sum of the service
of the young Americans has been, of course, quite infinitesimal. As the
most generous and sympathetic persons are always quickest to appreciate
the intentions of sympathy from others, it is pleasant to know that
the French, characteristically, have not been unmindful of even this
slight thing. But, it is truly said elsewhere, the real gainers from
this relationship have been the Americans. Not only is this true; it
seems to me there can be no surprise in it. There can be hardly any of
these men who did not set out from home, however unconsciously, for
his own good gain; hardly one who did not feel that if he could but
touch this memorable making of history with however small a hand, if
he could but serve in the littlest this so memorable cause, he would
have a possession to go with him all his days. _Quorum parva pars
fuerunt_; and--from the little Latin all schoolboys remember--_hæc olim
meminisse juvabit_. This is theirs; and it is enough. But should any
of them covet another reward than what they carry within themselves, I
think they have it if this log-book of their Service seems to show that
within their powers they have deserved the fine name here bestowed upon
them, the Friends of France.





  "Mon corps à la terre,
  Mon âme à Dieu,
  Mon coeur à la France."

THE trenches in this part of the Vosges are cut along the brows of
heights which directly overlook the Rhine Valley. From these summits
can be seen, beyond the smoke which deepens the mist above the famous
cities of Mulhouse and Colmar, the shadowy boundary of the Black Forest
and the snow-topped mountains of Switzerland. A few yards behind the
mouths of the communication trenches are the first dressing-stations,
everywhere and always one of war's most ghastly spots. Paths make their
way from these dressing-stations down the mountain-sides until they
become roads, and, once they have become roads, our work begins.

Nowhere else are foreign soldiers upon German soil. Nowhere else, from
Ypres to Belfort, do the lines face each other in a mountain range of
commanding summits and ever-visible village-dotted valleys. Nowhere
else can one study in history's most famous borderland both war and one
of those problems in nationality which bring about wars. And surely
nowhere else are Detroit-manufactured automobiles competing with
Missouri-raised mules in the business of carrying wounded men over
dizzy roads.

Until our light, cheap cars were risked on these roads a wounded man
faced a ten-mile journey with his stretcher strapped to the back of a
mule or put on the floor of a hard, springless wagon. Now he is carried
by hand or in wheelbarrows from one half to two miles. Then in one of
our cars there is a long climb followed by a long descent. And over
such roads! Roads blocked by artillery convoys and swarming with mules,
staggering likely as not beneath a load of high-explosive shells! Roads
so narrow that two vehicles cannot pass each other when both are in
motion! Roads with a steep bank on the one side and a sheer drop on the
other! Roads where lights would draw German shells! Roads even where
horns must not be blown!


Indeed, these roads seem to stand for our whole work. But they do not
by any means represent our whole work, and it is necessary, if one
wants to convey a comprehensive idea of our life, to begin at our base.
This is a village twenty-five miles to the rear, but strategically
located in relation to the various dressing-stations, sorting-points,
base hospitals, and rail-heads which we serve, and, in this war of
shipping-clerks and petrol, one of those villages which is as much a
part of the front as even the trenches themselves. It is a "little,
one-eyed, blinking sort of place." It is not as near to the fighting
as some of us, particularly adventurous humanitarians fresh from
New York and Paris, desire. But, picturesquely placed on the banks
of the Moselle and smiling up at the patches of hollow-streaked
snow that, even in late July and August, stand out on the tops of
the Ballon d'Alsace and the Ballon de Servance, it is a lovely,
long-to-be-remembered spot and every one in the Section quite naturally
speaks of it as "home."

We are billeted in some twenty-five households as if we were officers,
although our rations are the rations of a common soldier and our
Section rules are unfailingly to salute officers and even to make
ourselves scarce in hotels and cafés frequented only by officers. Our
lodgings range from hay-lofts to electrically lighted rooms; but the
character of our welcome is always the same--pleasant, cordial, to be
counted upon--"You are doing something for France and I will do what I
can for you."

One of the fellows, for instance, is quartered over a café. It is
a little place, dirty and unattractive. Before the war an American
tourist dropping into this café would probably have been sold a bad
grade of _vin ordinaire_ and been charged too much for it. But the
other day the chap who is billeted there was a little under the weather
and I took his breakfast to him in his room. I found the café full of
customers who had not been served. The woman of the house was upstairs
giving her _ambulancier américain_ a cup of that great Vosges remedy,
linden tea. I inquired about lunch. But it was no use, there was
nothing for me to do. She was going to fix him some lunch if he felt
like eating it, and his dinner, too. Was not her husband away fighting
and had not her eldest son been marked down as missing ever since his
company took a German trench last June?

Perhaps it is not surprising that we should be so received in a town
where we have been living now for six months, where we are the best
patrons of the biggest hotel, the most valued customers of half the
shops. But this hospitable reception is by no means confined to our
base. Everywhere we meet with a courtesy and with a gratitude which
bring with them a very satisfactory sense of doing something worth
while and having it appreciated.

Imagine, for instance, a small town surrounded by mountains that,
sloping gently up from its main street and railway station, are
checkered for some distance with houses, green fields, and straggly
stone walls, while hidden in their tree-covered summits are trenches
and batteries of 75's, and here and there hotels where before the war
tourists stopped and to which now the wounded are carried. But on this
day a thick gray mist hangs over the town like a half-lowered curtain.
The guns rest because the gunners cannot see. The mist hides entirely
the tops of the mountains, gives the generally visible houses and
stone walls a dim, unshaped appearance, and makes hardly noticeable a
procession of gray motor ambulances coming out from the tree-line and
making their way down into the town.


[Illustration: AT A VALLEY "POSTE" (MITTLACH)]

Around the railway station is a group of temporary tents, where the
wounded are given by the ladies of the _Croix Rouge_ a cup of coffee
or a glass of citron and water before being packed into the _train
sanitaire_ to begin their long journey to the centre or south of
France. The ambulances evacuating the hospitals draw up among these
tents under the orders of the sergeant in charge. Four or five French
ambulances arrive and are unloaded. Then a smaller car takes its place
in the line. It has a long, low, gray body with two big red crosses
painted on either side. Beneath the red crosses are the words "American
Ambulance," and a name-plate nailed to the front seat bears the words
"Wellesley College."

The driver, after clearly doing his best to make a smooth stop, gets
down and helps in lifting out the stretchers. One of the wounded, as
his stretcher is slid along the floor of the car and lowered to the
ground, groans pitifully. He had groaned this way and sometimes even
screamed at the rough places on the road. So the driver's conscience
hurt him as he pulled some tacks out of his tires and waited for
the sergeant's signal to start. It was his first day's work as an
_ambulancier_. He could still see every rock and every rut in the last
mile of the road he had just driven over and he wondered if he really
had been as careful as possible.

But he was saved from reproaching himself very long. An _infirmier_
tapped him on the shoulder and, telling him that a _blessé_ wished to
speak to him, led him to one of the tents. It was the man about whom
he had been unhappy, now more comfortable, although evidently still

"You are very kind, sir," he said in English that might have been in
other circumstances quite good, and disclosing a lieutenant's _galons_
as he gave his right hand to the driver. "You drive carefully. I
know, for I have a car. I don't like to cry--but I have two broken
legs--anything hurts me--but it is really decent of you fellows to come
way over here--it really is _trop gentil_...." And the driver went
back to his car marvelling for the first of many times at the sense of
sympathy which had made that pain-stricken officer think of him at all.

One wet night not long ago, the writer was stopped _en route_ by a
single middle-aged soldier trudging his way along a steep road running
from a cantonment behind the lines to the trenches. Embarrassed a
little at first and pulling at his cap, this man said that he had heard
in the trenches of the American Ambulance; that a friend had written
back that he had been carried in one of them; that this was the first
time that he had had an opportunity of shaking hands with one of the
_volontaires américains_. Then, as I leaned over to say good-bye, he
shook both my hands, offered me a cigarette, shook both my hands again,
saying, "_une jolie voiture_," and, pointing towards where in the black
distance came the rumble of guns, "Perhaps you will bring _me_ back

If that man, by the way, had asked me for a lift, as is usually the
case when you are stopped like that on the road, my orders would have
been to have refused him, to have said, "_C'est défendu_" and to
have driven on. The Hague Conventions forbid carrying any soldiers
in ambulances except those who are wounded and those in the _service
sanitaire_. It is, putting it mildly, unpleasant to have to refuse a
man a ride when he is wearily facing a long walk and you are spinning
by in an empty ambulance. It is doubly unpleasant when you feel that
this man would do anything for you from pushing your car out of a
ditch to sharing a canteen. And yet, whenever we have to perform this
disagreeable duty, the conversation usually ends with a "_Merci quand

Indeed, discipline in a French soldier seems to be able to maintain
itself remarkably from within. Officers and men mingle probably more
unrestrainedly than in any army in the world. A soldier when talking to
an officer does not stand at attention after the first salute. Privates
and officers are frequently seen in the same room of a hotel or café,
and sometimes even have their meals in messes that are scarcely
separated at all. But these encroachments upon military formalism
seem to go no deeper than the frills of efficiency. Orders are obeyed
without "reasoning why," and, as in all conscript armies, the machinery
of punishment is evolved to uphold authority at all cost. Officers have
wide and immediate powers of punishment, and the decisions of courts
martial judging the graver offences are swift, severe, and highly

But, returning for the moment to Saint-Maurice, we park our cars
in the public square, on a hillside, along the fence of the curé's
yard and against the walls of an old church, where their bright red
crosses flame out against the gray flaking stone, and, on a cold
morning, it is always possible to save a lot of cranking by pushing
them down the hill. About half the Section on any given day are to be
found at the base and "in bounds," which means the square, the hotel
where we have our mess, or the room where one is billeted. These men
compose the reserve list, and are liable to be called at any minute
when they must "roll," as we say, instantly. The rest of the Section
are on duty in detachments of from one to eight cars and for periods
of from twenty-four hours to a week at various dressing-stations,
sorting-points, field hospitals, and so forth. The men on reserve are
used to reinforce these places, to fill up quickly _trains sanitaires_,
to rush to any one of a half-dozen villages which are sometimes shelled.


Often, when the fighting is heavy, not a man or a car of Section 3 is
to be found at Saint-Maurice. The repair car even will be driven to
some crossroads or sorting-point where our ambulances bring the wounded
from several dressing-stations. And Mr. Hill will be away in the staff
car dropping in upon the widely separated places where his men are
working to see that all is going well or to know the reason why.

Mr. Lovering Hill, at the outbreak of the war, was practising law in
New York City. He had been educated at Harvard and in Switzerland,
and, speaking French as well as English, and thoroughly understanding
the French temperament and people, he immediately enlisted with the
American Ambulance of Neuilly as a driver. In six months he was
promoted to the rank of squad leader, and, since last July, ranking as
a first lieutenant in the French army, he has been in charge of the
work of Section Sanitaire N{o} 3, succeeding Mr. Richard Lawrence, of
Boston, who had been compelled to return to the United States. Mr. Hill
believes in never letting the reins of discipline drag, and yet he gets
along famously with all except those who have a habit of recalling in
some way that they are volunteers.

A French lieutenant and an official interpreter are also attached to
the Section. We are partly under the control of the Sanitary Service
and partly of the Automobile Service. The French _personnel_ are a
link between the Automobile Service and our unit, and they are busy
from morning until night keeping abreast of the required reports, for
five-day reports must be made on the consumption of gasoline, the
number of miles run, the number of wounded carried, the oil, carbide,
and spare parts needed, the rations drawn, and, in great detail, any
change in _personnel_.

There are no orderlies or mechanics attached to our Section and each
driver is responsible for the upkeep and repair of his own car. We do
as much of this work as possible in the square where we park our cars.
So we patch tires, scrape carbon, and change springs while the church
bell rings persistently and mournfully for masses and funerals and
while the people who sit and watch us from their shop windows laugh at
our language as much as if they understood it.

In general charge of this work and of a blacksmith shop that we have
turned into a workroom is a so-called Mechanical Department composed
of the two drivers who know the most about automobiles. And so
successfully has the system worked out that, laymen though most of
us be, none of our "Chinese Rolls Royces" or "Mechanical Fleas"--as
an English Red Cross corps in the neighborhood has nicknamed our
Fords--has been so severely "punished" that its repair has been beyond
the power of its driver instructed and assisted by the Mechanical



We receive the one sou a day, which, in addition to allowances to wife,
if any, and to children, if any, is the wage of a French _poilu_. We
draw, as has already been mentioned, an ordinary soldier's rations:
plenty of nourishing but rather solid bread, which, with the date
of its baking stamped upon it, comes in big round loaves that we
hold against our chest and cut with our pocket knife in true _poilu_
fashion; rice or potatoes, generally rice; coffee, sugar, salt, and
sometimes fresh meat, but ordinarily canned beef, called by the French
private _singe_, or monkey meat. At our own request we get the cash
equivalent of our wine and tobacco allowances, and this is used to
help defray the expenses of having our food cooked and served in the
best hotel the town offers. But with these exceptions--French tobacco
especially may be put in the category of acquired tastes--we take and
eat everything that is given to us with a very good grace. And although
it is possible, especially at Saint-Maurice, to add variously and
cheaply to this diet at one's own expense, it probably is a fact that
those of the Section who, in a spirit of "playing the game" all the way
through, have stuck to the rations weigh more and feel better than when
they first took the field, in spite of the constant drenchings one gets
and the stretches of work without sleep.

The hours of our meals--served by the untiring, red-cheeked Fanny--are
a little more American than military for those taking their turn on
the reserve list "at home." But Mr. Hill's rule requires military
punctuality on penalty of washing the dirtiest car in the square. This
is also the punishment inflicted upon any one who does not get his car
properly ready for morning inspection, who is not in his room by nine
o'clock, who has any trouble on the road from an insufficient supply of
"gas" or oil, who is tardy in handing in reports, or breaks in any way
the rules from time to time posted in the mess-room.

"In a word, you are military and not military, but I am going to pay
you the greatest compliment in my power, by treating you as I would
any French soldiers under my command," the Commandant in charge of
the Automobile Service of the army to which we are attached said
to us on one occasion. And it has been the clear purpose of our
two chiefs--first Mr. Lawrence and now Mr. Hill--to live up to the
responsibilities of that compliment. This is mainly done by example and
through the force of a very real _esprit de corps_, but washing another
man's car has been found a useful daily help for daily disciplinary

Away from our base, in our nomadic dressing-station-to-hospital
existence, we are often pretty much "on our own." This part of our life
begins in a valley reached through a famous pass. Starting from the
valley of the Moselle easy grades along a splendid highway crowded with
trucks, staff cars, wine carts, and long lines of yellow hay wagons,
bring one to a tunnel about three hundred yards in length. In the
middle of this tunnel is a low white marble stone with a rounded top
that until a year ago last August marked the boundary between France
and Germany. To an American driving an automobile in the dim tunnel
light this stone is simply something not to be hit. To the French who
have fought so bravely that it may no longer stand for a boundary it is
a sacred symbol. I have seen the eyes of returning wounded glisten at
the sight of it. I have heard companies of chasseurs, as they passed
it going to the trenches, break into singing or whistling their famous
Sidi-Brahim march.

Beyond this tunnel the road, wrapping itself around the mountain like
a broad, shining ribbon, descends into a fertile commercial valley in
sweeping curves sometimes a kilometre long: on one side are high gray
rocks where reservists seem to hang by their teeth and break stones; on
the other, a sheer drop into green fields, behind the tunnel-pierced
summit, in front the red-roofed houses of several Alsatian villages
nestling against yet another line of mountain-tops. And along this road
we have made our way at midnight, at daybreak, in the late afternoon,
running cautiously with wounded and running carelessly empty. We are
at home, too, in the villages to which it leads, with the life-size
portrayals of the Crucifixion that are everywhere, even in fields and
nailed to trees in the mountains, with the gray stone churches and
their curious onion-shaped towers and clamorous bells.

The appearance of an American Ambulance in the villages is no longer a
novelty, sentries let us pass without a challenge, school children do
not any more rush over to us at recess time, or soldiers crowd around
us and say to one another, "_Voilà la voiture américaine_." And we have
friends everywhere: the officer who wants to speak English and invites
us so often to lunch with him, the corporal of engineers who was a
well-known professor, the receiving sergeant who was a waiter at the
Savoy Hotel in London, the _infirmier_ who was in charge of the French
department of one of the largest of New York's publishing houses.

But cooks are the people we cultivate the most assiduously. It is
forbidden to leave your car and eat in a café. Besides, the time
of day when we are hungriest is the time--maybe midnight or early
morning--when no cafés are open or when we are marooned on some
mountain-top. For single cars and small wandering detachments there
are only informal arrangements for "touching" rations. So we depend
upon the good-will of the chief cooks and we seldom go hungry. But the
stanchest sustainer of every American Ambulance driver presides over
the kitchen of the largest sorting-point in the valley. We call this
cheery-voiced, big-hearted son of the Savoy mountains, who before the
war washed automobiles in Montmartre, "Le Capitaine," "Joe Cawthorne,"
"Gunga Din." He is never tired or out of spirits. He never needs to
sleep. It will be a rush period. We will leave our ambulances only to
get gasoline, oil, and water while the wounded are being discharged.
"Le Capitaine," too, will be up to his neck in work, cooking a meal
for a hundred people, hurrying out at the _médecin chef's_ order, soup
for thirty and tea for twenty more--and still he will find time to run
out to our cars with a cup of coffee and a slice of cheese. The only
occasion on record of anything from "Joe Cawthorne" but a word and a
smile of cheer was once when one of the fellows, who felt that to his
coffee he owed his escapes from sleeping at the wheel and running off
the bank, and therefore his life, returned to America, first giving "Le
Capitaine" an envelope with some money in it. "_Jamais, jamais_" he
said, returning the envelope and viciously picking some flies out of
his _coffee chaudron_.

There is no place like the front for the Long Arm of Coincidence to
play pranks. I have known two university football stars to meet for the
first time since their gridiron days on a shelled curve of a narrow
road--each in charge of an ambulance and each down in the road driving
some wandering cows out of their way. I have known two young men to
celebrate the Fourth of July on their voyage over to do ambulance work,
in a way that drew forth the gentle rebukes of a Protestant minister
who happened to be a passenger on the same boat. They left him on the
docks at Liverpool and, along with his advice, he passed out of their
minds until two months later one of them met him in a general's car in
Alsace. He stopped and told this fellow that he was preaching a series
of sermons at the front and invited him to come and hear him the next
Sunday in a near-by town, adding that among other things he thought he
would touch upon the question of "War and Temperance."

Speaking of the Fourth of July reminds me that on the national
French holiday of the Fourteenth of July, I saw General Joffre in
never-to-be-forgotten circumstances. He was spending this day in
Alsace, and when early that morning I approached a little village in an
empty ambulance, I was stopped by a sentry and, after being asked if I
had wounded aboard, told that General Joffre was making a speech in the
town square and that I would have to wait until he had finished before
I could get through.

[Illustration: LA TERRE PROMISE]

Of course I at once left my ambulance and ran to the square, knowing
how rarely one ever saw quotation marks after the Généralissime's name.
I was, however, too late to hear what he had to say, for, laconic as
ever, he had finished speaking when I came within earshot. Opposite a
gray brick church was a line of eight flag-bedecked automobiles, six
for the Généralissime and his staff and two for emergencies which, I am
told, is the way he always travels. General Joffre himself, standing
on the ground and surrounded by officers ablaze with decorations, was
listening to fifty little Alsatian girls singing the "Marseillaise."
They were finishing the last verse when I arrived, and when their
sweet childish voices no longer rang out in contrast to the brilliant
but grim surroundings, General Joffre, stepping out from among his
officers, held one of the prettiest of the little girls high in his
powerful arms and kissed her twice. The next day driving through this
town again I noticed the following sign:--

  Le Général JOFFRE,
  Généralissime des Armées de la République
  a déjeuné dans cette maison.
  Le 15{ème} Bataillon de Chasseurs Alpins occupant cette région.
  Délivrée par lui le 7 Août 1914.

Alsace has been for forty years German territory. For forty years young
Alsatians have been forced to learn German in the schools, to serve in
the German army, to be links in the civil and military chains which
bound them to the Kaiser's empire. A few days ago I took the photograph
of an Alsatian girl standing in the doorway of her home, which she
said she was going to send through Switzerland to her brother in the
German army "somewhere in Russia." But French hearts doubtless beat
under many a German uniform, and those of us who have lived in Alsace
are confident that re-annexation by France will not be a slow or a
difficult process. Alsace has been tied to France by something which
forty busy years have not found a way to change. The armies of the
Republic have been received with an open hand and an open heart. I know
of a fine field hospital organized and staffed entirely by Alsatian
ladies happy to be nursing wounded French soldiers. I know of Alsatian
boys, at the outbreak of the war not yet old enough to have commenced
their German military training, who are to-day volunteer, and only
volunteer, French soldiers.

We have drawn our impressions of Alsace chiefly from five or six towns
in a commercial valley. They are subject to long-range shelling and
bombs dropped from aeroplanes. Indeed, my first day in Alsace was
spent in the yard of a hospital contrived out of a schoolhouse. Our
cars were parked beneath the windows of one of its wings, and all
day long one heard the pitiful moans of a mother and her two little
daughters who had been wounded the night before when the Germans had
dropped half a dozen shells into the town where they lived.

But these towns seem to be, on the whole, cheerful, prosperous places.
Soldiers resting from the trenches flirt the time away with bilingual
Alsatian girls. Horns, claxons, and the hum of motors make in the
little mountain-smothered streets the noises of Broadway or Piccadilly.
The cafés and stores are full from morning until eight o'clock, when
all lights must be put out.

Nothing is taken by the soldiery without being paid for, a fact that
was brought sharply home to me on one occasion. We needed wood for the
kitchen-fire of a little dressing-station hidden on a tree-covered
mountain-top. I picked up an axe and started to get some exercise and
the wood for the fire at the same time; but the cook excitedly told me
that not even in that out-of-the-way place, unless he had the proper
military authorization, would he dare cut down a tree, because the
commune must be paid for, every twig of it.

But, interesting as these towns are, it is beyond them that we do our
most useful work. I am writing, as it happens, at a dressing-station
between the artillery and the infantry lines where two of our cars are
always on duty. The driver of the other car, eight months ago, was in
charge of a cattle ranch in the Argentine, and last May, a passenger
on the ill-fated Lusitania, was rescued after four hours in the water.
He is on his back tightening bolts underneath his car, and a hole in
the left sole of his projecting shoes tells of hours with the low speed
jammed on, for this is the way we have to drive down as well as up hill.

We are at one end of a valley which, opening gradually, runs into the
basin of the Rhine. Our two ambulances are backed up against a hay-loft
dressing-station among a little group of houses frequently mentioned
in the _communiqués_. At this minute the place is as peaceful as any
Florida glade; it does not seem possible that war can be so near, so
completely hushed. There is little military in the appearance of a few
stretcher-bearers, dressed in the discarded clothes of peace, throwing
stones into an apple tree; there is not a gun to be seen; there is not
a sound to be heard unless you listen to catch the splash of a mountain
stream or the tinkle of the bells tied around the necks of the cows
grazing high up on a green but ladder-steep mountain-side. Coming down
the road towards me is a little barefooted boy driving a half-dozen
cows to where some girls are waiting in a pen to milk them. A little
later, when my companion and I sit down to dinner with the young
_médecin auxiliaire_ in charge of the post, there will be some of this
milk on the table.

But long before dinner-time the whole surrounding aspect may change as
if by black magic. Tree-hidden batteries, some only a hundred yards
away and some on the tops of neighboring and surrounding mountains,
may speak together with their "brutal lungs" until the echoes, rolling
and accumulating, make a grand, persistent roar. Even trench-weary
soldiers will unconsciously duck their heads and stand ready to run to
the bomb-proofs if the answering German shells begin to fall close to
them. After dark the wounded will arrive, carried on stretchers, rested
on men's shoulders, or pushed in wheelbarrows, to the hay-loft where a
doctor, working almost entirely without anæsthetics, treats such cases
as the doctors in the trench dressing-stations passed without attention.

By this time also, on a night when many wounded are arriving, six or
eight more American ambulances will be summoned by telephone. There
will be no headlights used; only a great swinging of lanterns and much
shouting back and forth in French and English. Although the firing
after dark will not be so general, one or two batteries will continue
to break out sharply every few minutes. One of our squad leaders will
be on hand as driver in charge of the situation. "Are you ready to
roll?" he will call to somebody as the doctor comes up and speaks to
him. A dark figure standing by a car will lean over and spin a crank,
an engine will sputter and pour forth smoke, for we must use a double
supply of oil on these grades. Then an ambulance will back up to the
door of the barn and the driver, leaving his engine throttled down,
will help in lifting the stretchers.

To go from this place to the sorting-point behind the lines to which
the wounded are taken is the worst run we have. It means almost always
wondering if your car will make the grades, if you acted properly in
letting yourself be persuaded to take three wounded instead of the
specified two. It means coming upon comrades _en panne_ and lending
a hand or hurrying on with the distress signal, stopping to pour
water into your boiling radiator, halting to pass convoys, arguments,
decisions, "_noms-de-Dieu_," backing to a wider place, wheels that
nearly go over the edge, pot-bellied munition-wagons that scrape off
your side boxes, getting into a ditch and having to be pulled out by
mules or pushed out by men.

It is a journey fraught with worry, for there is always the danger of
delay when delay may mean death and is sure to mean suffering for the
wounded in your car. And sometimes when, with bad cases aboard, you
are stuck and can't get out until somebody turns up to help you, it is
unbearable to stay near your car and hear their pitiful groans.

But the down part of the journey is full of more acute dangers. You are
at the mercy of your brakes. If they fail you, there is only the bank.
A quick turn of the steering-wheel and you are all right; that is,
there will be only a cruel shaking-up for the men you are carrying and
a broken radius rod or perhaps a smashed radiator. But this is better
than going over the bank and better than running amuck through a train
of mules with their deadly loads of explosives.

Only during the last two months have we been able to use the first ten
kilometres of this road at all. Even now for the climbing part of the
journey we take none but the more seriously wounded, leaving the rest
to be carried in light wagons pulled by mules, until they get to some
mountain-top relay-point where our cars are stationed. Most of these
relay-points are very close to one or several French batteries. Some of
them are established in the midst of thriving cantonments buried in the
woods and within sight of the German trenches on a sister mountain-top.
Others, farther removed from the enemy lines and higher above the level
of destruction, are on summits suitable only for the biggest of the
French guns and reached in turn only by the very long-range German guns.


Such a place is a mountain-top at which we feel almost as much at home
as at our base, for eight of our cars are always on duty at this place,
each man serving for a week at a time, and one man being relieved every
day. It is one of those plateau-shaped eminences which are mentioned
in geographies as distinguishing the Vosges from the Alps and the
Pyrenees. It is treeless through exposure to the wind, and its
brow slopes gradually towards the French side, with a succession of
cuplike hollows tenanted by brush-covered bomb-proofs and dug-outs and
horse-sheds. Other than topographical concealments are also employed;
gray horses are dyed brown and groups of road-builders when at work in
some particularly exposed place carry, like the army that went against
Macbeth, umbrellas of branches.

We are housed here in a long, low shack built against the side of the
crest. Violent storms sometimes take the roof off this shack with the
consequent drenching of the surgeon in charge, ourselves, a half-dozen
stretcher-bearers and as many mule-drivers. Bunks are built crosswise
against the side of the walls, and over some of these bunks the words
"_Pour Intransportables_" are written. The rest, however, are occupied
by people on duty here, for it is merely a relay-point, and the
wounded, unless unable to stand a further journey or arriving by mules
in numbers greater than we can handle, are merely changed from one mode
of conveyance to another and given such attention in passing as they
may need.

When one of the beds for _intransportables_ is occupied, it generally
means that the man dies in a few days and is buried close by, a
corporal of stretcher-bearers, who was before the war a Roman Catholic
missionary in Ceylon, borrowing from one of us a camera to take for the
dead man's family a photograph of the isolated grave marked with one of
those simple wooden crosses from which no mile of northern France is
free. Deaths of this sort are peculiarly sad. Anybody who has nursed in
the wards of a military hospital will tell you how soldiers, seasoned
in trenches that high explosives and mines and hand-grenades have
turned into shambles, will grow gloomy when one man in their ward dies.
It is the same way with these single deaths and lonely funerals at the

Generals, of course, stand for the "larger issues" of the war; it is
their decisions that figure in to-morrow's _communiqués_. But at the
front, doctors represent destiny in a much more picturesque way: it is
no use putting these _blessés_ in an ambulance; death will close over
them quite as gently here as twenty kilometres farther to the rear.
This man's rheumatism demands that he be sent to Lyons or Marseilles;
that one has five days in a base hospital and is in the trenches
for the next death revel. A business-like surgeon pronounces his
judgments in a ghastly _poste de secours_,--it is nothing compared with
"strategical necessities,"--it will have no place beside announcements
of yards of trenches taken and yards of trenches lost,--and yet, it is
life or death for some brave soldier and all in the world that counts
for some family circle.

These mountain-tops are often for weeks on end bathed in a heavy
mist varied by rainstorms. At such times when there is no work to
do,--and very frequently there are no wounded to carry for twenty-four
hours or more,--the surgeon, ourselves, the _brancardiers_, and the
mule-drivers, close in around the stove. One of these _brancardiers_,
or stretcher-carriers, was transferred after being wounded at the
battle of the Marne from the front-line troops to the Service
Sanitaire, and before the war he had served five years in the
Foreign Legion in Africa. His stories of this period are endless and
interesting, and, after listening to them for a week, we all go back to
our base calling soldiers nothing but _poilus_; coffee, _jus_; wine,
_pinard_; canned beef, _singe_; army organization, _système D_. There
is also a good deal of reading done by many of the Section on the rainy
days of no work. It is part of the daily relieving man's unofficial
but well-understood duties to bring along any magazines and newspapers
that he can get hold of, and generally, too, books gradually accumulate
and grow to be considered as a sort of library that must not be taken
away. Indeed, at one _poste de secours_ our library consists at present
of two or three French novels and plays, "The Newcomes," a two-volume
"Life of Ruskin," "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," and "Les Misérables."

When a group of men are on duty at an isolated _poste de secours_ like
this, they take turns in carrying the wounded who may arrive, the
man who has made the last trip going to the bottom of the list. And
there is something comfortable about feeling that you are the last to
"roll" on a stormy night when every plank in the little hut rattles
and groans, when the wind shrieks in the desolate outside, when the
sinister glare of the trench rockets gleams through the heavy blackness
like a flash of lightning, and the wet mule-drivers who borrow a little
of your fire shake their heads and pointing towards the road say,
"_Un mauvais chemin_" And then, as you settle a little deeper in your
blankets and blow out your lantern and assure yourself for the last
time as to where your matches are and how much gasoline you have in
your tank, you are pretty apt to think, before you go to sleep, of the
men a little way off in the rain-soaked trenches.

They are certainly not very far away. Only over there on the next ridge
where the shells are exploding. They have been there, you know, without
relief for ten days. You remember when they marched up the mountain
to take their turn. How cheery and soldierlike they were! Not one of
them, like you, is sleeping in blankets. They won't, like you, go back
to-morrow to a pleasant dinner, with pleasant friends, in a pleasant
hotel, and out of sound, too, of those awful guns. Some will come back
and you will carry them in your ambulance. And some will never come
back at all. Well....

"Did I leave that spark-plug wrench under the car? God knows I can
never find it on a night like this and I change a plug every trip!"

"Wake up! Don't talk in your sleep!"

"What, is it my turn to roll? Wounded?"

"No, Steve is _en panne_ halfway down the mountain."

And you begin to take things in with one of the Section's _sous-chefs_
leaning over your cot with the news that the first man on the list has
a load of wounded and has met with an accident. The others are waked
up too. Some are left to take care of such other wounded as may arrive
and the rest form a rescue party. Two ride in the rescue ambulance;
two more probably walk. The wounded are moved from the broken-down car
to the other ambulance, and then daylight finds three or four of us
rain-drenched and mud-smeared, changing a brake-band or digging into a

The arrival of the relieving car at one of those posts on a rainy day,
when every one of us is to be found within twenty feet of the stove,
means a demand in chorus for mail and after that for news, especially
Section gossip from Headquarters, which means who has had to wash cars
and who has broken down _en route_.

"Number 52 runs like a breeze now. I drove it yesterday and it climbed
the _col_ on high with two wounded," the newcomer will say, producing
some contribution to the mess.

"And last night, there was a call for three cars at midnight. Didn't
any of the wounded come this way? So-and-So had magneto trouble
bringing back his first load. He said Henry Ford himself could not
have started the boat. So the repair car went out at four o'clock this

"That boy certainly has his troubles. Do you remember the time he had
two blow-outs and four punctures in twenty-four hours and then had all
his brake-bands go at once? It was two miles he ran to get another car
to take his wounded."

"He looked low when he came in about breakfast time," somebody else
will put in.

"I tell you he _will_ use too much oil. It goes through these old cars
like a dose of salts," a third will add.

On bad days the discussion will go on this way until time for the next
meal. But on clear days during summer and early autumn weather, we have
stayed indoors very little. The air is champagne-like and the view on
all sides magnificent. It is possible, also, from a number of these
eminences to follow in a fascinating fashion the progress of artillery
duels, and, with a good pair of glasses, even to see infantry advancing
to the attack. When the cannonading is heavy the whole horizon pops and
rumbles and from the sea of green mountains spread out before you rise
puffs of shrapnel smoke, flaky little clouds about the size of a man's
hand and pale against the tree-tops, as one thinks of death as pale.
They hover, sometimes too many at a time to count, above the mountains
and then sink down again into the general greenness. The sky, too, is
generally dotted with these same little flaky clouds when aeroplanes
are abroad. And aeroplanes are abroad every fair day, for they are
seldom or never hit and brought down, although the anti-aircraft guns,
especially when hedging them in with "barrier fire," seem to limit
their activities.

Soldiers, as I have said, march by these posts on their way to and from
the trenches. Whenever they are allowed to break ranks near our cars
they crowd around us with little bottles in their hands asking for
gasoline to put in cigarette lighters which they make out of German
bullets. Most of these men belong to battalions of Chasseurs Alpins,
and I do not suppose there are any finer soldiers in the world than
those stocky, merry-eyed men from the mountain provinces of France,
with their picturesque caps and their dark-blue coats set off by their
horison-blue trousers. They are called, indeed, the "blue devils," and
when the _communiqués_ say, "After a heavy shelling of some of the
enemy heights in the Vosges our infantry advanced to the attack and
succeeded in taking so many of the enemy trenches," it is probably the
Chasseurs Alpins who have led the way in the face of the hand-grenades
and machine-gun fire and the streams of burning oil that, in this
country especially, make the "meaning of a mile" so terrible.

One of our Section who was compelled to return to America the other
day took with him as his single keepsake a crumpled photograph with
a signature scrawled in one corner. It was of a _sous-officier_ of
a famous battalion of Chasseurs Alpins. His heavy pack was jauntily
thrown over his shoulders; his _berret_ was rakishly tilted to one
side; and on his breast gleamed the green and red ribbon of the _Croix
de Guerre_, the crimson of the _Légion d'Honneur_, and the yellow of
the _Médaille Militaire_.

You could find no better symbol of the laughing gallantry, the sturdy
strength, and the indomitable courage of France.


[Illustration: CHASSEUR ALPIN 1915]



BY December 20, the approximate date of the beginning of the French
attack upon the German positions on Hartmannsweilerkopf, the
headquarters of Section 3 of the American Ambulance had been moved
temporarily to a place called Moosch. Here was located a large modern
hospital to which the wounded were brought from the dressing-stations
in the mountains, two or three kilometres behind the lines of advance
trenches. From this hospital the _blessés_ were moved into the interior
as fast as their condition would permit. It was the duty of the small
American Ford ambulances to bring the wounded from these mountain
stations down to the hospital at Moosch.

Moosch, a typical Alsatian town, consisting of a few large buildings,
the "Mairie," the church, a hotel or two, and perhaps a weaving mill,
about which are clustered the homes and stores and cafés or combination
of these latter, is situated in the valley of the river Thur. This
valley runs up, and west or slightly north of west, to the divide,
between the Moselle River and the Thur, this divide making the old
boundary between French and German territory; and down in a south of
east direction until the mountains end and we enter the plain that
forms part of the drainage basin of the Rhine. Moosch is about halfway
down this valley and about twelve kilometres from the front, which was
on the last row of hills before the beginning of this plain.

The valley itself ranges from one to two kilometres in width and the
green forest-clad mountains rise on each side to a height of three
hundred to four hundred metres. In the floor of the valley were
orchards, open fields, and small towns. Down the centre of it was
the broad road which continued up and over the divide into France.
It formed, aside from an aerial tramway that the French constructed
over the divide especially for this war, the only avenue of traffic
for the supplies of ammunition, guns, food, etc., for the armies that
were situated in this district. As a consequence it was night and day
a scene of activity throughout its entire length. Down the valley this
road had two important branches, one at a point six kilometres from
Moosch and another at eight. Both these branches followed the course
of small creeks that feed the river Thur, up and up the small valleys
through which the streams flowed, then turned up the mountain-side and
climbed to the top of one of the larger hills. One route was used for
traffic ascending, the other for all descending, except for any that
was required by Red Cross Stations or artillery posts along the way. In
this manner much passing of the up and down streams of wagons, mules,
motor trucks, etc., which would have been well-nigh impossible on these
steep, narrow roads, was avoided.

On the mountain-top was a small space, somewhat cleared of the forest
growth, where three roads met, two that have already been mentioned
and another that went over one shoulder of the mountains and down to
an advance _poste de secours_, practically under Hartmannsweilerkopf
itself. In one angle of the "Y" formed by these roads were a few
roughly constructed buildings for taking care of the wounded, cooking,
etc., and in another nothing but the steep slope of the mountain with
a cabin or two tucked close against it amid the pine woods. In the
last angle was a small graveyard where lay the men who had died from
wounds there at the station or had been killed during the bombardment
of some local artillery post or of the road. Next to this graveyard
was a limited parking-space for the ambulances, and beyond this
the cosy little building, the _poste de secours_, where the French
stretcher-bearers and American drivers ate and slept together when not
at work.

This place was popular among the Americans, at first, at least, before
the Germans captured a colonel with telltale maps upon his person,
and their guns began to find and make uninhabitable a spot that had
once seemed a secure retreat. Up in the fresh air and ozone of the
pine woods, it was hard, in spite of the graveyard near by and the
ever-passing stream of ammunition wagons or pack trains, not to think
of this place as a pleasant vacation ground. The Frenchmen, too, were
wonderful companions, playful as boys of ten, and kind and generous
to a fault. After a snowstorm, unless there was a great deal of
work, there was sure to be a tremendous snow battle in progress,
and the Frenchmen, old territorials some of them, forty to fifty to
sixty years of age, would be as hard after one another as boys in
their mimic wars. Their generosity went so far as surrendering their
bunks to the Americans while they slept out in the ambulances. At
times the little _poste de secours_ would be a scene of revelry, the
professional entertainer taking part in the programme of the evening
with the country songster. More often, however, the Frenchmen were busy
and the Americans would amuse themselves with some deep, protracted
argument or read the latest book on the war that some kind friend had
sent to a member of the Section. At night the little hut had its bunks
filled to overflowing, but sleeping was generally good, unless your
bedfellow happened to be a soldier dreaming of battle or a mule-driver
dreaming of swearing at his mules. At night there were always one or
two interruptions, especially whenever an ambulance-driver was wanted.
Those who were sent to call him always succeeded in waking the whole
lot of sleepers before finding the man whose turn it was to "roll."


This "night rolling," as it is called, is not the easiest thing to do
by any means. The road, steep and narrow and rough at any time, would
in snowy or rainy weather cause an occasional sinking of the heart to
the best of drivers. To these difficulties was added the necessity
of passing the slowly descending trains of ammunition wagons and
mules. On one stretch of road no lights were permitted, as they would
have disclosed its location to the Germans. On nights when there was
no moonlight and heavy mists enshrouded the mountains, it was a trying
nerve strain to come down this bit of road. The history of every car
would be full of stories of narrow escapes from running into wagons,
mules, or men, or running over the edge of the road or against the side
of the hill. These difficulties and trials, however, weren't what would
occupy the mind when the German shells began breaking near; they lose
their importance entirely. One can get used to the blind driving on a
dark night, but never to the high-explosive shells. Even on the floor
of the valley where the road is level, the thrills might not cease, for
here it has been a common experience to run into an unlighted wagon or
to be smashed by a heavy, ponderous motor truck. Perhaps it would be
a mere matter of getting ditched in the effort to get out of the way
of the latter. But with the Ford this was never a serious trouble, as
eight or ten men, and they were always to be had in a few moments on
any part of the road, could quickly lift it out and put it on the road
again. Out of the most severe smash-ups the Fords have emerged supreme
and in every case proved the statement that a "Ford car can be bent but
not broken."

At the hospital the wounded would be taken out, new blankets and
stretchers put in, the gas tank filled, and the car sent up the
mountain again to wait for more _blessés_ unless it was time for the
driver to turn in and get a bit of sleep.

During the day a call would very often mean a trip down the other side
of the mountain to the advance posts nearer Hartmannsweilerkopf. While
day driving hasn't the terrors of night driving, yet the road near
these two posts and the posts themselves were more often the object
for German fire, and it was with a little feeling of dread that one
went there. The road down to it was exceedingly steep in places and few
cars could make the return trip with a full load. There never was any
anxiety about stalling, however, for a little assistance from eight
or ten soldiers would send the car on its way again. Many a time a
driver would unconsciously arrive at the posts at a time of bombardment
and be told to leave his machine and hurry to an _abri_. An _abri_
is a cave or dug-out in the side of the mountain offering protection
against the German shells. All along the mountain roads these little
places of refuge began to appear after the Germans had learned how to
drop shells consistently near these routes, and to see them thus was
a real comfort to the mind whenever the whistle of a shell sounded
unpleasantly loud and near. These caves were not always in a finished
state, as a big broad-shouldered driver learned to his discomfort and
the vexation of his two comrades. They were taking a look at Hartmanns
from a portion of the road whence it can be seen, when the portentous
sound of the flying shells began which kept coming nearer and nearer.
The Americans turned and ran up the road to one of these _abris_, the
big man leading. He darted for the cave entrance, but his body was just
too big and he was wedged tightly between the stone sides, while his
two comrades pounded on his back clamoring for admittance. He decided
it was more comfortable and safe flat against the rocks in front of
the car, and safer, too, than in a hole the entrance to which might so
easily be closed.

One was not always compelled to be conscious of such unpleasant things
as bursting shells. At slack periods when neither side was firing, and
the traffic was not too heavy up and down the roads, the trip up and
over the mountains could be one of the pleasantest of rides. Sometimes
after a snowstorm the mountain forest scenes were magnificent, and
there was the occasional wonderful expanse of view over valley and
plain below. Away off on the German side could be seen the town of
M---- which was brightly illuminated at night. The Germans seemed
indifferent to the fact that these lights were a great temptation to
the French gunners. As far as known, the latter seldom yield to this
temptation to bombard civilians despite the fact that the Germans
were shelling towns, needlessly it seemed, in the territory held by
France. Many pleasant rides after the attack, in the warm sunshine of
the spring days that came in January, will stay in the minds of the
drivers, a contrast to the rushing trips taken in slush and mud and
snow during the height of the attack.



The time spent in Moosch at the hospital was nearly always a period
of activity and interest. There were sure to be minor repairs needing
attention, tire-changing to be done, and often more difficult matters
to attend to, such as eliminating the knock in an engine, changing
brake-bands, or putting in a new rear axle. The hospital itself looked
across the valley to the hills beyond, upon one of which was anchored
a small sausage-shaped balloon, such as is used all along the French
line for observation purposes. One hundred metres back of the hospital
rose the hills forming the other side of the valley. On the slope of
one of these was the rapidly growing graveyard where the bodies of the
soldiers who had died at the hospitals were laid. Among them was the
body of Richard Hall, the young American ambulance driver who lost
his life during the attack, when his machine was struck by a shell on
the road up the mountain. On the east side of the hospital passed a
small road that led up to the graveyard, and beyond this was an open
field where an aero bomb fell with disastrous results to one fowl and
to the windows of the hospital on that side. In the hospital yard on
this side were put the ambulances needing repairing, and in rush times
part of the other side of the yard was also required. Here was rather
a good-sized building, the front end of which was the morgue and the
other end the laundry. Behind it was a small shelter where the bloody
stretchers were cleaned. It was in these surroundings, with the rows
of coffins on one side and the stretcher-cleaning on the other, that
much of the repair work was done during the height of the attack. Here,
too, would form the military funeral processions that went with the
bodies to the graveyard on the hill. Two funerals a day of one to five
coffins was the regular schedule in the busy days of the attack. One of
the most intensely interesting sights was the gathering of the whole
regiment, of those who were left after the attack, about this graveyard
to give a last formal salute to their departed comrades.

Hardly a day passed during the period of the attack when the village
was not shelled, and when it was clear, the German aeroplanes would
appear and drop their bombs or smoke signals, or seek to destroy the
observation balloon of the French, descending as near to it as they
dared. One of the prettiest sights of the war is to see the little
tufts of cloud appear near the course of the speeding machine whenever
the shrapnel bombs burst. The cloudlets formed by the French shells are
white, by those of the Germans, black. It was surprising how difficult
it seemed for gunners to get anywhere near the aeroplanes. They would
pepper the sky in every direction except near the moving spot they were
trying to hit. At rare intervals both German and French machines were
up, and their manoeuvring for an advantage was always interesting. The
interest, however, in this sort of thing changes after a few bombs have
been dropped and their terrific effect seen.

Such is the general story of the activity and life of the Section's
last months in Alsace. Its details would include many stories of tight
squeezes, of break-downs and troubles in hot places, of the carrying of
soldiers driven mad under the strain of war, of having men die in your
car on the way to the hospital, of short side trips right up amidst the
French artillery stations, and always of the patient, quiet suffering
of the French soldier. There would be stories of the days when the car
would have "moods," and refuse to make the grades as it ought, and then
again of times when nothing was too much for the engine to do.

After the attack we were moved from Alsace farther inland, and after
some wandering from place to place through a country that had been the
scene of much fighting in the earlier part of the war, and through
villages almost completely destroyed by the Germans, we were sent to a
town near Nancy--Tantonville--to do ambulance work for the hospitals
situated within a twenty-five-kilometre radius and to wait until our
cars could be overhauled and repaired.[3]


[3] This Section subsequently rendered heroic service in the great
battle of Verdun, and has since been sent to Salonica to serve with the
French army of the Orient. (_November, 1918_).



    Though desolation stain their foiled advance,
      In ashen ruins hearth-stones linger whole:
    Do what they may they cannot master France,
      Do what they can, they cannot quell the soul.
                Barrett Wendell


     I VERY cordially call attention to this account of the work of
     one of the field sections of the American Ambulance in France,
     told out of his own experience by a young man, a graduate of the
     University of Virginia, who has been driving an ambulance at the
     front. The article came through Hon. A. Piatt Andrew, formerly
     Assistant Secretary of the United States Treasury, and for two
     years treasurer of the American Red Cross. Mr. Andrew has taken an
     active part in the organization of the work. He writes that many
     American college graduates are engaged in the field sections, and
     that they and others "have been working for months with a devotion
     and courage which have commanded glowing tributes of gratitude
     and admiration from many French officers." In a second letter Mr.
     Andrew states that the faithful Mignot (spoken of in this article)
     was killed when the Germans bombarded the headquarters of the
     field section.

     Every young man just leaving college--from Harvard, from Yale,
     from Princeton, from Michigan, Wisconsin, or California, from
     Virginia or Sewanee, in short, from every college in the
     country--ought to feel it incumbent on him at this time either to
     try to render some assistance to those who are battling for the
     right on behalf of Belgium, or else to try to fit himself to help
     his own country if in the future she is attacked as wantonly as
     Belgium has been attacked. The United States has played a most
     ignoble part for the last thirteen months. Our Government has
     declined to keep its plighted faith, has declined to take action
     for justice and right, as it was pledged to take action under the
     Hague Conventions. At the same time, it has refused to protect
     its own citizens; and it has refused even to prepare for its own
     defence. It has treated empty rhetoric and adroit phrase-making
     as a substitute for deeds. In spite of our solemn covenant to see
     that the neutrality of unoffending nations like Belgium was not
     violated; our solemn covenant to see that undefended towns were
     not bombarded, as they have been again and again bombarded in
     France, England, and Belgium, and hundreds of women and children
     killed; our solemn covenant to see that inhuman and cruel methods
     of warfare--such as the use of poisonous gas--were not used,
     we have, in a spirit of cold, selfish, and timid disregard of
     our obligations for others, refused even to protest against
     such wrongdoing, and, with abject indifference to right, the
     professional pacifists have spent their time merely in clamoring
     for a peace that should consecrate successful wrong. What is even
     more serious, we have wholly failed to act effectively when our
     own men, women, and children were murdered on the high seas by the
     order of the German Government. Moreover, we have declined to take
     any effective steps when our men have been murdered and our women
     raped in Mexico--and of all ineffective steps the last proposal to
     get Bolivia and Guatemala to do what we have not the manliness to
     do was the most ineffective.

     But there have been a few individuals who, acting as individuals
     or in organizations, have to a limited extent by their private
     efforts made partially good our governmental shortcomings. The
     body of men and women for whom Mr. Andrew speaks is one of these
     organizations. I earnestly hope that his appeal will be heeded and
     that everything possible will be done to continue to make the work


[4] The account of the American Ambulance in Lorraine by Mr. J. R.
McConnell was printed in the _Outlook_ for September 15, 1915, and
is reprinted here by kind permission of the editors of that journal.
The introduction by Theodore Roosevelt and the drawing by M. Bils
also originally appeared in the _Outlook_ and are republished here.
(_Editor's Note._)

A SMALL field ambulance with a large red cross on each of its gray
canvas sides slips quickly down the curving cobblestone street of a
quaint old French frontier town, and turns on to the road leading
to the _postes de secours_ (dressing-stations) behind the trenches,
which are about two kilometres distant. The driver is uniformed in
khaki, and is in striking contrast to the hundreds of blue-gray-clad
soldiers loitering on the streets. A group of little children cry out,
"_Américain_," and, with beaming smiles, one of them executes a rigid
though not very correct salute as the car goes by. A soldier yells,
"Good-morning, sir!" another, "Hello, Charley!" and waves his hand,
while others not gifted with such an extensive command of English
content themselves with "_Bonjour!_" and "_Camarade!_" The little car
spins on past companies of tired, dusty soldiers returning from the
trenches, and toots to one side the fresher-looking sections that are
going up for their turn. A sentinel stands out in the middle of the
road and makes frantic motions with his hand to indicate that shrapnel
is bursting over the road ahead. "I should worry," comes from the
driver, and the car speeds serenely along the way.

It is an ambulance of the Section Sanitaire Américaine, Y, the squad
that has just been _cité à l'ordre de l'armée_ (honorably mentioned in

The drivers of these cars are all American volunteers: young men who,
for the most part, come from prominent families in the States. All
parts of the Union seem to be represented. The Sections are composed
of from fifteen to twenty-five cars each, and are under the direction
of a Section commander. While the cars are allotted to the Sections
by the American Ambulance Hospital, directed by its officers, and
in part supported by the organization, they nevertheless become an
integral part of the Sanitary Service of the French army, to which
they are assigned as soon as they enter the war zone. The cars and
_conducteurs_, as the drivers are called, are militarized, and all
general orders come from the French medical officers. The French
Government supplies the gasoline, oil, and tires, and the _personnel_
of the Sections are housed and fed by the army. They are given the
same good food and generous ration that the French soldier receives.
Attached to each Section is a French non-commissioned officer who
attends to various details and acts as interpreter. Section Y is
favored by the addition of an army _chef_, and the Section commander's
orderly has been put in the general service of all the members.

It is forbidden to give the location of any of the active units of
the French army, and as this restriction holds good for Section Y,
which is at the very front, I cannot give any details that would
indicate the point in the line where the Section is stationed. I
believe it is allowable to say that the town is very old and possesses
a rare beauty. I have never seen a place that could boast of such a
number of exquisite gardens or such a lovely encircling boulevard.
The surrounding hilly country is charming and pregnant with the most
romantic historical associations. Its reputation as a history-making
region is certainly not suffering at the present.

The Americans are quartered in a large building that had not been
occupied since the mobilization in August, 1914. There are countless
rooms already furnished, and those on the first floor have been
cleaned up so that now the Section, which consists of twenty-four
men, has "all the comforts of home." There is a large mess-hall,
kitchen, writing-room, library, general office, dormitory, and a good,
generous vaulted cellar of easy access. This last adjunct is important,
for the town is one of the most frequently bombarded places in the
line, and very often big shells that wreck a house at one shot make
it advisable to take to the cave. The _atelier_ of the _armurier_
(armorer's work-shop), with its collection of tools and fixtures, now
serves as a perfect automobile repair shop. There is also running
water, and at first we had both gas and electric lights; but shells
have eventually put both systems out of commission. Naturally the
telephone line gets clipped every few days, but that is essential,
and so it is quickly repaired. Behind the headquarters is a gem of a
garden containing several species of roses, and, as fortune would have
it, new wicker chairs. At first it all seemed too good to be true. It
did not seem possible that such an amazing combination of comforts
could exist in the war zone, and still less so when one looked down
the street and saw the German trenches in full view on the crest of a
hill fourteen hundred yards distant, where at night rifle flashes are
seen. To Section Y, that had hibernated and drudged along at Beauvais
some thirty-five kilometres behind the line until April, it was a
realization of hopes beyond belief. Of course, as far as the comforts
are concerned, all may change. Any minute orders may arrive that will
shift us, and then it may mean sleeping on straw, occupying barns or
any available shelter; but while the present conditions obtain we beg
to differ with Sherman!

A French Motor Ambulance Section had been handling the wounded of the
division to which our squad was attached, and we at first supplemented
their work. To start with, French orderlies went out with the American
drivers on calls to show them the working of the system, but after
two or three days the Americans fell into the work as if it had been
a life's practice, and, in spite of a lack of conversational ability,
managed to evacuate the wounded without a hitch. The Americans did
their work so well that they obtained the entire confidence of the
authorities, and in a few weeks the French Section was transferred to
another post. It speaks very well for Section Y that all of the work of
one of the most important points in the line was entrusted to it alone.

In addition to the actual carrying of wounded, there is a remarkable
amount of detail office work; for every report, request, or order
has to be made in triplicate, and it keeps the commander of the
Section, his assistant, and the _maréchaux des logis_, supplemented
by a corporal and telephonist, very busy running the business and
executive end. Then, in addition to the proper despatching of the
regular and special services, there are hundreds of delicate situations
to handle: requests of the authorities, the satisfying of numerous
officers, and the reception of the various dignitaries who come to
visit the much-heralded American Section. It is only on account of the
exceptional ability and capacity of our diplomatic commander, "Ned"
Salisbury, of Chicago, that the Section has been entrusted with such
vital responsibilities and that it has been able to perform them with
such success.

All the men in the Section had been billeted at houses in a town eight
kilometres below, where they slept when not on night duty; but when
the French Section was ordered away, a number of the men elected to
move up to the advance point, and were given excellent quarters in the
various vacated residences of the town. Why, instead of just rooms
they had suites, and the commander has an apartment in the show place
of the town! It is surrounded by extensive walled grounds which have
been made into a ravishing garden of flowering shrubs and trees; little
lily-covered, iris-bordered lakes, masses of roses, beds of poppies,
and in one sylvan nook is a flower-covered fountain fashioned of great
rough stones whose tinkling waters tumble in glittering cascades
between riots of vivid-colored plants and dense walls of variegated
verdure. To see our commander sitting in his Louis XV furnished rooms,
which, by the way, have an excellent trench exposure, reminds me
strongly of those paintings which depict generals of 1871 disporting
themselves in the splendor of a commandeered château.

From all the foregoing it must not be imagined that Section Y has a
sinecure, or that strolling around gardens is a habit. Far from it. The
regular daily service is arduous enough in itself, for one is either
on duty or on call all of the time; but there are times following an
attack when the men rest neither night nor day, when one gets food only
in snatches, and frequently days at a time will pass when one is on
such continuous service that there is never a chance to undress. Then
there is the other aspect, the ever-present danger of being killed
or wounded that one is under at the front, for Section Y works and
lives in a heavily shelled area. But we will not talk of that, for it
is unwise to think of such a thing when facing it. There are times,
however, when one is forcibly reminded, and when it takes a great
amount of will power to remain calm and perform one's duty.

The mention of shell fire to one who has never experienced it brings to
mind, in a vague sort of way, an association with danger, but that is
all. To us who have seen its effects--the hideously mangled killed and
wounded, the agonized expressions and streams of fast-flowing blood,
the crumbling of solid houses into clouds of smoke and dust; to us who
hear the terrible tearing, snarling, deep roar of great shells as they
hurtle down the air-lanes towards us to detonate with a murderous,
ear-splitting crash, flinging their jagged _éclats_ for a half-mile
in all directions, and sometimes killing French comrades near us; to
us who live and work within shell range, not knowing when we too may
be annihilated or maimed for life, it seems a very real and terrible
menace, and for that reason to be banished from our thoughts.

In spite of the danger, the Americans render their service with
fidelity at any and all times. A French captain once remarked that, no
matter how much the town was being shelled, the little field ambulances
could be seen slipping down the streets, past corners, or across
the square on their way to and from _postes de secours_ back of the
trenches. I remember one day that was especially a test of the men. The
town was being shelled, and it happened that at the same time there
were many calls for cars. The Germans were paying particular attention
to the immediate surroundings of the headquarters, and the shells were
not falling by any time-table known to us. A call came in, and the
"next man" was handed his orders. He waited until a shell burst and
then made a run for it. Several cars had been out on calls and were
due to return. There was no way of giving them a warning. We heard the
purr of a motor, and almost immediately the sing of a shell very close
to us. There was an instant of anxiety, an explosion, and then we were
relieved to see the car draw up in line, the driver switch off his
motor and run for our entrance. He held his order card in front of him
as he ran. Just as he entered another shell hit near by. It reminded
me strongly of a scene in a "ten-twenty-thirty" martial play. All the
hero needed was some fuller's earth to pat off his shoulders when
he came inside. There were several entrances of this sort during the
afternoon, and one shell, landing just in front of us and nearly on top
of a passing motor lorry, resulted in the addition of the French driver
and his aid to our little wall-protected group. It was a day when the
shelling seemed to be general, for shrapnel and small 77 shells were
also bursting at intervals over and in a little town one passes through
in order to avoid a more heavily bombarded outer route on the way to
the _postes de secours_. It was magnificent descending the hill from
the _postes_ that afternoon. To the left French 75 shells were in rapid
action; and one could see the explosion of the German shells just over
the crest of the long ridge where the batteries were firing. It was a
clear, sparkling day, and against the vivid green of the hills, across
the winding river, the little white puffs of shrapnel exploding over
the road below were in perfect relief, while from the red-tiled roofs
of the town, nestling in the valley below, tall columns of black smoke
spurted up where the large shells struck. Little groups of soldiers,
the color of whose uniforms added greatly to the picture, were crowded
against the low stone walls lining the road to observe the firing; and
one sensed the action and felt the real excitement of the sort of war
one imagines instead of the uninteresting horror of the cave-dweller
combats that are the rule in this war.



It is difficult to take any one day's work and describe it in the
attempt to give an adequate picture of the routine of the American
Section, for with us all days are so different. The background or
framework, the schedule of runs, the points of calling, the ordinary
duties, are more or less the same; but the action and experiences,
which add the color, are never alike. There are days at a stretch when
the work might be called monotonous, were it not for the fact that
there is a continual source of pleasure in feeling that one is being of
service to France, and that one's time is being spent in relieving the
suffering of her brave wounded soldiers.

Six-thirty is the time for bread and coffee, and the long table in the
flag-decorated mess-room begins to fill. Mignot, our comrade orderly,
is rushing to and fro placing bowls in front of those arriving, and
practising on each the few English expressions he has picked up by
association with us. Two men of the Section enter who look very tired.
They throw their caps or fatigue hats on to a side table and call for
Mignot. They have been on all-night service at M----, the hamlet where
the most active _postes de secours_ are located.

"Much doing last night?" asks one of the crowd at the table.

"Not much. Had only sixteen altogether."

"Anything stirring?"

"Yes; Fritz eased in a few shrapnel about five-thirty, but didn't hurt
any one. You know the last house down on the right-hand side? Well,
they smeared that with a shell during the night."

"By the way," continues the man in from night service, addressing
himself to one across the table, "Canot, the artilleryman, was looking
for you. Says he's got a ring for you made out of a _Boche_ fuse-cap,
and wants to know if you want a Geneva or Lorraine cross engraved on

The men in the Section leave the room one by one to take up their
various duties. There are some whose duty it is to stay in reserve, and
these go out to work on their cars. Others are on bureau service, and
they remain within call of the telephone. Two leave for D----, a town
eight kilometres below, where their job is to evacuate from the two
hospitals where the wounded have been carried down the day and night
before. This town, too, suffers an occasional bombardment, and wounded
are left there no longer than necessary. They are taken to a sanitary
train which runs to a little village a few kilometres below, which is
just beyond the limit of shell fire.

Sometimes our cars are called upon to evacuate to X----, which is a
good many kilometres distant. The splendid road runs through a most
charming part of the country. Just now everything is in bloom, and
the gentle undulating sweep of highly cultivated fields is delineated
by plots of yellow mustard plants, mellow brown tilled earth, and
countless shades of refreshing green, while near the tree-bordered
road one can see stretches of waving wheat dotted with the flaming red
of poppies and the delicate blue of little field flowers. On those
trips it does not seem possible that war is near; but on high, sharply
outlined against the deep-blue sky, is a sausage-shape observation
balloon, and looking back through a little window in the car one sees
the bandaged and prostrate figures of the wounded occupants.

There are only two cars on service at M---- during the usual run of
days, for unless there is an attack comparatively few wounded are
brought down from the trenches to their respective regimental _postes
de secours_ in the village.

Down the single, long street of this town, which had been changed from
a quiet country hamlet to a military cantonment, strolls a motley
collection of seasoned soldiers. The majority are uniformed in the
newly adopted light bluish-gray; some few still carry the familiar
baggy red trousers, black anklets, and long, dark-blue coat with
conspicuous brass buttons. The _sapeurs_ and artillerymen wear dull
green-and-yellow splotched dusters that make them almost invisible in
the woods and impart the most striking war-working appearance to them.
There is the cavalryman in his light-blue tunic with pinkish trimmings,
and his campaign cloth-covered helmet, from the crest of which flows
a horse-tail plume. Here and there are the smartly dressed officers
with their variously colored uniforms designating their branch; but
their gold galloons of rank do not show conspicuously on their sleeves
now, and the braid on their caps is covered. Some wear the splotched
duster which hides their identity entirely, and others are dressed
in serviceable thin brown uniforms which bear hardly any insignia. In
front of four or five of the low masonry houses a Red Cross flag is
hung. These mark the _postes de secours_ where the wounded are bandaged
and given to the ambulances. An American car is backed up in front of
one, and the khaki-clad driver is the centre of interest for a group
of soldiers. Some he knows well, and he is carrying on a cheerful
conversation. It is surprising what a number of French soldiers speak
English; and there are hundreds who have lived in England and in the
States. Some are even American citizens, who have returned to fight for
_la belle France_, their mother country. I have met waiters from the
Café Lafayette, _chefs_ from Fifth Avenue hotels, men who worked in
New York and Chicago banks, in commission houses, who own farms in the
West, and some who had taken up their residence in American cities to
live on their incomes. It seems very funny to be greeted with a "Hello
there, old scout!" by French soldiers.

"Well, when did you come over?" asks the driver.

"In August. Been through the whole thing."

"Where were you in the States?"

"New York, and I am going back when it is over. Got to beat it now. So
long. See you later."



A few companies of soldiers go leisurely past on their way up to the
trenches, and nearly every man has something to say to the American
driver. Five out of ten will point to the ambulance and cry out
with questionable but certainly cheerful enough humor, "Save a place
for me to-morrow!" or, "Be sure and give me a quick ride!" Others yell
out greetings, or air their knowledge of English. "Hello, Charley!"
heads the list in that department, and "Engleesh spoken" runs a close
second. Some of the newly arrived soldiers take us for English, and
"_Camarade anglais_" is in vogue; but with old acquaintances "_Camarade
américain_," cried in a very sincere tone and followed by a grip of the
hand, has a very warm friendship about it. Yes, you make good friends
that way. Working along together in this war brings men very close. You
find some delightful chaps, and then ... well, sometimes you realize
you have not seen a certain one for a week or so, and you inquire after
him from a man in his company.

"Where is Bosker, or Busker?--I don't know how you pronounce it. You
know, tall fellow with corporal's galloons who was always talking about
what a good time he was going to have when he got back to Paris."

"He got killed in the attack two nights ago," replies the man you have

And you wonder how it happened exactly, and what he looks like dead.

Some days it is very quiet up there at the _postes de secours_--even
the artillery to the rear is not firing overhead; and at other times
it is rather lively. Soldiers will be sauntering up and down the long
street, collecting in groups, or puttering around at some task, when
suddenly there is a short, sharp, whistling sound overhead and a loud
detonation as the well-timed shrapnel explodes. The aggregation does a
turning movement that for unison of motion could not be excelled, and
packs against the houses on the lee side of the street. There are some
who do not bother about such a comparatively small thing as shrapnel,
and keep to their course or occupation. I have seen men continue to
sweep the street, or keep going to where they were heading, in spite of
the fact that shrapnel whistled in at frequent intervals. I have also
seen some of these immovable individuals crumple up and be still.

One evening the firing was so heavy that every one had sought the
protection of the walls, when down the street came a most gloriously
happy soldier. He was taking on up the street carrying a bottle, and at
every explosion he waved his free arm and a wild yell of delight issued
from his beaming face. It appeared to entertain him hugely, as if a
special fireworks exhibition had been arranged on his behalf. It always
seems to be that way. A sober man would have been killed on the spot.

With shells it is a very different story than with shrapnel. One can
avoid the latter by backing up against a house, but the shells are apt
to push it over on you. When the deeper, heavier whistle of a shell is
heard, it sounds a good deal like tearing a big sheet of cloth. Men do
not brave it. They know its hideous effects, and take to the nearest
cellar or doorway. The first one or two that come in, if well placed,
often claim victims. A group of soldiers will be talking or playing
cards in front of a house. There is a swish; the shell hits the hard
road in front of them, and the jagged _éclats_ rip into the little
crowd, sometimes killing three or four of them. The soldiers who find
themselves at a greater distance have time to throw themselves flat on
the ground, and it is seldom that the singing fragments do not pass
well overhead.

It is quite remarkable that none of the Americans have as yet been
hurt at X----, for the evacuation of the wounded goes on regardless of
the shelling. Often the escapes have been very close. Just yesterday
ten big shells came in, killed six men and wounded forty others, and
yet our two cars on duty there escaped without being hit. One day,
following an attack, the firing was rather frequent. Nearly all of the
ambulances were lined up in the village waiting for the wounded to be
brought down. Our commander was talking to one of his drivers when a
shell exploded on the other side of a wall behind him. He walked down
the street to give instructions to another man. A shell hit the roof of
a house there and covered the two with _débris_. He started to return,
and as he passed a certain house a shell went right into it. They
seemed to be following him. It frequently happens that an ambulance
will be running down the street and a shell hit a house just behind or
in front of its course. Now and then one's breath will stop when a car
is enveloped in the clouds of dust and _débris_ coming from a shell-hit
house, and start again when from the haze the driver emerges dirty but
smiling. Of course, the cars have been hit. A shell tore off the front
top of one ten inches from the driver's head, but as yet no member of
the American Section has been hurt.



A kilometre up the climbing, winding road is a lone _poste de secours_
in the woods just off the highway. The approach and the place itself
are often shelled. There have been times when the drivers were under
a seriously heavy fire on night duty; times when trees have been
shattered and fallen across the road and huge craters made in the soft
earth of the adjacent fields. A kilometre beyond is still another
point of call, and from there one can look directly into one of the
most fought-over sections of ground in the long line from the sea to
Belfort. It is a bit of land that before the war was covered with a
magnificent forest. Now it is a wilderness whose desolation is beyond
description. It is a section of murdered nature. The black, shattered
things sticking up out of a sea of mounds were at one time great trees.
There are no branches on the split trunks now. No green can be seen
anywhere. Where the trenches ran there are but series of indentations,
jumbles of splintered trench timbers, broken guns, rusty fragments of
shells, strips of uniforms and caps, shoes with a putrid, maggot-eaten
mass inside. It does not seem possible that life could ever have
been there. It looks as if it had always been dead. What testimony
to human habitation remains is but mute and buried wreckage.

This last _poste de secours_ is in the very line of fire, but then
there are bomb-proofs near by and one can find shelter. One must be
careful running up to this _poste_, for new and very deep holes are
continually being blown in the road and there is danger of wrecking the

Section Y has performed its duties so well that the work of an adjacent
division has been given to it, and in a few days now the little cars
will roll past the last-mentioned _poste de secours_ over to the
exposed plain beyond and into the zone of its newly acquired activities.

The American cars literally infest the roads in the day. They buzz
along on calls to the _postes_, return from evacuations, and keep so
busy trying to accelerate the work that a casual observer might imagine
that a whole division had been annihilated overnight. A car with three
stretcher-cases in the back, a slightly wounded soldier sitting on the
seat next to the driver, and a load of knapsacks piled between the hood
and the fenders, starts down from the _poste de secours_, spins on
through a village full of resting troops, and turns on to the highway
leading to the evacuation hospitals at the town eight kilometres
below. At first the holes in the walls and houses along the way, and
the craters in the fields where the _marmites_ had struck, made one
continually conscious of the possibility of a shell. Now one does not
think about it, save to note the new holes, observe that the older ones
have been cemented up, and to hope that an _éclat_ won't hit you at
those exceedingly rare times when a shell bursts ahead or behind. The
closest call so far on that stretch of road was when a 210 hit eleven
feet to the side of one of our cars, but failed to explode. Of course
there is a chance that even at that distance the _éclat_ might take a
peculiar course and miss one; but the chances are that if that shell
had gone off one of our men would have been minus several necessary
portions of his anatomy.

The work at night is quite eerie, and on moonless nights quite
difficult. No lights are allowed, and the inky black way ahead seems
packed with a discordant jumble of sounds as the never-ending artillery
and _ravitaillement_ trains rattle along. One creeps past convoy after
convoy, past sentinels who cry, "_Halte là!_" and then whisper an
apologetic "_Passez_" when they make out the ambulance; and it is only
in the dazzling light of the illuminating rockets that shoot into the
air and sink slowly over the trenches that one can see to proceed with
any speed.

It is at night, too, that our hardest work comes, for that is usually
the time when attacks and counter-attacks are made and great numbers of
men are wounded. Sometimes all twenty of the Section cars will be in
service. It is then that one sees the most frightfully wounded: the men
with legs and arms shot away, mangled faces, and hideous body wounds.
It is a time when men die in the ambulances before they reach the
hospitals, and I believe nearly every driver in the Section has had at
least one distressing experience of that sort.

Early one morning there was an urgent call for a single wounded. The
man's comrades gathered around the little car to bid their friend
good-bye. He was terribly wounded and going fast. "See," said one of
them to the man on the stretcher, "you are going in an American car.
You will have a good trip, old fellow, and get well soon. Good-bye
and good luck!" They forced a certain cheerfulness, but their voices
were low and dry, for they saw death creeping into the face of their
comrade. The driver took his seat and was starting when he was asked
to wait. "Something for him," they said. When the car arrived at the
hospital, the man was dead. He was cold and must have died at the start
of the trip. The driver regretted the delay in leaving. Why had they
asked him to wait? Then he saw that the ambulance was covered with
sprigs of lilac and little yellow field flowers. The men knew the car
would serve as a hearse.

Once an American ambulance was really pressed into service as a hearse
in a very touching funeral. A young lieutenant, the son of a prominent
and influential official, had been killed in a gallant action. The
family had been granted permission to enter the lines and attend the
funeral. The young officer, who but a few days before his death had
won his commission, was held in the deepest affection by his company,
and they arranged that, as something very special, he should have a
hearse. A car from Section "Y" was offered, and went to the church in
the hamlet back of the trenches. The soldiers literally covered the
ambulance with flowers and branches, and then stood waiting with the
great wreaths they had brought in their hands. The little group emerged
from the partly wrecked church, and the flag-covered coffin was slid
into the car. The _cortège_, headed by a white-robed priest and two
censer boys, wound slowly down the tortuous path that the troops follow
on their way to the trenches.

The mother was supported by the father, a venerable soldier of 1870,
who limped haltingly on his wooden leg. Back of the two came the
lieutenant's sister, a beautiful girl just entering her twenties. The
captain of the company was at her side, then followed other officers,
and the silent, trench-worn soldiers behind. The funeral halted on
the hillside near a grave dug beneath the branches of a budding apple
tree. The coffin was pulled from the ambulance and lowered into the
grave. And the mother knelt at the side, sobbing. The old father, who
struggled to suppress his emotion, began a little oration. His voice
trembled, and when at intervals he tried to say, "_Vive la France!_"
it broke and great tears ran down his face. The soldiers, too, were
crying, and the American's eyes were damp. Behind, a battery of 75's
was firing--for on no account must the grim details of the war be
halted--and at every deafening shot and swish of the shell tearing
overhead the girl shivered, huddled close to the captain, and looked
in a frightened way at the soldiers around her. In her small, thin
shoes and black wavy dress she seemed strangely out of place in those
military surroundings.

The Americans have a faculty of adapting themselves to any service
they may be called upon to perform, and many times they undertake on
their own initiative various missions that are not in exact accord
with their military duties. They very often transport dead civilians
after a bombardment. Though nearly every one takes to the caves when
a bombardment starts, the first shells that come in frequently kill
a number of people who have not had time to get to shelter. In the
past few weeks nearly all the civilians have left the dangerous town,
and it is seldom now that soldiers and the residents--men, women, and
children--are found mixed up in pitiful dead groups.

During one bombardment, some time ago, however, a considerable number
of women and children were killed. A couple of the American ambulances
were on the spot immediately after, and the men were silently going
about their sad work. The little children who cry out to us as we pass
were gathered around holding to their mothers' trembling hands. They
said, "_Américain_," when they saw the khaki uniforms, but their tone
was hushed and sad instead of loud and joyous, and had a surprised
note, as if they had not expected to see the Americans at such a task.

In one place a large crowd of people had gathered around an ambulance
in front of a baker's shop. In the upper part of the building was a
great irregular hole that included a portion of the roof, and inside
the freshly exposed stone rims the interior of a room with shattered
furniture could be seen. Below the huge rent on the gray face of the
building was the fan-shaped design made by the shell's _éclats_. On the
side-walk were the bodies of two women and a soldier. A vivid red pool
had formed around them and was flowing into the gutter. For some reason
the gray dust covering the motionless black dresses of the women seemed
to make the picture very much more terrible. The face of one of the
women had been torn away, but her hair and one eye, which had a look of
wild fear glazed in it, remained. As the stretcher the woman had been
placed on was carried to the car a yellow comb fell out of her bloody
hair and dropped on the white-shod foot of a young girl standing near.
The child pulled up her skirts with a disgusted look and kicked the
comb off into the street.

It took the Americans a long time to learn the value of prudence. At
first during the bombardments they would rush to the street as soon
as a shell landed and look to see what damage had been done. Then,
when some _éclats_ had sizzed uncomfortably close to their persons,
they became a little more discreet and waited a while before venturing
out. Ten days ago, during a bombardment with the large 210 shells, a
few of the Americans were gathered at the entrance to the courtyard
of our headquarters to observe the shells hitting in town. It was all
very well until quite unexpectedly one hit the eaves of the building
at a point about thirty yards from the group and carried away with its
explosion about twenty feet of that part of the structure. Fortunately,
the _éclat_ took a high course, but great building stones crashed
down and blocked the roadway. The Americans were unharmed save for a
thick coating of mortar dust, but that experience has discounted the
popularity of orchestra seats during an exhibition in which shells
larger than 77's appear.

One of the men was twenty-five yards from a 210 high-explosive
projectile when it carved a great crater in the ground and killed two
French Red Cross men near him, and he, for one, has no overpowering
desire, after that murderous, crushing, breath-taking explosion,
for any intimate personal research work into the effects of other
large-calibre shells.

Even now the members of Section Y have much to learn. They still
persist in remaining in their chairs in the exposed garden when
aeroplanes are being fired at directly overhead, when balls of shrapnel
have repeatedly dropped into the flower-beds, and when one man was
narrowly missed by a long, razor-edged fragment of a shrapnel shell.
And this has not even the excuse of a desire to observe--for the
novelty of these performances has long since passed--and one hardly
ever glances upward. They won't even move for a German Taube, though it
might at any minute drop a bomb or two. As a matter of fact, however,
explosives dropped from German machines are comparatively harmless.

When a certain great stone structure on the water's edge is being
shelled, the men off duty adjourn to the shore for the entertainment.
They know the various schedules the shells run on, and time their
arrival. The German guns firing them are so far off that the report
cannot be heard. There is a deep, bass, tearing roar, closely followed
by another, for they come in pairs; then two huge columns of water
hurtle into the air for a hundred feet, accompanied by two heavy
detonations. The bleacher-occupying Americans--they have installed
a bench to sit on--then jump up and scurry for a wall that affords
protection against the _éclats_ that sing back from the shells. In a
second there is a rush for the hot chunks of metal, while the natives
emerge from their shelters to collect the fish that have been killed by
the terrific concussion--and fish _à la bombardement_ is served to us
the next day!

For some reason or other the German prisoners--and the Lord knows there
are enough of them these days--still remain a subject of humorous
interest to the Americans, while the _Boches_, as the Germans are
called, stare at us in wild-eyed amazement, flavored with considerable
venom, thinking us British and wondering how we got so far down the

No matter how long the war lasts, I do not believe that the members of
Section Y will lose any of their native ways, attitudes, or tastes.
They will remain just as American as ever. Why, they still fight for
a can of American tobacco or a box of cigarettes that comes from the
States, when such a rare and appreciated article does turn up, and
papers and magazines from home are sure to go the rounds, finding
themselves at length in the hands of English-reading soldiers in the
trenches. I never could understand the intense grip that the game of
baseball seems to possess, but it holds to some members of the Section
with a cruel pertinacity. One very dark night, a few days ago, two
of us were waiting at an advanced _poste de secours_. The rifle and
artillery fire was constant, illuminating rockets shot into the air,
and now and then one could distinguish the heavy dull roar of a mine or
_torpille_ detonating in the trenches. War in all its engrossing detail
was very close. Suddenly my friend turned to me and, with a sigh,
remarked, "Gee! I wish I knew how the Red Sox were making out!"

Well, there may be more interesting things in the future to write of
the Americans serving at the front, and, again, their work may become
dull. But it makes no difference to the Section. The men will do what
is asked and gladly, for there is no work more worth while than helping
in some way, no matter what, this noblest of all causes. One does not
look for thanks--there is a reward enough in the satisfaction the
work gives; but the French do not let it stop at that. The men from
the trenches are surprised that we have voluntarily undertaken such a
hazardous occupation, and express their appreciation and gratitude with
almost embarrassing frequency. "You render a great service," say the
officers, and those of highest rank call to render thanks in the name
of France. It is good to feel that one's endeavors are appreciated, and
encouraging to hear the words of praise; but when, at the end of an
evacuation, one draws a stretcher from the car, and the poor wounded
man lying upon it, who has never allowed a groan to escape during a
ride that must have been painful, with an effort holds out his hand,
grasps yours, and, forcing a smile, murmurs, "_Merci_"--that is what
urges you to hurry back for other wounded, to be glad that there is
a risk to one's self in helping them, and to feel grateful that you
have the opportunity to serve the brave French people in their sublime


[5] This Section, after ten months' service at Pont-à-Mousson, has
worked for eight months in the Verdun Sector during the great battle.
(_November, 1916._)




"OUR artillery and automobiles have saved Verdun," French officers and
soldiers were continually telling me. And as I look back on two months
of ambulance-driving in the attack, it seems to me that automobiles
played a larger part than even the famous "seventy-fives," for without
motor transport there would have been no ammunition and no food. One
shell, accurately placed, will put a railway communication out of the
running, but automobiles must be picked off one by one as they come
within range.

[6] This article was printed in the July issue of the _Cornhill
Magazine_, and is reproduced by permission of the author and the
publishers of the _Cornhill_.

The picture of the attack that will stay with me always is that of the
Grande Route north from Bar-le-Duc, covered with the snow and ice of
the last days of February. The road was always filled with two columns
of trucks, one going north and the other coming south. The trucks,
loaded with troops, shells, and bread, rolled and bobbled back and
forth with the graceless, uncertain strength of baby elephants. It was
almost impossible to steer them on the icy roads. Many of them fell by
the wayside, overturned, burned up, or were left apparently unnoticed
in the ceaseless tide of traffic that never seemed to hurry or to stop.

All night and all day it continued. Soon the roads began to wear out.
Trucks brought stones from the ruins of the battle of the Marne and
sprinkled them in the ruts and holes; soldiers, dodging in and out
of the moving cars, broke and packed the stones or sprinkled sand on
the ice-covered hillsides. But the traffic was never stopped for any
of these things. The continuous supply had its effect on the demand.
There were more troops than were needed for the trenches, so they
camped along the road or in the fields. Lines of _camions_ ran off the
road and unloaded the reserve of bread; the same thing was done with
the meat, which kept well enough in the snow; and the shells, which a
simple _camouflage_ of white tarpaulins effectually hid from the enemy

At night, on the main road, I have watched for hours the dimmed lights
of the _camions_, winding away north and south like the coils of some
giant and luminous snake which never stopped and never ended. It was
impressive evidence of a great organization that depended and was
founded on the initiative of its members. Behind each light was a unit,
the driver, whose momentary negligence might throw the whole line into
confusion. Yet there were no fixed rules to save him from using his
brain quickly and surely as each crisis presented itself. He must be
continually awake to avoid any one of a thousand possible mischances.
The holes and ice on the road, his skidding car, the cars passing in
the same and opposite directions, the cars in front and behind, the
cars broken down on the sides of the road--all these and many other
things he had to consider before using brake or throttle in making his
way along. Often snow and sleet storms were added to make driving more
difficult. Objects six feet away were completely invisible, and it was
only by watching the trees along the side of the road that one could
attempt to steer.

I was connected with the _Service des Autos_ as a driver in Section N{o}
2 of the Field Service of the American Ambulance of Neuilly. We had
the usual French Section of twenty ambulances and one staff car, but,
unlike the other Sections, we had only one man to a car. There were
two officers, one the Chief of Section, Walter Lovell, a graduate of
Harvard University and formerly a member of the Boston Stock Exchange;
and George Roeder, Mechanical Officer, in charge of the supply of
parts and the repair of cars. Before the war, he was a promising
bacteriologist in the Rockefeller Institute. Our Section was one of
five which compose the Field Service of the American Ambulance, and are
located at various points along the front from Dunkirk to the Vosges.
The general direction of the Field Service is in the hands of A. Piatt
Andrew, formerly professor at Harvard and Assistant Secretary of the
United States Treasury. He has organized the system by which volunteers
and funds are obtained in America, and is the responsible link between
the work of the Service and the will of the French authorities.

In each of the five Sections there are twenty drivers, all Americans
and volunteers. Most of them are college men who have come over from
the United States to "do their bit" for France and see the war at the
same time. Certainly our Section was gathered from the four corners of
the "States." One, a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, had
worked for two years on the Panama Canal as an engineer; another, an
Alaskan, had brought two hundred dogs over for the French Government,
to be used for transportation in the Vosges; a third was a well-known
American novelist who had left his home at Florence to be a chauffeur
for France. There were also two architects, a New York undertaker,
several _soi-disant_ students, and a man who owned a Mexican ranch that
was not sufficiently flourishing to keep him at home.

The term of service required by the French authorities is now six
months, though, of course, some of the men have been in the Section
since the battle of the Marne. We all get five sous a day and rations
as privates in the French army, which was represented in our midst by a
lieutenant, a _maréchal de logis_, a mechanic, and a cook.

On February 22 our French lieutenant gave us our "order to move," but
all he could tell us about our destination was that we were going
north. We started from Bar-le-Duc about noon, and it took us six hours
to make forty miles through roads covered with snow, swarming with
troops, and all but blocked by convoys of food carts and sections
of trucks. Of course, we knew that there was an attack in the
neighborhood of Verdun, but we did not know who was making it or how
it was going. Then about four o'clock in the short winter twilight we
passed two or three regiments of French colonial troops on the march
with all their field equipment. I knew who and what they were by the
curious Eastern smell that I had always before associated with camels
and circuses. They were lined up on each side of the road around their
soup kitchens, which were smoking busily, and I had a good look at them
as we drove along.

It was the first time I had seen an African army in the field, and
though they had had a long march, they were cheerful and in high
spirits at the prospect of battle. They were all young, active men, and
of all colors and complexions, from blue-eyed blonds to shiny blacks.
They all wore khaki and brown shrapnel casques bearing the trumpet
insignia of the French sharpshooter. We were greeted with laughter and
chaff, for the most part, in an unknown chatter, but now and again some
one would say, "Hee, hee, Ambulance Américaine," or "Yes, Ingliish,

I was fortunate enough to pick up one of their non-commissioned
officers with a bad foot who was going our way. He was born in Africa,
which accounted for his serving in the colonials, though his mother was
American and his father French. From him I learned that the Germans
were attacking at Verdun, and that, to every one's surprise, they were
trying to drive the point of the salient south instead of cutting it
off from east to west. As we were passing along, one of his men shouted
something to him about riding in an ambulance, and I remarked that they
all seemed in a very good humor. "Oh yes," he answered; "we're glad to
be on the move, as we've been _en repos_ since autumn in a small quiet
place south of Paris." "But it means trouble," he added proudly, "their
sending us up, for we are never used except in attacks, and were being
saved for the summer. Six hundred have been killed in my company since
the beginning, so I have seen something of this war. Now my regiment is
mixed up with two others, and altogether we make about four thousand

As we talked, I realized that his was a different philosophy from that
of the ordinary _poilu_ that I had been carrying. Certainly he loved
France and was at war for her; but soldiering was his business and
fighting was his life. Nothing else counted. He had long since given up
any thought of coming out alive, so the ordinary limitations of life
and death did not affect him. He wanted to fight and last as long as
possible to leave a famous name in his regiment, and to add as many
_citations_ as possible to the three medals he had already gained. He
was the only man I ever met who was really eager to get back to the
trenches, and he said to me with a smile when I stopped to let him off,
"Thanks for the lift, _mon vieux_, but I hope you don't have to carry
me back."


After that we rode north along the Meuse, through a beautiful
country where the snow-covered hills, with their sky-lines of carefully
pruned French trees, made me think of masterpieces of Japanese art. In
the many little villages there was much excitement and activity with
troops, artillery, and munitions being rushed through to the front, and
the consequent wild rumors of great attacks and victories. Curiously
enough, there were few who thought of defeat. They were all sure, even
when a retreat was reported, that the French were winning, and that
spirit of confidence had much to do with stopping the Germans.

At about six in the evening we reached our destination some forty
miles northeast of Bar-le-Duc. The little village where we stopped
had been a railroad centre until the day before, when the Germans
started bombarding it. Now the town was evacuated, and the smoking
station deserted. The place had ceased to exist, except for a hospital
which was established on the southern edge of the town in a lovely
old château, overlooking the Meuse. We were called up to the hospital
as soon as we arrived to take such wounded as could be moved to the
nearest available rail-head, which was ten miles away, on the main
road, and four miles south of Verdun. We started out in convoy, but
with the then conditions of traffic, it was impossible to stick
together, and it took some of us till five o'clock the next morning to
make the trip. That was the beginning of the attack for us, and the
work of "evacuating" the wounded to the railway stations went steadily
on until March 15. It was left to the driver to decide how many trips
it was physically possible for him to make in each twenty-four hours.
There were more wounded than could be carried, and no one could be
certain of keeping any kind of schedule with the roads as they then

Sometimes we spent five or six hours waiting at a crossroad, while
columns of troops and their equipment filed steadily by. Sometimes
at night we could make a trip in two hours that had taken us ten in
daylight. Sometimes, too, we crawled slowly to a station only to find
it deserted, shells falling, and the hospital moved to some still more
distant point of the line. Situations and conditions changed from day
to day--almost from hour to hour. One day it was sunshine and spring,
with roads six inches deep in mud, no traffic, and nothing to remind
one of war, except the wounded in the car and the distant roar of the
guns, which sounded like a giant beating a carpet. The next day it was
winter again, with mud turned to ice, the roads blocked with troops,
and the Germans turning hell loose with their heavy guns.

In such a crisis as those first days around Verdun, ammunition and
fresh men are the all-essential things. The wounded are the _déchets_,
the "has-beens," and so must take second place. But the French are
too gallant and tender-hearted not to make sacrifices. I remember one
morning I was slapped off the road into a ditch with a broken axle,
while passing a solitary _camion_. The driver got down, came over, and
apologized for the accident, which was easily half my fault. Then we
unloaded four cases of "seventy-five" shells that he was carrying, and
put my three wounded in on the floor of his car. He set out slowly
and carefully up the ice-covered road, saying to me with a smile as
he left, "Don't let the Boches get my _marmites_ while I'm gone." For
some time I sat there alone on the road, watching the shells break on a
hill some miles away to the north, and wondering when I could get word
of my mishap back to the base. Then a staff car appeared down the road
making its way along slowly and with difficulty, because, being without
chains, it skidded humorously with engine racing and the chauffeur
trying vainly to steer. There was a captain of the _Service des Autos_
sitting on the front seat, and he was so immaculately clean and well
groomed that he seemed far away from work of any kind. But when the
car stopped completely about halfway up the little hill on which I was
broken down, he jumped out, took off his fur coat, and using it to give
the rear wheels a grip on the ice, he swung it under the car. As the
wheels passed over it, he picked it up and swung it under again. So the
car climbed the hill and slid down the other slope round the curve and
out of sight. It was just another incident that made me realize the
spirit and energy of the French Automobile Service. But the captain had
not solved any of my difficulties. He had been too busy to notice me
or wonder why an American ambulance was sprawled in a ditch with four
cases of shells alongside.

I had been waiting there in the road about two hours when another
American came by and took back word of my accident and of the parts
necessary to set it right. Then about noon my friend came back in his
_camion_ to take up his cases of shells and report my wounded safe
at the railway station. We lunched together on the front seat of the
_camion_ on bread, tinned "monkey meat," and red wine, while he told
me stories about his life as a driver. He had been on his car then
for more than twenty days without leaving it for food or sleep. That
morning his "partner" had been wounded by a shell, so he had to drive
all that day alone. Usually the two men drive two hours, turn and turn
about; while one is driving, the other can eat, sleep, or read the day
before yesterday's newspaper. The French _camions_ are organized in
sections of twenty. Usually each section works in convoy, and has its
name and mark painted on its cars. I saw some with elephants or ships,
some with hearts or diamonds, clubs or spades, some with dice--in fact,
every imaginable symbol has been used to distinguish the thousands of
sections in the service. The driver told me there were more than ten
thousand trucks working between Verdun and Bar-le-Duc. There is great
rivalry between the men of the several sections in matters of speed and
load--especially between the sections of French and those of American
or Italian cars. The American product has the record for speed, which
is, however, offset by its frequent need of repair.

My friend told me about trips he had made up as far as the third-line
trenches, and how they were using "seventy-fives" like machine-guns in
dug-outs, where the shells were fired at "zero," so that they exploded
immediately after leaving the mouth of the gun. The French, he said,
would rather lose guns than men, and according to him, there were so
many guns placed in the "live" parts of the Sector that the wheels
touched, and so formed a continuous line.

As soon as we had finished lunch he left me, and I waited for another
two hours until the American staff car (in other surroundings I should
call it an ordinary Ford touring-car with a red cross or so added) came
along loaded with an extra "rear construction," and driven by the Chief
himself. It took us another four hours to remove my battered rear axle
and put in the new parts, but my car was back in service by midnight.

That was a typical instance of the kind of accident that was happening,
and there were about three "Ford casualties" every day. Thanks to the
simplicity of the mechanism of the Ford, and to the fact that, with the
necessary spare parts, the most serious indisposition can be remedied
in a few hours, our Section has been at the front for a year--ten
months in the Bois-le-Prêtre, and two months at Verdun--without being
sent back out of service for general repairs. In the Bois-le-Prêtre
we had carried the wounded from the dressing-stations to the first
hospital, while at Verdun we were on service from the hospital to
the rail-heads. In this latter work of _évacuation_ the trips were
much longer, thirty to ninety miles, so the strain on the cars was
correspondingly greater. As our cars, being small and fast, carried
only three wounded on stretchers or five seated, our relative
efficiency was low in comparison with the wear and tear of the
"running-gear" and the amount of oil and petrol used. But in the
period from February 22 to March 13, twenty days, with an average of
eighteen cars working, we carried 2046 wounded 18,915 miles. This
would be no record on good open roads, but with the conditions I have
already described I think it justified the existence of our volunteer
organization--if it needed justification. Certainly the French thought
so, but they are too generous to be good judges.

Except for our experiences on the road, there was little romance in
the daily routine. True, we were under shell fire, and had to sleep
in our cars or in a much-inhabited hay-loft, and eat in a little inn,
half farmhouse and half stable, where the food was none too good and
the cooking none too clean; but we all realized that the men in the
trenches would have made of such conditions a luxurious paradise,
so that kept us from thinking of it as anything more than a rather
strenuous "camping out."

During the first days of the attack, the roads were filled with
refugees from the town of Verdun and the country north of it. As soon
as the bombardment started, civilians were given five hours to leave,
and we saw them--old men, women, and children--struggling along
through the snow on their way south. It was but another of those sad
migrations that occur so often in the _zone des armées_. The journey
was made difficult and often dangerous for them by the columns of
skidding trucks, so the more timid took to the fields or the ditches
at the roadside. They were for the most part the _petits bourgeois_
who had kept their shops open until the last minute, to make the town
gay for the troops, who filed through the Promenade de la Digue in
an endless queue on their way to and from the trenches. Most of them
had saved nothing but the clothes on their backs, though I saw one
old woman courageously trundling a barrow overflowing with laces,
post-cards, bonbons (doubtless the famous _Dragées verdunoises_),
and other similar things which had been part of her stock-in-trade,
and with which she would establish a Verdun souvenir shop when she
found her new home. There were many peasant carts loaded with every
imaginable article of household goods from stoves to bird cages; but no
matter what else a cart might contain, there was always a mattress with
the members of the family, old and young, bouncing along on top. So
ubiquitous was this mattress that I asked about it, and was told that
the French peasant considers it the most important of his Lares, for it
is there his babies are born and his old people die--there, too, is the
family bank, the hiding-place for the _bas de laine_.

All the people, no matter what their class or station, were excited.
Some were resigned, some weeping, some quarrelling, but every face
reflected terror and suffering, for these derelicts had been suddenly
torn from the ruins of their old homes and their old lives after
passing through two days of the heaviest bombardment the world has ever

I did not wonder at their grief or terror when I had seen the town
from which they fled. Sometimes it is quiet, with no shells and no
excitement; at others it is a raging hell, a modern Pompeii in the
ruining. Often I passed through the town, hearing and seeing nothing
to suggest that any enemy artillery was within range. But one morning
I went up to take a doctor to a near-by hospital, and had just passed
under one of the lovely old twelfth-century gates, with its moat and
towers, when the Germans began their morning hate. I counted one
hundred and fifty shells, _arrivées_, in the first quarter of an hour.

After making my way up on the old fortifications in the northeastern
quarter, I had an excellent view of the whole city--a typical garrison
town of northern France spreading over its canals and river up to
the Citadel and Cathedral on the heights. Five and six shells were
shrieking overhead at the same time, and a corresponding number of
houses in the centre of the town going up in dust and débris, one after
another, almost as fast as I could count.

During this bedlam a military gendarme strolled up as unconcerned as
if he had been looking out for a stranger in the Champs Elysées. He
told me about a dug-out that was somewhere "around the corner," But we
both got so interested watching the shells and their effect that we
stayed where we were. The gendarme had been in the town long enough to
become an authority on bombardments, and he could tell me the different
shells and what they were hitting, from the colored smoke which rose
after each explosion and hung like a pall over the town in the windless
spring air. When the shells fell on the Cathedral--often there were
three breaking on and around it at the same time--there sprang up a
white cloud, while on the red tiles and zinc roofs they exploded in
brilliant pink-and-yellow puffs. The air was filled with the smell of
the burning celluloid and coal-tar products used in the manufacture of
the high explosive and incendiary shells. It was very impressive, and
even my friend the gendarme said, "_C'est chic, n'est-ce pas?_ It is
the heaviest rain we have had for several days." Then he pointed to
the left where a column of flame and smoke, heavier than that from the
shells, was rising, and said, "Watch them now, and you'll understand
their system, the _cochons_. That's a house set afire with their
incendiary shells, and now they will throw shrapnel around it to keep
our firemen from putting it out." And so they did, for I could see the
white puffs of the six-inch shrapnel shells breaking in and around
the column of black smoke, which grew denser all the time. Then two
German Taubes, taking advantage of the smoke, came over and dropped
bombs, for no other reason than to add terror to the confusion. But
the eighty firemen, a brave little band brought up from Paris with
their hose-carts and engine, refused to be confused or terrified. Under
the shells and smoke we could see the streams of water playing on the
burning house. "They are working from the cellars," said the gendarme.
It was fortunate there was no wind, for that house was doomed, and but
for the fact that all the buildings were stone, the fire would have
spread over all that quarter of the town despite the gallantry of the

The bombardment continued steadily for about two hours and a half,
until several houses were well alight and many others completely
destroyed. Then about noon it stopped as suddenly as it had started.
I wanted to go down and watch the firemen work, but the gendarme, who
had produced an excellent bottle of no ordinary _pinard_, said, "Wait a
while, _mon vieux_, that is part of the system. They have only stopped
to let the people come out. In a few minutes it will start again, when
they will have more chance of killing somebody."

[Illustration: AT A "POSTE" AT THE VERY FRONT]

But for once he was wrong, and after waiting with him for half an hour,
I went down to the first house I had seen catch fire. The firemen
were still there, working with hose and axe to prevent the fire from
spreading. The four walls of the house were still standing, but
inside there was nothing but a furnace which glowed and leaped into
flame with every draught of air, so that the sparks flew over the
neighboring houses, and started other fires which the firemen were
busy controlling. These _pompiers_ are no longer civilians. The black
uniform and gay brass and leather helmet of Paris fashion have been
replaced with the blue-gray of the _poilu_, with the regulation steel
shrapnel casque or _bourguignotte_. The French press has had many
accounts of their heroism since the beginning of the attack. Certainly
if any of the town is left, it will be due to their efforts among the
ruins. There are only eighty of them in the town. Half of them are men
too old for "_active service_," yet they have stayed there for two
months working night and day under the shells, with the strain of the
bombardment added to the usual dangers from falling walls and fire.
They are still as gay and eager as ever. Their spirit and motto is the
same as that of every soldier and civilian who is doing hard work in
these hard times. They all say, "It is war," or more often, "It is for

I left them saving what they could of the house, and walked on over the
river through the town. It is truly the Abomination of Desolation. The
air was heavy and hot with the smell of explosives and the smoke from
the smouldering ruins. Not a sound broke the absolute quiet and not a
soul was in sight. I saw two dogs and a cat all slinking about on the
search for food, and evidently so crazed with terror that they could
not leave their old homes. Finally, crossing over the canal, where
the theatre, now a heap of broken beams and stones, used to stand,
I met an old bearded Territorial leaning over the bridge with a net
in his hand to dip out fish killed by the explosion of the shells in
the water. He did not worry about the danger of his position on the
bridge, and, like all true fishermen, when they have had good luck, he
was happy and philosophical. "One must live," said he, "and it's very
amiable of the Boches to keep us in fish with their _marmites, n'est-ce
pas, mon vieux_?" We chatted for a while of bombardments, falling
walls, and whether the Germans would reach Verdun. He, of course,
like every soldier in that region, was volubly sure they would not.
Then I went up on the hill towards the Cathedral, by the old library,
which was standing with doors and windows wide open, and with the
well-ordered books still on the tables and in the shelves. As yet it is
untouched by fire or shell, but too near the bridge to escape for long.

I continued my way through streets filled with fallen wires, broken
glass, and bits of shell. Here and there were dead horses and broken
wagons caught in passing to or from the lines. There is nothing but
ruins left of the lovely residential quarter below the Cathedral. The
remaining walls of the houses, gutted by flame and shell, stand in a
wavering line along a street, blocked with débris, and with furniture
and household articles that the firemen have saved. The furniture is
as safe in the middle of the street as anywhere else in the town. As
I passed along I could hear from time to time the crash and roar of
falling walls, and see the rising clouds of white stone dust that has
settled thickly everywhere.

The Cathedral, with its Bishop's Palace and cloisters,--all fine old
structures of which the foundations were laid in the eleventh and
twelfth centuries,--must, from its commanding position overlooking the
town, be singled out for destruction. I watched ten shells strike the
Cathedral that one morning, and some of them were the terrible 380's,
the shells of the sixteen-inch mortars, which make no noise as they
approach and tear through to the ground before their explosion.

The interior of the Cathedral, blurred with a half-inch layer of stone
dust, is in most "unchurchly" disorder. Four or five shells have torn
large holes through the roof of the nave, and twice as many more have
played havoc with the chapels and aisles at the side. One has fallen
through the gilded canopy over the high altar and broken one of the
four supporting columns, which before were monoliths like those of
St. Peter's at Rome. Of course, most of the stained-glass windows are
scattered in fragments over the floor, and through the openings on the
southern side I could see the ruins of the cloisters, with some chairs
and a bed literally falling into them from a room of the Bishop's
Palace above.

This destruction of the Cathedral is typical of the purposeless
barbarity of the whole proceeding. The wiping out of the town can
serve no military purpose. There are no stores of munitions or railway
communications to be demolished. Naturally there are no troops
quartered in the town, and now all extensive movements of convoys are
conducted by other roads than those leading through the town. Yet the
bombardment continues day after day, and week after week. The Germans
are sending in about £5,000,000 worth of shells a month. "It's spite,"
a _poilu_ said to me; "they have made up their minds to destroy the
town since they can't capture it; but it will be very valuable as an
iron mine after the war."[7]


[7] Since the writing of this chapter, five Sections of the Ambulance
have been sent to the vicinity of Verdun: Section 3 to the region about
Douaumont; Section 4 to Mort Homme; Section 8 to the neighborhood
of the fortress of Vaux; Section 2 to the immediate neighborhood of
Verdun; and Section 1 to the region of Fort Souville and Fort St.





IT gave us rather a wrench to leave Pont-à-Mousson. The Section had
been quartered there since April, 1915, and we were attached to
the quaint town and to the friends we had made. The morning of our
departure was warm and clear. Walking along the convoy, which had
formed in the road before our villa, came the _poilus_, and shook
hands with each _conducteur_. "_Au revoir, monsieur._" "_Au revoir,
Paul._" "_Bonne chance, Pierre!_" We took a last look at the town which
had sheltered us, at the scene of the most dramatic moments in our
lives. Above the tragic silhouette of a huddle of ruined houses rose
the grassy slopes of the great ridge crowned by the Bois-le-Prêtre,
the rosy morning mists were lifting from the shell-shattered trees, a
golden sun poured down a spring-like radiance. Suddenly a great cloud
of grayish white smoke rose over the haggard wood and melted slowly
away in the northeast wind; an instant later, a reverberating boom
signalled the explosion of a mine in the trenches. There was a shrill
whistle, our lieutenant raised his hand, and the convoy swung down the
road to Dieulouard. "_Au revoir, les Américains!_" cried our friends.
A little, mud-slopped, blue-helmeted handful, they waved to us till we
turned the corner. "_Au revoir, les Américains!_"


We left Pont-à-Mousson imagining that our Section was in for a month's
repairing and tinkering at the military motor park, but as we came
towards B. our opinion changed. We began to pass file after file of
troops, many of them the khaki-clad _troupes d'attaque_, bull-necked
Zouaves, and wiry, fine-featured Arabs. A regiment was halted at a
crossroad; some of the men had taken off their jackets and hung them to
the cross-beam of a wayside crucifix. On the grass before it, in the
circle of shade made by the four trees which pious Meusian custom here
plants round a _Calvaire_, sprawled several powerful-looking fellows;
one lay flat on his belly with his face in his Turkish cap. Hard by, in
a little copse, the regimental kitchen was smoking and steaming away.
A hunger-breeding smell of _la soupe, la bonne soupe_, assailed our
nostrils. Quite by himself, an older man was skilfully cutting a slice
of bread with a shiny, curved knife. The rooks eddied above the bare
brown fields. Just below was a village with a great cloud of wood smoke
hanging over it.

Late in the afternoon we were assigned quarters in the barracks of B.

[Illustration: SOLDIERS OF FRANCE]


At B. we found an English Section that had been as suddenly displaced
as our own. Every minute loaded _camions_ ground into town and
disappeared towards the east, troops of all kinds came in, _flick,
flack_, the sun shining on the barrels of the _lebels_, a train of
giant mortars, mounted on titanic trucks and drawn by big motor
lorries, crashed over the pavements and vanished somewhere. Some of
our _conducteurs_ made friends with the English drivers, and swapped
opinions as to what was in the wind. One heard, "Well, those Frenchies
have got something up their sleeve. We were in the battle of Champagne,
and it began just like this." A voice from our American West began,
"Say--what kind of carburetors do you birds use?" New England asked,
"How many cars have you got?" And London, on being shown the stretcher
arrangements of our cars, exclaimed, "That ain't so dusty,--eh, wot?"
Round us, rising to the full sea of the battle, the tide of war surged
and disappeared. At dusk a company of dragoons, big helmeted men on big
horses, trotted by, their blue mantles and mediæval casques giving them
the air of crusaders. At night the important corners of the streets
were lit with cloth transparencies, with "Verdun" and a great black
arrow painted on them. Night and day, going as smoothly as if they
were linked by an invisible chain, went the hundred convoys of motor
lorries. There was a sense of something great in the air--a sense of
apprehension. "_Les Boches vont attaquer Verdun._"


On the 21st the order came to go to M. The _Boches_ had made their
first attack that morning; this, however, we did not know. At M., a
rather unlovely eighteenth-century château stands in a park built out
on the meadows of the Meuse. The flooded river flowed round the dark
pines. At night one could hear the water roaring under the bridges.
The château, which had been a hospital since the beginning of the war,
reeked with ether and iodoform; pasty-faced, tired attendants unloaded
mud, cloth, bandages, and blood that turned out to be human beings;
an over-wrought doctor-in-chief screamed contradictory orders at
everybody, and flared into crises of hysterical rage.

Ambulance after ambulance came from the lines full of clients; kindly
hands pulled out the stretchers, and bore them to the wash-room. This
was in the cellar of the dove-cote, in a kind of salt-shaker turret.
_Snip, snap_ went the scissors of the _brancardiers_, who looked after
the bath,--good souls these two; the uniforms were slit from mangled
limbs. The wounded lay naked in their stretchers while the attendant
daubed them with a hot soapy sponge; the blood ran from their wounds
through the stretcher to the floor, and seeped into the cracks of the
stones. A lean, bearded man, closed his eyes over the agony of his
opened entrails and died there. I thought of Henner's dead Christ.

Outside, mingling with the roaring of the river, came the great,
terrible drumming of the bombardment. An endless file of troops were
passing down the great road. Night came on. Our ambulances were in
a little side street at right angles to the great road; their lamps
flares beat fiercely on a little section of the great highway.
Suddenly, plunging out of the darkness into the intense radiance of
the acetylene beams, came a battery of 75's, the helmeted men leaning
over on the horses, the guns rattling and the harness clanking, a swift
picture of movement that plunged again into darkness. And with the
darkness, the whole horizon became brilliant with cannon fire.


We were well within the horseshoe of German fire that surrounded the
French lines. It was between midnight and one o'clock, the sky was deep
and clear, with big ice-blue winter stars. We halted at a certain road
to wait our chance to deliver our wounded. It was a _mêlée_ of beams of
light, of voices, of obscure motions, sounds. Refugees went by, decent
people in black, the women being escorted by a soldier. One saw sad,
harassed faces. A woman came out of the turmoil, carrying a cat in a
canary cage; the animal swept the gilded bars with curved claws, and
its eyes shone black and crazily. Others went by pushing baby carriages
full to the brim with knick-knacks and packages. Some pushed a kind of
barrow. At the very edge of earth and sky was a kind of violet-white
inferno, the thousand finger-like jabs of the artillery shot unceasing
to the stars, the great semi-circular auréole flares of the shorter
pieces were seen a hundred times a minute. Over the moorland came a
terrible roaring such as a river might make tumbling through some
subterranean abyss. A few miles below, a dull, ruddy smouldering in the
sky told of fires in Verdun. The morning clouded over, the dawn brought
snow. Even in the daytime the great cannon flashes could be seen in the
low, brownish snow-clouds.

On the way to M., two horses that had died of exhaustion lay in a
frozen ditch. Ravens, driven from their repast by the storm, cawed
hungrily in the trees.


We slept in the loft of one of the buildings that formed the left wing
of the courtyard of the castle. To enter it, we had to pass through a
kind of lumber-room on the ground floor in which the hospital coffins
were kept. Above was a great, dim loft, rich in a greasy, stably smell,
a smell of horses and sweaty leather, the odor of a dirty harness room.
At the end of the room, on a kind of raised platform, was the straw in
which we lay; a crazy, sagging shelf, covered with oily dust, bundles
of clothes, knapsacks, books, candle ends, and steel helmets, ran
along the wall over our heads. All night long, the horses underneath
us squealed, pounded, and kicked. I see in the lilac dawn of a winter
morning the yellow light of an officer's lantern, and hear the call,
"Up, boys--there's a call to B." The bundles in the dirty blankets
groan; unshaven, unwashed faces turn tired eyes to the lantern; some,
completely worn out, lie in a kind of sleepy stupor. A wicked screaming
whistle passes over our heads, and the shell, bursting on a near-by
location, startles the dawn.

The snow begins to fall again. The river has fallen, and the air is
sickish with the dank smell of the uncovered meadows. A regiment on
the way to the front has encamped just beyond the hospital. The men
are trying to build little shelters. A handful of fagots is blazing in
the angle of two walls; a handful of grave-faced men stand round it,
stamping their feet. In the hospital yard, the stretcher-bearers unload
the body of an officer who has died in the ambulance. The dead man's
face is very calm and peaceful, though the bandages indicate terrible
wounds. The cannon flashes still jab the snowy sky.


The back of the attack is broken, and we are beginning to get a little
rest. During the first week our cars averaged runs of two hundred miles
a day. And this over roads chewed to pieces, and through the most
difficult traffic. In one of the places, there was a formidable shell
gantlet to run.

This morning I drove to B. with a _poilu_. He asked me what I did
_en civil_. I told him. "I am a _pâtissier_," he replied. "When this
business is over, we shall have some cakes together in my good warm
shop, and my wife shall make us some chocolate." He gave me his
address. A regiment of young men marched singing down the moorland road
to the battle-line. "_Ah, les braves enfants!_" said the pastry cook.





THE Section which is here designated as the "Section in Flanders" has
at least two distinguishing characteristics. This was the first Section
of substantial proportions to be geographically separated from the
"American Ambulance" at Neuilly and turned over to the French army.
Until it left "for the front" our automobiles had worked either to and
from the Neuilly hospital, as an evacuating base, or, if temporarily
detached for service elsewhere, they had gone out in very small units.

Secondarily, it has the distinction of having been moved about more
frequently and of having been attached to more diverse army units
than any other of our Sections. During the first year of its history,
it was located successively in almost every part of Flanders still
subject to the Allies: first at Dunkirk and Malo, then at Poperinghe
and Elverdinghe, then at Coxyde and Nieuport, then at Crombeke and
Woesten, Then after a full year in Flanders it was moved to Beauvais
for revision, and since then it has worked in the region between
Soissons and Compiègne and subsequently in the neighborhood of

During most of the time the men have been quartered in barns and
stables, sleeping in lofts in the hay or straw, or on stretchers on
the floor, or inside their ambulances, or, during the summer, on the
ground, in improvised tents in the open fields.

The opportunities for comfortable writing have been few, and no
complete story of the Section's experiences has ever been written. The
following pages give only glimpses of a history which has been crammed
with incidents and impressions worth recording.

The Section's story began in the cold wet days of early January, 1915,
when twenty men with twelve cars left Paris for the north. We spent our
first night _en route_ in the shadow of the Beauvais Cathedral, passing
the following day through many towns filled with French troops, and
then, as we crossed into the British Sector, through towns and villages
abounding with the khaki-clad soldiers of England and her colonies and
the turbaned troops of British India. The second night we stayed at
Saint-Omer, the men sleeping in their cars in the centre of the town
square, and the third morning, passing out of the British Sector once
more into the French lines, we arrived in Dunkirk where our work began.


We were at once assigned to duty in connection with a hospital
established in the freight shed of a railway station, and from then
on for many a long day our duty was to carry wounded and sick in a
never-ending stream from the station, where they arrived from the front
by four or five daily trains, to the thirty or more hospitals in and
about the city. Every school, barrack, and other large building in
the town (even the public theatre) or in the neighboring towns within
ten miles of Dunkirk, seemed to have been turned into a hospital. Our
work was extremely useful, the Section carrying scores and scores of
sick and wounded, day after day, week in and out. The first incident of
an exciting nature came on the second day.

We were nearly all at the station, quietly waiting for the next train,
when high up in the air there appeared first one, then three, and
finally seven graceful aeroplanes. We watched, fascinated, and were
the more so when a moment later we learned that they were Taubes. It
seemed hard to realize that we were to witness one of the famous raids
that have made Dunkirk even more famous than the raider Jean Bart
himself had ever done. Explosions were heard on all sides and the sky
was soon spotted with puffs of white smoke from the shells fired at the
intruders. The rattle of the _mitrailleuses_ and the bang of the 75's
became a background of sound for the more solemn boom of the shells. A
few moments later there was a bang not thirty yards away and we were
showered with bits of stone. We stood spell-bound until the danger was
over and then foolishly jumped behind our cars for protection.

This incident of our early days was soon thrown into unimportance by
other raids, each more interesting than the last. One of them stands
out in memory above all the rest. It was a perfect moonlit night,
quite cloudless. Four of my companions and I were on night duty in
the railway yard. About eleven the excitement started, and to say it
commenced with a bang is not slang but true. Rather it commenced with
many bangs. The sight was superb and the excitement intense. One could
hear the whirr of the motors, and when they presented a certain angle
to the moon the machines showed up like enormous silver flies. One had
a delicious feeling of danger, and to stand there and hear the crash of
the artillery, the buzzing of the aeroplanes, the swish of the bombs
as they fell and the crash as they exploded, made an unforgettable
experience. One could plainly hear the bombs during their flight, for
each has a propeller attached which prevents its too rapid descent,
thus insuring its not entering so far into the ground as to explode
harmlessly. To hear them coming and to wonder if it would be your turn
next was an experience new to us all. The bombardment continued for
perhaps an hour and then our work began. I was sent down to the quay
and brought back two wounded men and one who had been killed, and all
my companions had about the same experience. One took a man from a
half-demolished house; another, an old woman who had been killed in her
bed; another, three men badly mutilated who had been peacefully walking
on the street. An hour later all was quiet--except perhaps the nerves
of some of the men.

About this time our work was enlivened by the appearance of the one
and only real ambulance war dog and the official mascot of the squad.
And my personal dog at that! I was very jealous on that point and
rarely let him ride on another machine. I got him at Zuydcoote. He was
playing about, and as he appeared to be a stray and was very friendly,
I allowed him to get on the seat and stay there. But I had to answer so
many questions about him that it became a bore, and finally I prepared
a speech to suit all occasions, and when any one approached me used to
say, "_Non_, madame, il n'est pas Américain, il est Français; je l'ai
trouvé ici dans le Nord." One day a rosy-cheeked young lady approached
us, called the dog "Dickie" and I started my speech. "Il ne s'appelle
pas Dickie, madame, mais Khaki, et vous savez il est Français." "Je
sais bien, monsieur, puisqu'il est à moi." I felt sorry and chagrined,
but not for long, as a moment later the lady presented him to me.

We will skip over the humdrum life of the next few weeks to a night in
April when we were suddenly ordered to the station at about 1 A.M. It
was, I think, April 22. "The Germans have crossed the Yser" was the
news that sent a thrill through all of us. Would they this time reach
Calais or would they be pushed back? We had no time to linger and
wonder. All night long we worked unloading the trains that followed
each other without pause. The Germans had used a new and infernal
method of warfare; they had released a cloud of poisonous gas which,
with a favorable wind, had drifted down and completely enveloped the
Allies' trenches. The tales of this first gas attack were varied and
fantastic, but all agreed on the supprise and the horror of it. Trains
rolled in filled with huddled figures, some dying, some more lightly
touched, but even these coughed so that they were unable to speak
coherently. All told the same story, of having become suddenly aware
of a strange odor, and then of smothering and choking and falling like
flies. In the midst of all this had come a hail of shrapnel. The men
were broken as I have never seen men broken. In the months of our work
we had become so accustomed to dreadful sights and to suffering as to
be little affected by them. The sides and floor of our cars had often
been bathed in blood; our ears had not infrequently been stirred by the
groans of men in agony. But these sufferers from the new form of attack
inspired in us all feelings of pity beyond any that we had ever felt
before. To see these big men bent double, convulsed and choking, was
heartbreaking and hate-inspiring.



At ten o'clock we were ordered to Poperinghe, about twenty miles
from Dunkirk and three miles from Ypres, where one of the biggest
battles of the war was just getting under way. The town was filled
with refugees from Ypres, which was in flames and uninhabitable.
Through Poperinghe and beyond it we slowly wound our way in the midst
of a solid stream of motor trucks, filled with dust-covered soldiers
coming up to take their heroic part in stemming the German tide. We
were to make our headquarters for the time at Elverdinghe, but as we
approached our destination the road was being shelled and we put
on our best speed to get through the danger zone. This destination
turned out to be a small château in Elverdinghe, where a first-aid
hospital had been established. All round us batteries of French and
English guns were thundering their aid to the men in the trenches some
two miles away. In front of us and beside us were the famous 75's, the
90's, and 120's, and farther back the great English marine guns, and
every few seconds we could hear their big shells passing over us. An
automobile had just been put out of commission by a shell, before we
reached the château, so we had to change our route and go up another
road. The château presented a terrible scene. In every room straw
and beds and stretchers, and mangled men everywhere. We started to
work and for twenty-six hours there was scarcely time for pause. Our
work consisted in going down to the _postes de secours_, or first-aid
stations, situated in the Flemish farmhouses, perhaps four hundred
or five hundred yards from the trenches, where the wounded get their
first primitive dressings, and then in carrying the men back to the
dressing-stations where they were dressed again, and then in taking
them farther to the rear to the hospitals outside of shell range.
The roads were bad and we had to pass a constant line of convoys. At
night no lights were allowed and one had to be especially careful not
to jolt his passengers. Even the best of drivers cannot help bumping
on the pavements of Belgium, but when for an hour each cobble brings
forth a groan from the men inside, it is hard to bear. Often they are
out of their heads. They call then for their mothers--they order the
charge--to cease firing--they see visions of beautiful fields--of cool
water--and sometimes they die before the trip is over.

At Elverdinghe the bombardment was tremendous; the church was crumbling
bit by bit. The guns were making too great a noise for sleep. About 4
P.M. we started out to find something to eat. A problem this, for the
only shop still open was run by an old couple too scared to cook. No
food for hours at a time gives desperate courage, so on we went until
we found in a farmhouse some ham and eggs which we cooked ourselves. It
was not altogether pleasant, for the whole place was filled with dust,
the house next door having just been demolished by a shell. However,
the machines were untouched, although a shell burst near them, and we
hurried back for another night's work.


The following morning we decided to stay in Elverdinghe and try to get
a little sleep, but no sooner had we turned in than we were awakened
by the order to get out of the château at once, as we were under fire.
While I was putting on my shoes the window fell in and part of the
ceiling came along. Then an order came to evacuate the place of all its
wounded, and we were busy for hours getting them to a place of safety.
Shells were falling all about. One great tree in front of me was cut
completely off and an auto near it was riddled with the fragments. For
two weeks this battle lasted. We watched our little village gradually
disintegrating under the German shells. The cars were many times under
more or less heavy artillery and rifle fire and few there were without
shrapnel holes.

The advantage of our little cars over the bigger and heavier ambulances
was demonstrated many times. On narrow roads, with a ditch on each
side, choked with troops, ammunition wagons, and vehicles of all
sorts moving in both directions, horses sometimes rearing in terror
at exploding shells, at night in the pitch dark, except for the weird
light from the illuminating rockets, the little cars could squeeze
through somehow. If sometimes a wheel or two would fall into a shell
hole, four or five willing soldiers were enough to lift it out and on
its way undamaged. If a serious collision occurred, two hours' work
sufficed to repair it. Always "on the job," always efficient, the
little car, the subject of a thousand jokers, gained the admiration of
every one.

To most of the posts we could go only after dark, as they were in
sight of the German lines. Once we did go during the day to a post
along the banks of the Yser Canal, but it was too dangerous and the
General ordered such trips stopped. These few trips were splendid,
however. To see the men in the trenches and hear the screech of the
shells at the very front was thrilling, indeed. At times a rifle
bullet would find its way over the bank and flatten itself against a
near-by farmhouse. One was safer at night, of course, but the roads
were so full of _marmite_ holes and fallen trees that they were hard
to drive along. We could only find our way by carefully avoiding the
dark spots on the road. Not a man, however, who did not feel a hundred
times repaid for any danger and anxiety of these trips in realizing
the time and suffering he had saved the wounded. Had we not been there
with our little cars, the wounded would have been brought back on
hand-stretchers or in wagons far less comfortable and much more slow.

Finally the second battle of the Yser was over. The front settled down
again to the comparative quiet of trench warfare. Meanwhile some of us
were beginning to feel the strain and were ordered back to Dunkirk for
a rest. We reached there in time to witness one of the most exciting
episodes of the war. It was just at this time that the Germans sprang
another surprise--the bombardment of Dunkirk from guns more than twenty
miles away. Shells that would obliterate a whole house or make a hole
in the ground thirty feet across would fall and explode without even
a warning whistle such as ordinary shells make when approaching. We
were in the station working on our cars at about 9.30 in the morning,
when, out of a clear, beautiful sky, the first shell fell. We thought
it was only from an aeroplane, as Dunkirk seemed far from the range of
other guns. The dog seemed to know better, for he jumped off the seat
of my car and came whining under me. A few minutes later came a second
and then a third shell. Still not knowing from where they came, we got
out our machines and went to where the clouds of smoke gave evidence
that they had fallen. I had supposed myself by this time something of
a veteran, but when I went into the first dismantled house and saw
what it looked like inside, the street seemed by far a safer place.
The house was only a mass of torn timbers, dirt, and _débris_. Even
people in the cellar had been wounded. We worked all that day, moving
from place to place, sometimes almost smothered by dust and plaster
from the explosion of shells in our vicinity. We cruised slowly around
the streets waiting for the shells to come and then went to see if any
one had been hit. Sometimes, when houses were demolished, we found
every one safe in the cellars, but there were many hurt, of course, and
quite a number killed. The first day I had three dead and ten terribly
wounded to carry, soldiers, civilians, and women too. In one of the
earlier bombardments a shell fell in the midst of a funeral, destroying
almost every vestige of the hearse and body and all of the mourners.
Another day one of them hit a group of children at play in front of the
_billet_ where at one time we lodged, and it was said never to have
been known how many children had been killed, so complete was their

For a time every one believed the shells had been fired from marine
guns at sea, but sooner or later it was proved that they came from
land guns, twenty or more miles away, and as these bombardments were
repeated in succeeding weeks, measures were taken to safeguard the
public from them. Although the shells weighed nearly a ton, their
passage through the air took almost a minute and a half, and their
arrival in later days was announced by telephone from the French
trenches as soon as the explosion on their departure had been heard.
At Dunkirk a siren was blown on the summit of a central tower, giving
people at least a minute in which to seek shelter in their cellars
before the shell arrived. Whenever we heard the sirens our duty was to
run into the city and search for the injured, and during the succeeding
weeks many severely wounded were carried in our ambulances, including
women and children--so frequently the victims of German methods of
warfare. The American ambulance cars were the only cars on duty during
these different bombardments and the leader of the Section was awarded
the _Croix de Guerre_ for the services which they performed.



In the summer a quieter period set in. Sunny weather made life
agreeable and in their greater leisure the men were able to enjoy
sea-bathing and walks among the sand dunes. A regular ambulance
service was kept up in Dunkirk and the surrounding towns, but part of
the Section was moved to Coxyde, a small village in the midst of the
dunes near the sea between the ruined city of Nieuport and La Panne,
the residence of the Belgian King and Queen. Here we worked for seven
weeks, among the Zouaves and the Fusiliers Marins, so famous the
world over as the "heroes of the Yser."

Then once more we were moved to the district farther South known
as Old Flanders, where our headquarters were in a Flemish farm,
adjacent to the town of Crombeke. The landscape hereabout is flat as a
billiard-table, only a slight rise now and again breaking the view. Our
work consisted in bringing back wounded from the vicinity of the Yser
Canal which then marked the line of the enemy's trenches, but owing to
the flatness of the country we had to work chiefly at night. Canals
dotted with slow-moving barges are everywhere, and as our work was
often a cross-country affair, looking for bridges added to the length
of our runs. Here we stayed from August to the middle of December,
during which we did the ambulance work for the entire French front
between the English and the Belgian Sectors.

Just as another winter was setting in and we were once more beginning
to get hordes of cases of frozen feet, we were ordered to move again,
this time to another army. The day before we left, Colonel Morier
visited the Section and, in the name of the Army, thanked the men in
glowing terms, not only for the work which they had done, but for the
way in which they had done it. He recalled the great days of the Second
Battle of the Yser and the Dunkirk bombardments and what the Americans
had done; how he had always felt sure that he could depend upon them,
and how they had always been ready for any service however arduous or
dull or dangerous it might be. He expressed officially and personally
his regret at our departure.

We left on a day that was typical and reminiscent of hundreds of other
days we had spent in Flanders. It was raining when our convoy began to
stretch itself out along the road and it drizzled all that day.[8]


[8] This Section has since added several important chapters to its
history, having served successively on the Aisne, on the Somme, at
Verdun, and in the Argonne. (_November, 1916._)




THE night before we were to leave we gave a dinner to the officers of
the Ambulance. There were not many speeches, but we were reminded that
we were in charge of one of the best-equipped Sections which had as yet
taken the field, and that we were going to the front in an auxiliary
capacity to take the place of Frenchmen needed for the sterner work of
the trenches. We might be sent immediately to the front or kept for a
while in the rear; but in any event there were sick and wounded to be
carried and our job was to help by obeying orders.

Early the next morning we ran through the Bois-de-Boulogne and over an
historic route to Versailles, where, at the headquarters of the Army
Automobile Service, our cars were numbered with a military serial and
the driver of each was given a _Livret Matricule_, which is an open
sesame to every motor park in France. Those details were completed
about ten o'clock, and we felt at last as if we were French soldiers
driving French automobiles on the way to our place at the front.

About thirty kilometres outside of Paris the staff car and the
_camionnette_ with the cook on board dashed by us, and upon our arrival
at a quaint little village we found a café requisitioned for our
use and its stock of meat, bread, and red wine in profusion at our
disposal. In the evening we reached the town of Esternay and there
again found all prepared for our reception. Rooms were requisitioned
and the good people took us in with open arms and the warmest of
hospitality, but one or two of us spread our blankets over the
stretchers in the back of our cars, because there were not enough rooms
and beds for all.

The next morning was much colder; there was some snow and later a heavy
fog. Our _convoi_ got under way shortly after breakfast and ran in
record-breaking time, for we wanted to finish our trip that evening.
We stopped for lunch and for an inspection which consumed two hours,
and starting about ten o'clock on the last stretch of our journey,
drove all afternoon through sleet, cold, and snow. At seven o'clock
that night we reached Vaucouleurs, had our supper, secured sleeping
accommodations, and retired. Our running orders had been completed; we
had reached our ordered destination in perfect form.


Several days passed. We were inspected by generals and other officers,
all of whom seemed pleased with the completeness of our Section. Yet
improvements they said were still possible and should be made while we
were at the park. We were to take care of a service of evacuation of
sick in that district and at the same time try out a "heating system."
The Medical Inspector issued orders to equip two ambulances and report
the results. Our Section Director designed a system which uses the
exhaust of the motor through two metal boxes, which arrangement
warmed the air within the car and also forced the circulation of fresh
air. This was installed in two cars and found to be very satisfactory,
for in all kinds of weather and temperatures the temperature of the
ambulances could be kept between 65° and 70° Fahrenheit.

We were at this place in all six weeks, including Thanksgiving,
Christmas, and New Year's. Our work consisted of evacuating _malades_,
and at first it offered a fine opportunity of teaching the "green ones"
how to care for their cars. But we were all soon put on our mettle.

The outlying country was full of lowlands and streams which in many
places during the hard rains covered the roads to such a depth that the
usual type of French cars could not operate. Our car suspension was
high, and we were able to perform a service the other cars had not been
able to do. We established, too, a standard for prompt service, and
during the weeks we were there it never became necessary that we delay
a call for service on account of "high water." We left this district
for other work with a record of never having missed a call, and the
promptness of service, day or night, was often a matter of comment by
the French officials connected with this work. During the high water,
certain posts accustomed to telephone for an ambulance would ask for an
American Ambulance Boat, and the story was soon about that we had water
lines painted on the cars as gauges for depths through which we could
pass. I was once in the middle of a swirling rapid with the nearest
"land" one hundred yards away. But I had to get through, because I knew
I had a pneumonia patient with a high fever. I opened the throttle
and charged. When I got to the other side I was only hitting on two
cylinders, but as mine was the only car that day to get through at all
I boasted long afterwards of my ambulance's fording ability.

We were always looking forward to being moved and attached to some
Division within the First Army, and, as promised, the order came. Our
service in this district was completed, and on the morning of January
5 our _convoi_ passed on its way to a new location. Our work here
included _postes de secours_ that were intermittently under fire, and
several of the places could only be reached at night, being in daylight
within plain view of the German gunners.

Here again we remained only a short time. Without any warning we
received an order one evening to proceed the next day to Toul. This we
knew meant 7 A.M., for the French military day begins early, and so all
night we were busy filling our gasoline tanks, cleaning spark-plugs,
and getting a dismantled car in shape to "roll."



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

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


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




    "_Un blessé à Montauville--urgent!_"
        Calls the sallow-faced _téléphoniste_.
    The night is as black as hell's black pit,
        There's snow on the wind in the East.

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

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

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

    Christ! Do you hear that shrapnel tune
        Twang through the frightened air?
    The _Boches_ are shelling on Montauville--
        They're waiting for you up there!

    "_Un blessé--urgent?_ Hold your lantern up
        While I turn the damned machine!
    Easy, just lift him easy now!
        Why, the fellow's face is green!"

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

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

    Praise God for that rocket in the trench,
        Green on the ghastly sky--
    That _camion_ was dead ahead!
        Let the _ravitaillement_ by!

    "_Courage, mon brave!_ We're almost there!"
        God, how the fellow groans--
    And you'd give your heart to ease the jolt
        Of the ambulance over the stones.

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

    "Wake up, you swine asleep! Come out!
         _Un blessé--urgent--_damned bad!"
    A lamp streams in on the blood-stained white
        And the mud-stained blue of the lad.

    "_Il est mort, m'sieu!"_ "So the poor chap's dead?"
        Just there, then, on the road

    You were driving a hearse in the hell-black night,
        With Death and a boy for your load.

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

    It's just another _poilu_ that's dead;
        You've hauled them every day
    Till your soul has ceased to wonder and weep
        At war's wild, wanton play.

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

              EMERY POTTLE




In one of the most beautiful countries in the world, the Alsatian
Valley of the Thur runs to where the Vosges abruptly end in the great
flat plain of the Rhine. In turn a small valley descends into that
of the Thur. At the head of this valley lies the small village of
Mollau where is billeted the Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3. It
has been through months of laborious, patient, never-ceasing trips
from the valley to the mountain-tops and back, up the broadened
mule-paths, rutted and worn by a thousand wheels and the hoofs of
mules, horses, and oxen, by hobnailed boots and by the cars of the
American Ambulance (for no other Section is equipped with cars and men
for such service), up from the small Alsatian towns, leaving the main
valley road to grind through a few fields of ever-increasing grade on
into the forest, sometimes pushed, sometimes pulled, always blocked
on the steepest slopes by huge army wagons deserted where they stuck,
rasping cart-loads of trench torpedoes on one side, crumbling the edge
of the ravine on the other,--day and night--night and day--in snow
and rain--and, far worse, fog--months of foul and days of fair,--up
with the interminable caravans of _ravitaillement_, supplies with
which to sustain or blast the human body (we go down with the human
body once blasted), up past small armies of Alsatian peasants of
three generations (rather two--octogenarians and children), forever
repairing, forever fighting the wear and tear of all that passes,--up
at last to the little log huts and rudely made _postes de secours_ at
the mouth of the trench "bowels,"--a silent little world of tethered
mules, shrouded carts and hooded figures, lightless by night, under the
great pines where is a crude garage usually filled with grenades into
which one may back at one's own discretion.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RICHARD HALL]

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


C'est un suprême hommage de reconnaissance et d'affection que nous
rendons, devant cette fosse fraîchement creusée, à ce jeune homme--je
dirais volontiers--cet enfant--tombé hier pour la France sur les
pentes de l'Hartmannsweilerkopf.... Ai-je besoin de vous rappeler
la douloureuse émotion que nous avons tous ressentis en apprenant
hier matin que le conducteur Richard Hall, de la Section Sanitaire
Américaine N{o} 3, venait d'être mortellement frappé par un éclat
d'obus, près du poste de secours de Thomannsplats où il montait
chercher des blessés?

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

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

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

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

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

Conducteur Richard Hall--ADIEU![10]

[Illustration: RICHARD HALL'S GRAVE]



"We are here to offer our last, supreme homage of gratitude and
affection, beside this freshly dug grave, to this young man--I might
well say, this boy--who fell yesterday, for France, on the slopes of
Hartmannsweilerkopf. Do I need to recall the painful emotion that we
all felt when we learned yesterday morning that Driver Richard Hall, of
the American Sanitary Section N{o} 3, had been mortally wounded by the
bursting of a shell, near the dressing-station at Thomannsplats, where
he had gone to take up the wounded?

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

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

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

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

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

"Driver Richard Hall--farewell!"





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


_Our Ambulances_

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

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

          A. P. A.


_How the Cars reach Paris_

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

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

          HENRY M. SUCKLEY


_En route for the Front_

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


Lieut. Duboin Mr. Andrew Mr. Bacon Dr. Gros Mr. Hill]

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

          A. P. A.


_First Impressions_

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


(On the hill in the background)]

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


_The Daily Programme_

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

          J. H. G.

_Handling the Wounded_


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

          J. H. G.

_The Wounded_



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

          J. H. G.

_Night Duty_

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

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

          J. H. G.

_Fitting into the Life_

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

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

          J. H. G.

_Paysages de Guerre_

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

          J. H. G.

_Soldier Life_

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


Perhaps the most interesting time to see Montauville is when,
after a successful attack by the French, the German prisoners are
marched through the village. These, of course, without weapons and
with hands hanging empty, walk with a dogged step between guards with
fixed bayonets, and as they pass, all crowd near to see them. Almost
invariably the prisoners are bareheaded, having lost their caps--these
being greatly valued souvenirs--on their way down from the trenches.
They are housed temporarily, for interrogation, in a schoolhouse in the
main street, and when they are lined up in the school-yard there is a
large crowd of French soldiers looking at them through the railings.
Afterwards, they may be seen in villages behind the lines, fixing the
roads, or doing similar work, in any old hats or caps charity may have
bestowed upon them.

          J. H. G.

_July 22 at Pont-à-Mousson_

On Thursday, the 22d, we had a quiet day. In the evening several of
us stepped across to the house where Smith and Ogilvie lived, to have
a little bread and cheese before turning in. They had brought some
fresh bread and butter from Toul, where duty had taken one of them,
and these being our special luxuries, we were having a good time.
Coiquaud was at the Bureau and two or three of our men were in or
about the _caserne_. There were nine of us at the house at the fork of
the road, which, no doubt, you remember. Suddenly as we sat round the
table there came the shriek of a shell and a tremendous explosion.
The windows were blown in, the table thrown over, and all of us for
a second were in a heap on the floor. The room was full of smoke and
dust. None of us was hurt, happily, except Holt, who had a cut over
the right eye, and who is now going about bandaged like one of our
_blessés_. We made a scramble for the cellar, the entrance to which
is in a courtyard behind the house. As we were going down the stairs
there followed another shell, and quickly on top of that, one or two
more, all very near and pretty heavy. We stayed in the cellar perhaps
ten minutes, and then, as I was anxious to know how things were at
the _caserne_, I went up and, letting myself out into the street,
ran for it, seeing vaguely as I passed fallen masonry and _débris_.
The moon was shining through the dust and smoke which still hung a
little thick. When I got to the _caserne_, the first thing I heard was
Coiquaud crying, "_Oh! pauvre Mignot!_" and I was told that the poor
fellow had been standing, as was his wont, in the street, smoking a
pipe before going to bed. He was chatting with two women. Lieutenant
Kullmann's orderly (I think they call him Grassetié) was not far
away. The same shell which blew in our windows killed Mignot and the
two women, and severely wounded Grassetié, who, however, was able to
walk to the _caserne_ to seek help. He was bleeding a good deal from
several wounds; had one arm broken; his tongue was partially severed
by a fragment which went through his cheek. He was taken immediately,
after a rough bandage or two had been put on, to try to check the loss
of blood from his arm, where an artery appeared to be severed, to
Ambulance N{o} 3 at Pont-à-Mousson, whence he was afterwards taken to
Dieulouard and to Toul. He will probably recover.[11] A boy, the son
of our _blanchisseuse_, who was wounded at the same time, will, it
is feared, die. As I was told that Mignot still lay in the street, I
went out again, and saw him lying, being examined by gendarmes, on the
pavement. He seems to have been killed instantaneously. The contents
of his pockets and his ring were taken from the body by Coiquaud and
handed to me: they will, of course, be sent to his wife. He leaves
two children.... Poor Coiquaud, who had shown great courage, became
a little hysterical, and I took his arm and led him back to the
_caserne_. When we all, except those who had left with Grassetié and
some who had taken Mignot's body to Ambulance N{o} 3 (there was such
confusion at the time and I have been so constantly occupied since I
don't yet know exactly who took that service), collected at the Bureau,
our jubilation at our own escape--if the shell had travelled three
yards farther it would have killed us all--was entirely silenced by the
death of Mignot, for whom we all had a great affection. He served us
well, cheerfully from the beginning, honestly and indefatigably. He was
a good fellow, possessing the fine qualities of the French workman to
a very high degree. A renewed bombardment broke out about this time,
and we went down to the cellar. A shell striking the roof of one of our
houses knocked in all our windows. I think we may all honestly confess
that by this time our nerves were rather shaken. I was specially
anxious about the cars in the barn, including the Pierce-Arrow and the
Hotchkiss. One shell falling in the midst of them would have crippled
half our cars--and if an attack on Bois-le-Prêtre had followed...! Our
telephone wires were broken, so we were isolated. Lieutenant Kullmann
and I decided, after consultation with all our men who were present,
to report the situation to the _médecin divisionnaire_. So long as our
men kept in the cellar they were safe enough. The Lieutenant and I left
in the Peugeot brought by him to the Section, our leaving chancing
to coincide with the arrival of four or five fresh shells. It was
nervous work driving out; fragments of tiles and of shells--the latter
still red-hot--fell about us but without hitting us. After seeing the
_médecin divisionnaire_ we returned to the _caserne_ and spent the rest
of the darkness in the cellar. From time to time more shells came, but
soon after daybreak the firing ceased.

[11] He died soon after.

In the morning we were very anxious for a while about Ogilvie. He had,
unknown to the rest of us, gone to sleep at Schroder's and Buswell's
room, and in the night two more shells struck his house, one of them
penetrating right through to the cellar, making complete wreckage
there. Some of us spent a little time looking in the _débris_ for his

You would have been very moved if you could have been present at poor
Mignot's funeral. We did what we could for him to show our respect, and
I concluded I was only carrying out what would be the wishes of the
American Ambulance by authorizing the expense of a better coffin and
cross than he was entitled to in his grade in the army.

At eight in the evening as many men as were off duty went to
Pont-à-Mousson to attend the funeral. A short service was read in the
chapel of the Nativité. There were four coffins: Mignot's, covered with
a flag and with many flowers, and those of three civilians, killed
on the same evening. It was a simple and impressive ceremony: the
dimly lighted chapel, the dark forms of some twenty or thirty people
of Pont-à-Mousson, our men together on one side, the sonorous voice
of the priest, made a scene which none of us can forget. Colonel de
Nansouty, Commandant d'Armes de Pont-à-Mousson, and Lieutenant Bayet
were present; and when the little procession was formed and we followed
the dead through the darkened streets and across the Place Duroc, they
walked bareheaded with us. At the bridge the procession halted, and
all but Lieutenant Bayet, Coiquaud, Schroder, and the writer turned
back, it being desired by the authorities that only a few should go to
the cemetery. We crossed the river and mounted the lower slope of the
Mousson hill. Under the trees in the cemetery we saw as we passed the
shattered tombs and broken graves left from the bombardments, which
even here have made their terrible marks. In a far corner, well up on
the hillside, the coffin of Mignot was laid down, to be interred in the
early morning. We walked quietly back in company with Lieutenant Bayet,
and were at last free to rest, after so many hours of unbroken strain.

          J. H. G.


_Incidents of a Driver's Life_

On the 3d of May N{o} 6 went back on me for the first time. I was
returning from Toul when the car broke down in half a dozen different
places at once. I could not fix it, but would have reached Dieulouard
on three cylinders if it had not been for a steep hill. Twice N{o} 6
nearly reached the top, only to die with a hard cough and slide to the
bottom again. On account of this hill I was forced to walk fourteen
kilometres to Dieulouard for help. The next night I had my first
experience at night driving. A call came in at half-past nine to get
one wounded man at Clos Bois. McConnell, driver of N{o} 7, went with
me. We neither of us had ever been there, so it was somewhat a case
of the blind leading the blind. It made little difference, however,
as the night was so black that nothing but an owl could have seen his
own nose. We felt our way along helped by a distant thunderstorm, the
flicker of cannon, and the bursting of illuminating rockets, picked up
our wounded man, and were returning through Montauville when we were
stopped by an officer. He had a wounded man who was dying, the man was
a native of Dieulouard and wished to die there, and the officer asked
us to carry him there if the doctor at Pont-à-Mousson would give us
permission. We took him. He had been shot through the head. Why he
lived at all I do not know, but he not only lived, but struggled so
hard that they had to strap him to the stretcher. When the doctor at
the hospital saw him, he refused to let us carry him to Dieulouard
because the trip would surely kill him and he might live if left at the
hospital. Whether he did live or die I was never able to find out.

          CARLYLE H. HOLT

Our life here is one of high lights. The transition from the absolute
quiet and tranquillity of peace to the rush and roar of war takes but
an instant and all our impressions are kaleidoscopic in number and
contrast. The only way to give an impression of what takes place
before us would be a series of pictures, and the only way I can do
it is to describe a few incidents. Sometimes we sit in the little
garden behind our _caserne_ in the evening, comfortably drinking
beer and smoking or talking and watching the flash of cannon which
are so far away we cannot hear the report. At such times, the war is
remote and does not touch us. At other times, at a perfectly appointed
dinner-table, laden with fresh strawberries, delicious cakes, and fine
wine, and graced with the presence of a charming hostess, the war is
still more distant. Pont-à-Mousson, moreover, is rich in beautifully
conceived gardens of pleasant shade trees, lovely flowers, and tinkling
fountains. Lounging in such a place, with a book or the latest mail
from America, the war is entirely forgotten. Yet we may leave a spot
like that and immediately be in the midst of the realities of war.
One evening, about seven-thirty, after the Germans had been firing
on Pont-à-Mousson and the neighboring villages for some hours, I was
called to Bozeville. This village, which is on the road to Montauville,
is a small cluster of one-story brick and frame buildings constructed
in 1870 by the Germans for their soldiers. When I reached this place
it was on fire, and the Germans, by a constant fusillade of shrapnel
shells in and around the buildings and on the roads near them, were
preventing any attempt being made to extinguish the fire. To drive
up the narrow road, with the burning houses on one side and a high
garden wall, thank Heaven, on the other, hearing every few seconds
the swish-bang of the shells, was decidedly nervous work, anything but
peaceful. After picking up the wounded, I returned to Pont-à-Mousson,
where conditions were much worse. At this time the Germans were
throwing shells of large calibre at the bridge over the Moselle. To
reach the hospital to which I was bound, it was necessary to take the
road which led to the bridge and turn to the left about a hundred yards
before coming to it. Just as I was about to make this turn, two shells
struck and exploded in the river under the bridge. There was a terrific
roar and two huge columns of water rose into the air, and seemed to
stand there for some seconds; the next instant, spray and bits of
wood and shell fell on us and around us. A minute later I turned into
the hospital yard, where the effect, in the uncertain and fast-fading
light, was ghostly. Earlier in the evening a shell had exploded in
the yard and had thrown an even layer of fine, powder-like dust over
everything. It resembled a shroud in effect, for nothing disturbed its
even surface except the crater-like hole made by the shell. On one side
of the yard was the hospital, every window broken and its walls scarred
by the pieces of shells; in the middle was the shell-hole, and on the
other side was the body of a dead _brancardier_, lying on his back with
a blanket thrown over him. He gave a particularly ghastly effect to the
scene, for what was left of the daylight was just sufficient to gleam
upon his bald forehead and throw into relief a thin streak of blood
which ran across his head to the ground. Needless to say I left that
place as quickly as possible.

Another scene which I do not think I will soon forget happened in
Montauville. It was just after a successful French attack and shows
war in a little different light, with more of the excitement and glory
which are supposed to be attached to battle. Montauville is a straggly
little village of one- and two-story stone and plaster houses built on
the two sides of the road. It is situated on a saddle which connects
one large hill on one side of it with another large hill on the other
side of it. It is used as a _dépôt_ and resting-place for the troops
near it. On this particular day the French had attacked and finally
taken a position which they wanted badly, and at this time, just after
sunset, the battle had ceased and the wounded were being brought into
the _poste de secours_. The tints of the western sky faded away to
a cloudless blue heaven, marked here and there by a tiny star. To
the south an aeroplane was circling like a huge hawk with puffs of
orange-tinted shrapnel smoke on all sides of it. In the village the
soldiers were all in the streets or hanging out of the windows shouting
to one another. The spirits of every one were high. They well might
be, for the French had obtained an advantage over the Germans and had
succeeded in holding it. A French sergeant entered the town at the
lower end and walked up the street. At first no one noticed him; then
a slight cheer began. Before the man had walked a hundred yards, the
soldiers had formed a lane through which he strode. He was a big
fellow, his face smeared with blood and dirt and his left arm held in a
bloody sling. On his head was a German helmet with its glinting brass
point and eagle. He swaggered nearly the entire length of the village
through the shouting lines of soldiers, gesticulating with his one well
arm and giving as he went a lively account of what happened. Some one
started the "Marseillaise" and in a few minutes they were all singing.
I have heard football crowds sing after a victory and I have heard
other crowds sing songs, but I have never heard a song of such wild
exultation as that one. It was tremendous. I wish the Germans could
have heard it. Perhaps they did! They were not so far away, and the
sound seemed to linger and echo among the hills for some minutes after
the last note had been sung.

Our work here on this sector of the front is about three kilometres
in length. We do it all, as there are no French ambulances here. We
usually carry in a week about eighteen hundred wounded men and our
mileage is always around five thousand miles. The authorities seem to
be pleased with our work and we know that they have never called for a
car and had to wait for it. At any rate, we have had the satisfaction
of doing the best we could.

          C. H. H.


_Three Croix de Guerre_

Several bombardments have taken place near the first-aid posts and
hospitals where our cars are on duty. On the 6th, the Germans bombarded
a road that runs along the top of a ridge several hundred yards from
the post at Huss. One of the first shells landed on a farmhouse just
below the road, in which some Territorials were quartered, killing
three of them and wounding five others. Two of our men, accompanied by
the _médecin auxiliaire_ of the post, immediately drove their cars over
to the farm and rescued the wounded while the bombardment was still
going on. As a result of this prompt and courageous action on their
part, all three men were cited in the order of the division and will
receive the _Croix de Guerre_.

          P. L.



_From Day to Day_

_October 26._ The head of the Sanitary Service of the French
Government, accompanied by three generals, made a tour of inspection
of all the units in this Sector to-day. Mr. L----, accompanied by
Lieutenant K----, went to B----, where a formal inspection was held.
Mr. L---- was thanked as Section Commander for the service rendered
by Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 2. The remarks were exceedingly
complimentary. General L---- and the _médecin divisionnaire_, who
accompanied the party as representatives of the Sanitary Service in
this Sector, added their compliments to those of General L----.

_November 14._ We had the first snow of the season to-day. All the
morning it snowed and covered the fields and trees with a thick coating
of white. In the roads it melted and they became stretches of yellow

B---- broke his arm cranking his car this morning. He will be out of
commission for three weeks, so the surgeon who set it informed him.

_November 16._ We received a phone message in the morning asking us
to go to the "Mairie" to meet a high official. Four of us went over.
A number of large cars were drawn up in the Place D----. One bore
the flag of the President of France. We were to meet Poincaré. We
formed a line inside the sandbag barricaded arcade. The President and
his _entourage_ passed. He stopped in front of us. "One finds you
everywhere," he said; "you are very devoted." Then he shook hands with
each of us and passed on. We wandered on down the arcade to watch the
party go down into the shelled area of the town. A sentry standing near
us entered into conversation. He addressed himself to Pottle: "Did he
shake hands with you?" he asked. "Oh, yes," replied Pottle. "Hell,"
said the sentry; "he isn't a bit proud, is he?"

_November 25._ Thanksgiving--and we celebrated it in the American
style. We had purchased and guarded the turkeys, and they were prime.
C---- did wonders with the army food, and it is doubtful if any finer
Thanksgiving dinner was eaten any place in the world than the one we
enjoyed two thousand yards from the Huns.

_November 26._ An enemy plane, flying high above us this morning, was
forced to make a sudden descent to a height of three hundred metres
from earth. He was either touched by shrapnel or his mixture froze and
he had to seek a new level. He passed very low over us. One of the
Frenchmen attached to our Section fired at him with a rifle, but did
not get him.

_November 30._ B---- was shelled and a few stray shots were sent into
town and on the troop roads near us.

Under S---- the meals have been sumptuous repasts and we marvel at the

The writer, with two others of the Section, was crossing the Place ----
after dark. As we passed the breach in the sandbag barricaded roads
made by Rue ----, we were lighted up by the yellow glare coming from
the shops next to the "Mairie." The sentry there on duty saw us. "Pass
along, my children, and good luck--you are more devoted than we are,"
he cried to us.

I was startled by the voice out of the darkness and the surprising
remarks. I glanced towards the sentry's post, but the light blinded me
and I could not see him. From his voice I knew he was old--one of the
aged Territorials.

"Oh, no!" I answered, for lack of anything better to say.

"Yes, you are. We all thank you. You are very devoted," he said.

"No, not that, but I thank you," I said; and we were swallowed up in
the darkness. Then I was sorry one of us hadn't gone back to shake
hands with the kind-hearted old fellow. It seemed to me that it was
the spirit of France speaking through him, voicing as usual her
appreciation for any well-intentioned aid, and that we should have
replied a little more formally.



_From Another Diary_

[Illustration: A WINTER MORNING]


_November 13._ A bad number and a grim day for 168. At daybreak one
_blessé_, one _malade_, to Moosch. Brake loose as an empty soap-bubble.
Endless convoy of mules appeared at bottom of hill. Tail-enders
received me sideways or full breach--couldn't stop--didn't think to put
on reverse, so did some old-fashioned line-plunging. Heard cases crack,
men swear, mules neigh, but heard no brake taking hold. Tried to
stop later, but only succeeded in doing so by dragging against bank,
which was so straight car rubbed along like an old elephant scratching
its cutlets, and padlocks, keys, tools, side-boxes removed like flies.
Incidentally a young army on the way up the hill--a few casualties if
I had not stopped. Tornado of rain. A big tree had fallen across the
road this morning--just got under it--had been chopped down on the way
back. Nothing doing since, but frightful weather--good chance to write
in diary--most devilish wind in P.M. Walked over to Bain-Douches in the
evening to see Hartmann's by night by star bombs, but weather too bad
and saw no bombs. The valley of the Rhine so near our feet--impossible
to realize that somewhere between us and that flat vast plain, with
all its villages alight at night, were both lines of trenches--yet the
trees only moved in the wind and the only noise the batteries to the

_November 14._ Got up about an hour earlier than any one else, looked
out to find trees covered with snow--most splendid. The two Fords
snowed into the background. Built fire for sleeping sluggards. Took
two "birds" and one _brancardier_ down the hill--brakes refused
to work--used reverse successfully--no mules slaughtered or even
touched--oxen in the way, of great service--dropped my men at Moosch.
Blow-out just pulling into Wesserling with two _malades_--let 'em
walk--put on new tube--also blew out--ran into hospital--put on new
tire--no lunch.

_November 15._ Cold and clear, mountains amazingly fine--was orderly.
Tried to move an eight-story _Boche_ stove with Carey from wall to
centre of room where heat might radiate more effectually--weight two
tons--toppled like Tower of Pisa. I held it one second saving Carey's
life after imperilling it first--just got out before the whole damn
shooting-match crashed to floor a mass of broken cast-iron, broken
baked clay, and ashes. With great patience and science utilized lower
stones still standing by fixing top, shortening pipe, etc. Now in
centre of room where one can sit, talk, read, etc. Two vain trips with
Carey to see Burgomaster to report catastrophe.

_November 17._ Snowing to beat hell. All hands to Bussang to evacuate
hospital--minus usual sumptuous repast. Fenton moved rear roller of
his boat in usual dashing style--came around the corner a minute later
with conservative momentum and received from master-mechanic a severe
dissertation on over-speeding, etc., standing on his own ruins as he
spoke. Got late to Krüth--found Douglass there--then eased victuals
into us at the "Joffre"--six eggs in my inner tube. Took three frozen
feet to Bussang. We slipped as skating-rink _camions_ stuck all along
the line--snow packed in hard. 168 ran poorly on way back--slow going
on slippery road--the _col_ magnificent--trees loaded with fresh snow.

_December 3._ To Thoms--enormous amount of heavy artillery on the
road--eternal convoys of mules on way up. Kept getting stuck--finally
got through--found Galatti--terrible weather, road sea of mud, mountain
torrents across it. In the afternoon we each took down a load of
four--difficult driving--so tired when we got to Moosch. We had dinner
there. My carbide worked feebly, so G. followed with electric lights
to show me the way. On steep grade after zigzag I stuck--backed into
bank. G. thought he had _callé_'ed his wheel, but _voiture_ rolled
downhill into the gutter. An hour's hellish pushing, cranking, etc.,
of no avail. Finally I got out a trench spade and dug away bank and he
backed--some _tringlots_ came by and we pushed him up. Next assault
was on steep turn. G., having burned out his electric lights trying
to get out of gutter, went ahead of me with his barnyard lantern on
bowsprit. He missed the road. I slowed up and we rested side by side,
neither daring to lift the toe on the brake. Finally G. backed into a
frightful hole--got out, _callé_'ed my _voiture_, and we went in and
routed up some _charbonniers_ in some log cabins off the road--two
cabins full--got out of bed with most charming grace and pulled the car
out and we finally got back--three hours from Moosch to there--_très_
tired, _tous les deux_.

_December 7._ Hung around expecting to leave early to-morrow--took a
contagious call in Hall's car, mine being _chargée_, to Wesserling,
where at the end of the valley between the mountains three _avions_
were flying around--two French, one German. The sky clear for once and,
lit by sun about to sink over Ballon d'Alsace, was studded with white
shrapnel puffs--while the German puffs were flaked into black clouds.
On the way to Bussang with my contagious passed Hill who yelled, "We

          WALDO PEIRCE

_Further Pages_

_January 9._ Took Maud [the name of his car] out in the morning with
Hill at the wheel.--Went first to Moosch then back by Urber to test
hill. Maud pronounced fit for military burial after Hill's autopsy.
In P.M. made inventory of Mellen's old car to take out to-morrow. Bad
dreams at night about Thoms.


_January 10._ Nightmare of last night not up to actuality. Got up with
Mellen's car at Thoms after sticking first short of watering-trough.
Cate and I had a stake to plant at the place where Hall fell and start
a cairn of stones. At watering-trough, just as I started up, a shell
lit near and caused a rush of air by my head. As we planted the stake
and gathered stones shells whistled round. Mellen's car a heller to
crank. Arrived at Thoms finally sweating blood under my steel casque
in spite of temperature--about zero. Found Suckley, Phillips, Carey and
Cate present. Carey and Phillips went to Paste for wounded--Suckley to
Herrenfluh--Cate and I left alone. Shell N{o} 1 arrives--every one to
_abri_--Cate and I stay outside in kitchen. Bombardment of about half
an hour or three quarters--can't judge. Last shell sent window, door,
and stove in on us and blew us off the bench. Peeped into the next
room. All blown to hell--shell had landed just to right of entrance....
A very low P.M. Rice came tearing up from Henry's a minute or so after
the bombardment. I saw one hundred yards of messed-up wire moving
mysteriously down the road--was attached to Rice's car. He hurdled
scalloped tin, etc., where _tringlots_ had been killed. Cate coolest
man in Christendom--was reading account of sinking of Lusitania when
last shell arrived--just at part where torpedo struck.... When some
wounded came in on mules I parted with extreme pleasure.

          W. P.


_A Night Trip_

The most anxious drive I ever had in a checkered automobiling
experience was in the evening of September 30. It was at a new post in
the mountains, not far from Hartmannsweilerkopf. I was there for the
first time when a call came from ---- (a station just behind the lines
where a shower bath is established). It was dusk already, but I knew no
better than to start. The road is new since the beginning of the war;
it follows the steep route of an old path and no lights are allowed
on it for fear the Germans might locate and shell it. It is narrow,
winding, and very steep, so steep that at places at the top of a
descent it looks as if the road ended suddenly. There was barely enough
twilight through the mass of trees to allow me to see the pack-mules
returning from the day's _ravitaillement_, but I finally made my way to
the post.

I was given a poor, blind soldier to carry back. What a trip he must
have had. If it was trying for me, it was worse for him.

It was now dark, a moonless, starless night in the woods. When I
started back, I could seldom see the road itself. I had to steer by the
bank or by the gaps in the trees ahead. Occasionally I would feel one
of the front wheels leave the crown of the road, and would quickly turn
to avoid going over the precipice, but with all this I had to rush the
grades which I could not see, but could only feel.

At last the machine refused a hill and stalled. I knew that there were
steeper hills ahead, worse roads and thicker woods. I decided that a
German bullet would be better than a fall down the mountain-side, and
so I lit one of my oil lamps. Some passing soldiers gave me a push and
by the flickering light of the lantern I felt my way more easily back
to the post. I was glad to arrive.

          TRACY J. PUTNAM


_An Attack_

A few more hours and the steady line of ambulances began its journey
downward to crawl up again for another load, always waiting. We
deposited our wounded at the first hospital in the valley--there the
British took them and moved them on towards France. During that first
night and day the wounded men could not filter through the hospital
fast enough to let the new ones enter. Always there were three or four
Fords lined up before the door, filled with men, perhaps dying, who
could not be given even a place of shelter out of the cold. And it was
bitterly cold. The mountain roads were frozen; our cars slipped and
twisted and skidded from cliff to precipice, avoiding great ammunition
wagons, frightened sliding horses and pack-mules, and hundreds of men,
who, in the great rush, were considered able to drag themselves to the
hospitals unaided.

I was on my way to the nearest post to the lines on the afternoon of
the 27th when I was ordered to stop. Shells were falling on the road
ahead and a tree was down across it. I waited a reasonable time for
its removal and then insisted on going on. At that time I had never
been under fire. For two kilometres I passed under what seemed like an
archway of screaming shells. Branches fell on the car. At one time,
half stunned, half merely scared, I fell forward on the wheel, stalled
my engine, and had to get out and crank up, with pandemonium around me.
Then I found the tree still down. For an hour I lay beside my car in
the road, the safest place, for there was no shelter. We were covered
with _débris_. Then dusk came, and as we must return from that road
before dark, I tried to turn. The road was narrow, jammed with deserted
carts and cars, and with a bank on one side, a sheer drop on the other.
I jerked and stalled and shivered and finally turned, only to discover
a new tree down behind. There could be no hesitating or waiting for
help--we simply went through it and over it, in a sickening crash. And
then our ordinary adventures began.

          JOHN W. CLARK

There we had lived and eaten and sometimes slept during the attack.
The soldiers of the ----th had practically adopted each and all of us,
giving up their bunks and their food and wine for us at all times and
sharing with us the various good things which had come from their
homes scattered from the Savoie to Brittany. No lights were ever shown
there; no shells had fallen anywhere near. On January 8, the first ones
came, shrapnel and asphyxiating gas. Four men were killed. One of the
_brancardiers_ came out and stood in the road, unsheltered, to warn any
American car that might be coming up. A car broke down and I took 161
up that afternoon. We climbed the road among the shells, and near the
top a man was struck just in front of us. I picked him up and on the
way down again we went through a running fire. Two days later our hut
up there was struck and demolished. So we moved.

          J. W. C.


_Poilu Hardships_

The work during the past month has put an unusual strain upon every
part of our cars. But it saves the wounded hours of painful travel,
and is appreciated in the most touching manner by men as brave and
uncomplaining as ever did a soldier's duty, who have more to face than
is probably generally realized. All the horrors of modern war are known
here--high explosives, burning oil, asphyxiating gases, and in addition
it is no gentle country to campaign in. There are long marches and hard
climbs, where the wind blows cold, and it rains, and soon will snow,
for days at a time.

It is, indeed, a privilege to see the courage and good cheer of the
men who are facing these things. The _ravitaillement_ may be delayed;
their allotted period in the water-soaked trenches may be doubled,
or trebled, and yet it is always "_Ça ne fait rien._" It is a keen
satisfaction to think that your work will help to make the horrors of
cold weather a little less painful for such as they.

          D. D. L. MCGREW


_Winter in Alsace_

[Illustration: WINTER IN ALSACE]

We now received our first taste of winter, and my first experience
made me put more faith in the rumors of large falls of snow than an
American likes to concede to any country but his own. I was sent to
our regular station at the _poste de secours_ at Mittlach. It was the
farthest away, up the mountain to Treh, along the bare crest for five
kilometres and then twelve more on a winding, narrow road to the valley
of Metzeral. There was little work then, and the car that I was to
relieve got a trip late that night in what was, even at Mittlach, a
terrific rainstorm. The next morning it continued raining, but I could
see the peaks of the mountains covered with snow; still no wounded, so
I waited, a little anxious, as no relieving car had arrived. Late in
the afternoon, just after dark, the familiar sound of a Ford brought
me out of the _poste de secours_, and I found Rice, with his car
covered with snow which even the rain hadn't yet melted. His story was
of helping the car I had relieved, all morning, in their efforts to
pull it on to the road from which a heavy ammunition wagon had pushed
it, neither vehicle being able to stick to the icy road. Farther on he
had met continual snow-drifts. His eagerness to bring me chains, my
only chance of getting up, persuaded him to keep on, and he eventually
got through with everybody's help on the road. We decided to wait
until the storm was over, our only alternative, and proceeded to make
ourselves as comfortable as we could, which means a stove, somewhere to
sleep, and plenty to read and smoke. It was four days before the snow
let up and we had visions of a long and lonely winter, but as soon as
the storm broke we started up, and, as it proved, in the nick of time,
as the five kilometres along the crest were again swept by snow and
sleet and drifts were beginning to form. The Mittlach service had to be
abandoned after this, although in late November and early December a
car could go through, but it was impossible to assure the service and
it was found better to have sleighs and wagons do the work.


The cold has been intense during the last few days and breaking the
ice to wash is a usual morning performance. A temperature of 5° below
zero Fahrenheit does not facilitate starting a Ford ambulance that has
been standing out all night; in fact, almost every morning it takes
about fifteen minutes to start each car with the aid of hot water,
hot _potiers_, and other appliances that the inventive genius of our
various drivers supplies.

On either side of you a wilderness of snow. Take your eyes off the
road and you seem to be in the great forests of a new country. Look
back on the road and turn sharply to avoid the first of a convoy of
brand-new American tractors, or a maze of telephone wires with their
red-and-white labels which have been pulled from their supports by
the snow. The great rocks and banks resplendent with their coating of
ice, the trees, the snow, the occasional deer, fox, or rabbit contrast
strangely with the road--the narrow, winding, mountain road serving
for almost all forms of traffic, save the railroad, known to man.
Mules, mules, mules, always mules, with their drivers hanging on to the
beasts' tails.

          H. DUDLEY HALE



_Weeks of Quiet_

With the change of conductors N{o} 170 has fallen upon evil times. She
has carried meat and bread for the Section, and even coal; she has run
through miles of snowstorm to bring relief to those who were suffering
from toothache, scarlatina, or mumps; and she has patiently borne
_permissionnaires_ from hospital to railroad station; but the shriek of
shot and shell has become entirely unfamiliar to her ears. At first it
was the fault of the conductor, who had never conducted before reaching
Bordeaux, and only some half-dozen times between leaving Bordeaux and
arriving in Alsace. He was not adjudged capable of conducting up any
mountain in general nor up the slopes adjoining Hartmannsweilerkopf
in particular. He went up once or twice without 170, to inspect and
experience, but it is an experience of which a little goes a long way
when not prompted by duty. Afterward it was the fault of those who sit
in the seats of the mighty, and still is, and apparently will remain
so; but at no time was 170 to blame.

We left Alsace one morning early in February when the valleys were
filled with tinted mist and the snowy hill-slopes were glowing pink
with sunrise, and we hated doing it. Various reasons have been offered
for our departure by various persons in authority,--but none of them
satisfactory and convincing,--and we still look back upon it as the
Promised Land. We formed a convoy of twenty-three cars, in which 170
was placed immediately behind the leader--an arrangement to which
twenty-one persons objected. Every time the side boxes came open and
the extra tins of gasoline scattered over the landscape, or when the
engine stopped through lack of sympathy with the engineer, three or
four cars would manage to slip by. It was a sort of progressive-euchre
party in which 170 never held a winning hand. No one concerned had the
least idea whither we were headed. The first night we spent at Rupt,
where there is an automobile park. We took it on hearsay that there was
an automobile park, for we left the next morning without having seen
it; but when two days later we joined the Twentieth Army Corps--the
Fighting Twentieth--at Moyen, we were reported as coming straight from
the automobile park at Rupt. Consequently we were assumed to be ready
for indefinite service "to the last button of the last uniform," and
when we had explained that mechanically speaking our last uniform was
on its last button the Fighting Twentieth shook us off.

However, we spent a week at Moyen--in it up to our knees. The
surrounding country was dry and almost dusty, but Moyen has an
atmosphere of its own and local color--and the streets are not
clean. Yet to most of us the stay was intensely interesting. It lies
just back of the high-water mark of German invasion, and the little
villages and towns round about show like the broken wreckage tossed
up by the tide--long streets of roofless, blackened ruins, and in
the midst the empty skeleton of a church. The tower has usually been
pierced by shells, and the broken chimes block the entrance. Nothing
has been done to alter or disguise. The fields surrounding are pitted
with shell craters, which have a suggestive way of lining the open
roads; along the edge of the roads are rifle pits and shallow trenches
filled with a litter of cartridge boxes and bits of trampled uniform
and accoutrement, blue and red, or greenish gray, mixed together, and
always and everywhere the long grave mounds with the little wooden
crosses which are a familiar feature of the landscape. It lacks,
perhaps, the bald grim cruelty of Hartmannsweilerkopf, but it is a
place not to be forgotten.

From Moyen we moved on to Tantonville, a place not lacking in material
comforts, but totally devoid of soul; and from there we still make
our round of posts--of one, two, or four cars, and for two, four,
or eight days. In some, the work is fairly constant, carrying the
sick and second-hand wounded from post to hospital and from hospital
to railroad; in others, one struggles against mental and physical
decay--and it is from the latter of these in its most aggravated form
that the present communication is penned.

At Oëlleville, we saw the class of 1916 called out,--brave,
cheerful-looking boys, standing very straight at attention as their
officers passed down the line, and later, as we passed them on the
march, cheering loudly for "_les Américains_"--and so marching on to
the open lid of hell at Verdun. The roads were filled with soldiers,
and every day and all day the troop-trains were rumbling by to the
north, and day after day and week after week the northern horizon
echoed with the steady thunder of artillery. Sometimes, lying awake
in the stillness of dawn to listen, one could not count the separate
explosions, so closely did they follow each other. The old man who used
to open the railway gate for me at Dombasle would shake his head and
say that we ought to be up at Verdun, and once a soldier beside him
told him that we were neutrals and not supposed to be sent under fire.
I heard that suggestion several times made, and one of our men used to
carry in his pocket a photograph of poor Hall's car to refute it.

There was a momentary thrill of interest when a call came for four cars
to Baccarat--a new post and almost on the front; there was an English
Section there in need of assistance, and we four who went intended
to "show them how." But it seemed that the call had come too late and
the pressing need was over; the last batch of German prisoners had
been brought in the day before and the active fighting had ceased.
We stepped into the long wooden cabin where they waited--the German
wounded--and they struggled up to salute--a more pitiful, undersized,
weak-chested, and woe-begone set of human derelicts I hope never to
see again in uniform; and as we stood among them in our strong, warm
clothes, for it was snowing outside, all of us over six feet tall, I
felt suddenly uncomfortable and ashamed.

The officer in charge of the administration said that a car was needed
to go down the valley to Saint-Dié, but we must be very careful for
Saint-Dié was under bombardment. Once we were startled at lunch time
by an explosion near the edge of town. Three of us stepped to the
door. We were eating the rarity of blood sausage and the fourth man
kept his seat to help himself from the next man's plate. As we looked
out there came a second explosion a little farther off, and then in
a few moments a telephone call for an ambulance, with the news that
a Taube had struck a train. When I reached the place the train had
gone on, carrying ten slightly wounded to Lunéville, and I brought
back the other two on stretchers--one a civilian struck in a dozen
places, but otherwise apparently in excellent health and spirits; the
other was a soldier in pretty bad shape. It must have been excellent
markmanship for the Taube, since we had seen nothing in the clear blue
sky overhead nor heard the characteristic whir of the motor, and yet
both shell craters were very close to the tracks. In Alsace they were
constantly in sight, but seldom attacked and almost never scored a hit,
while the French gunners seemed perfectly happy to fire shrapnel at
them all afternoon with the same indecisive result. One could not even
take the white shrapnel clouds as a point of departure in looking for
the aeroplane--though the French artillery is very justly famous for
its accuracy of fire. In this instance as in all air raids the success
scored seemed pitifully futile, for it was not a military train,
and most of the wounded were noncombatants. It had added its little
unnecessary mite of suffering, and of hatred to the vast monument
which Germany has reared to herself and by which she will always be




You can little imagine how lonely it is here under the black,
star-swept sky, the houses only masses of regular blackness in the
darkness, the street silent as a dune in the desert, and devoid of
any sign of human life. Muffled and heavy, the explosion of a torpedo
inscribes its solitary half-note on the blank lines of the night's
stillness. I go up to my room, and sigh with relief as my sulphur match
boils blue and breaks into its short-lived yellow flame. Shadows are
born, leaping and rising, and I move swiftly towards my candle-end,
the flame catches, and burns straight and still in the cold, silent
room. The people who lived here were very religious; an ivory Christ
on an ebony crucifix hangs over the door, and a solemn-eyed, pure and
lovely head of Jeanne d'Arc stands on my mantel. What a marvellous
history--hers! I think it the most beautiful, mystic tale in our human

Silence--sleep--the crowning mercy. A few hours go by.


"There is a call, Monsieur Shin--_un couché à_----"

I wake. The night clerk of the Bureau is standing in the doorway. An
electric flashlight in his hand sets me a-blinking. I dress, shivering
a bit, and am soon on my way. The little gray machine goes cautiously
on in the darkness, bumping over shell-holes, guided by the iridescent
mud of the last day's rain. I reach a wooded stretch----_phist!_ a
rifle bullet goes winging somewhere. A bright flash illuminates the
road. A shell sizzles overhead. I reach the _poste de secours_ and
find a soldier in the roadway. More electric hand-lamps. Down a path
comes a stretcher and a man wounded in arm and thigh. We put him into
the wagon, cover him up, and away I start on my long, dark ride to the
hospital, a lonely, nerve-tightening ride.

_Stray Thoughts_

The voice of war is the voice of the shell. You hear a perfectly
horrible sound as if the sky were made of cloth and the Devil were
tearing it apart, a screaming undulating sound followed by an explosion
of fearful violence, _bang!_ The violence of the affair is what
impresses you, the suddenly released energy of that murderous burst.
When I was a child I used to wander around the shore and pick up hermit
crabs and put them on a plate. After a little while you would see a
very prudent claw come out of the shell, then two beady eyes, finally
the crab _in propria persona_. I was reminded of that scene on seeing
people come cautiously out of their houses after a shell had fallen,
peeping carefully out of doorways, and only venturing to emerge after a
long reconnoitring.

I am staying here. It was my design to leave at the beginning of the
year, but why should I go? I am very happy to be able to do something
here, very proud to feel that I am doing something. In times to come
when more Americans realize their lost opportunity, there will be many
regrets, but you and I will be content. So wish me the best. Not that
there is anything attractive to keep me here. To live continually under
shell fire is a hateful experience, and the cheerless life, so empty
of any domesticity, and the continuous danger are acid to any one with
memories of an old, beloved New England hearth and close family ties
and friendships. To half jest, I am enduring war for peace of mind.

How lonely my old house must be when the winter storms surge round it
at midnight. How the great flakes must swirl round its ancient chimney,
and fall softly down the black throat of the fireplace to the dark,
ungarnished hearth. The goblin who polished the pewter plates in the
light of the crumbling fire-brands has gone to live with his brother in
a hollow tree on the hill. But when you come to Topsfield, the goblin
himself, red flannel cap and all, will open the door to you as the
house's most honored and welcome guest.

A _fusée éclairante_ has just run over the wood--the _bois de la
mort_--the wood of the hundred thousand dead. And side by side with
the dead are the living, the soldiers of the army of France, holding,
through bitter cold and a ceaseless shower of iron and hell, the
far-stretching lines. If there is anything I am proud of, it is of
having been with the French army--the most devoted and heroic of the

          H. SHEAHAN


_A Gallant Blessé_

I was stationed at one of our _postes de secours_ the other night
during a terrible rainstorm. The wind does blow on top of these
mountains when it begins! About bedtime, which is at 7.30 (we eat our
dinner at 4.30--it is pitch dark then), a call came from one of our
_postes_ three kilometres nearer the line. There was a captain wounded
and they asked me to go for him. I cannot speak French well, but I made
them understand. The _poste_ is at the foot of the mountain, hidden
from the _Boches_ by the trees in the woods only. At night we cannot
use lights, for the Germans would see us easily, and then there would
be a dead American in short order. Of course, I told them I would go,
but it would be dangerous for the _blessé_. I could jump out in case I
should run into a ravine, but I could not save the man on the stretcher
if anything happened. They understood, and, after about half an hour,
we heard another knock on the cabin door, and they brought the captain
in--four men, one on each corner of a stretcher. They put him on the
floor, and in the lantern light of the room (made of rough timbers) one
could see he was vitally stricken by the death color of his face and
lips. He had his full senses. It was my duty then to take him down the
opposite slope of the mountain to the hospital. I started my car and
tried to find my way through the trees in the dark. The wind was almost
strong enough to blow me off the seat, and the rain made my face ache.
The only light I had was that of the incendiary bombs of the French and
the Germans at the foot of the hill, about one and a half kilometres
away. These bombs are so bright they illuminate the whole sky for miles
around like a flash of lightning. I must admit my nerves were a little
shaken, taking a dying man into my car under such conditions, almost
supernatural. It did seem like the lights of the spirits departing
mixed with the moaning wind and the blackness of the night, and the
pounding of the hand-grenades in the front lines so near. They gave
me another _blessé_ with the captain. This man had been shot through
the mouth only, and was well enough to sit up in back and watch the
captain. I could use my lights after I had passed down the side a short
distance out of sight of the lines. We must run our motors in low speed
or we use up our brakes in one trip. All the poor _capitaine_ could say
during the descent was "_J'ai soif_," except once when he requested
me to stop the car, as the road was too rough for him, and we had to
rest. When we reached the hospital, I found a bullet had struck one
shoulder and passed through his back and out the other shoulder. He
also had a piece of shell in his side. A few hours before he had walked
back from the trenches into the woods to see a position of the Germans;
they saw him--and seldom does a man escape when seen at fairly close
range. He was vitally wounded. I climbed up the mountain watching the
fire-flashes in the sky, feeling pretty heavy-hearted and homesick, but
with strengthened resolve to help these poor chaps all I possibly could.

The next day I had another trip from the same station on the mountain
to the same hospital at five o'clock in the afternoon--then dark as
midnight. The sisters told me the _capitaine_ was better; the ball had
not severed the vertebra and there was hope for him. They told me also
that the general had arrived and conferred upon him the Cross of the
_Légion d'Honneur_. It was reassuring to hear that he was better and
had distinguished himself so well, and I went back up the trail this
night with a lighter heart. I had felt really guilty, for I did not
have a thing in my car to give him the night before when he asked me
to stop the car and said, "_J'ai soif_." Never did I want a spoonful
of whiskey more and never have I regretted not having it more. I could
not give him water--he had some fever; besides, though there are many
streams of it running down the mountain, no one dares to touch it.
Water is dangerous in war-time, and we have all been warned against it.

I was called the next morning for the same trip and when I reached the
hospital at eight o'clock it was still raining--now for three days! I
met Soeur Siegebert in the hall--carrying her beads, her prayer-book
and a candle. She is one of the good nuns who always gives me hot
soup or tea with rum in it when I come in cold, wet, and hungry--and
many times I and the others have blessed her! My first question was:
"_Comment ça va avec le capitaine ce matin?_" All she said and could
say was "_Fini_." He had passed out a short time before I got there.
He was only thirty years old, tall and handsome, and they say he led a
whole battalion with the courage of five men.

A little later I stepped into the death chamber in a little house
apart from the hospital. It was cold, wet, and smelled strongly of
disinfectant, just as such places should, and in a dim, small room
lighted by two candles, upon a snowy white altar made by the nuns,
there he lay on a bier of the purest linen beautifully embroidered,
whiter even than the pallor of his features and hands, and as I came
near him the only color in the room was the brilliant touch of red
and silver in his _Légion d'Honneur_ medal, which was pinned over his
heart. His peaceful expression assured me he was happy at last, and
made me realize that this is about the only happiness left for all
these poor young chaps I see marching over these roads in companies for
the trenches, where their only shelter is the sky and their only rest
underground in dug-outs. When they go into the trenches they have a
slim chance of coming out whole again, and they pass along the road in
companies with jovial spirits, singing songs and laughing as though
they were going to a picnic. I see them come back often, too; they are
still smiling but nearly always in smaller numbers. What can they have
in view when they see their numbers slowly but surely dwindling! I
marvel at their superb courage!

          LUKE C. DOYLE



_Perils of a Blizzard_

The other night, just as I was going to crawl in, three _blessés_
arrived from the trenches, another was down the road in a farmhouse
waiting for the _médecin chef_; he was too badly wounded to go farther.
They asked me to take the men to the hospital at Krût, which is back
over the mountains twenty miles, and of course I said I would. I
dressed again (I hated to because it was warm in the little log shack
and it had begun to rain outside); I lit my lantern, and went out to
the shelter where the cars were, got my tank filled with gas, and my
lights ready to burn when I could use them. It was so black one could
see nothing at all. We put two of the _blessés_ on stretchers and
pushed them slowly into the back of the car; the other sat in front
with me. We did this under the protection of the hill where the _poste
de secours_ is located. When one goes fifty yards on the road beyond
the station there is a valley, narrow but clear, which is in full view
of the trenches, and it is necessary to go over this road going and
coming. In the daytime one cannot be seen because the French have put
up a row of evergreens along it which hides the road. I started and
proceeded very carefully, keeping my lantern under a blanket, and we
soon arrived at the house where the other _blessé_ was waiting for
the doctor. It was a typical French farmhouse, little, old, and dirty
inside, and white outside. I pushed in the door and stepped down into
the flagstone kitchen. On the floor lay the _chasseur_ on a stretcher,
his face pale under the lamplight from the table. The _médecin chef_
was bending over him injecting tetanus (lockjaw) anti-toxin into his
side, and with each punch of the needle the poor fellow, already
suffering from terrible wounds, would squirm but not utter a word. The
soldiers stood around the tiny room, their heads almost touching the
brown rafters above. We took the man out to my car on the stretcher,
carrying the light under the coat of one of the stretcher-bearers. If
the Germans see a light moving anywhere in the French territory, they
will fire on it if they think it near enough. I started up the mountain
with my load of wounded. On either side of the road the French guns at
certain places pounded out their greetings to the _Boches_, and the
concussion would shake the road so that I could feel it in my car. I
could light my lights after about a mile, so I proceeded slowly up the
mountain in low speed. The heat from my motor kept the _blessés_ and
myself warm. About halfway up, we ran into the clouds and it became
so foggy one could scarcely see; farther up it became colder and began
to snow. I had no chains on my car (none to be had). They need so many
things here, if they only had the money to buy them. I thought of the
time you and I got stuck at Princeton, and it worried me to be without
chains, especially since I had three helpless men inside and one out.
I kept climbing up and the higher I went the more it snowed and the
harder it blew. Near the top it became veritably blinding--snow, sleet,
and wind--a typical northeasterly American blizzard. The little car
ploughed on bravely; it stuck only once on a sharp turn, and by backing
it I was able to make it by rushing it. I could not see the road, the
sleet was blowing into my face so and the snow was so thick. At last
I reached the summit and the wind was so strong there it actually
lifted my car a little at one time. On one side of the road was a high
embankment and on the other a ravine sloping down at least one thousand
feet. I was scared to death, for without chains we were liable to skid
and plunge down this depth. The snow had been falling all day, and it
had drifted in places over a yard deep. Twice I took a level stretch to
be the road, but discovered my mistake in time to back up; the third
time was more serious; I plunged ahead through a drift which I thought
was the road, and finally I stuck and could move neither way. I could
not leave these men there all night wounded, and the blizzard did not
stop, so my only means was to find help. I walked back to what I
thought was the road and kept on toward a slight, glimmering light I
could see in the right direction. It was an enclosure for mules which
haul ammunition over the mountains, and I felt safe again, for I knew
there were a lot of Territorial soldiers with them. I hauled them out
of bed; it was then 10.30. They came with me and pushed me back on
the road, also pushed me along--ten of them--until they got me on the
descent, and from there on the weight of my car carried me down through
the drifts. I arrived at the hospital at 12.30 and was the happiest man
you have ever seen to get those poor fellows there safely.

I was sent back to Mittlach the next day to get four more wounded. They
were what are called _assis_, not _couchés_, fortunately, because the
snow on top of Trekopf had been falling and drifting all day and night.
When I got to the top of the mountain and started down, the roads had
been broken and beaten down by munition wagons and were like a sheet
of ice. I started down without chains, and with all my brakes on the
car began to slide slowly down the road. It slid toward the edge of the
ravine and the two front wheels went over; it stopped, I got it back on
the road, and turned the radiator into the bank on the other side and
tried tying rags on the rear wheels to keep the car from going down,
when a big wagon with four horses came down the hill behind me. It was
so slippery that the horses started to slide down on their haunches,
and, with brakes on, the driver could not stop them. The horses came
on faster and they slid into the rear of my car, pushed it along for
about six feet, and then nothing could stop it. It started down the
road. I yelled to the wounded, "_Vous, jetez vous._" They understood
and piled out just in time. The car ran across the road and plunged
down into the ravine. There was a lot of snow on the side of the
ravine, and it had piled up so that it stopped the car part way down,
and it was not injured very much. It took nine men and as many mules
to pull it out. Now that the snow has come, I think our service to
Mittlach will have to be abandoned.

          L. C. D.



At Tomansplatz the other day an officer and I started for ----, one
of our _postes_. We took a short cut over a high hill from which one
could look easily down on ----, where all the fighting had been going
on. There is a path over this hill which is hidden by trees, and on
the top is a long _boyau_ to pass through so as to keep out of sight
of the Germans in clear weather. When we reached the top, we stepped
out of the path to get a view of the valley, and it was wonderful
looking down on the French and German trenches, and to see the hill
all shot to pieces and the trees broken to stubs--living scars of the
fighting that had gone on. We did not get by unseen, for the Germans
are always on the job. They have observation posts in the trees, hard
to be seen, but easy to see from. There was a lot of firing going
on, and we could see the French shells landing in the German lines.
I had a premonition that something was going to happen and stepped
behind a tree. I heard particularly one big gun fire, and wondered if
by any chance it was meant for us. It took only three or four seconds
to confirm my suspicion, for the shriek of a shell came our way. As
they often pass high over our heads and we are familiar with the sound,
I was still in doubt, when it burst not fifty yards away. We did not
wait to investigate further, but jumped for the _boyau_ when another
shriek was heard, and we were just in time, for the shell burst not
far behind us. We could tell when they were firing at us, for we could
hear the gun fire,--it sounded like a 150 mm., which is about 6-inch
bore,--then came the shriek, and then the bursting. It certainly is a
strange, unwelcome sound when you know you are the target. We ran down
the _boyau_ toward the back of the hill for all we were worth, and they
followed us, but we did not stop to look or listen, we almost rolled
down the other side of the hill, but it was to safety, thank Heaven.
The only thing that happened to me was a scratch on the back of my
hand. Never again! The sensation of shells coming at one is novel but
nauseating, and I keep away from the lines from now on.

I must tell you that we have received a citation, and Colonel Hill's
brother the _Croix de Guerre_ for the work we did during the attack
of October 15 to 19. Two more citations and we receive, each one, the
_Croix de Guerre_.

          L. C. D.

_Poignant Impressions_

I had a wild ride last night in the rain. A German shell landed in a
town only two kilometres from the front and killed four civilians and
wounded one woman. I had to go and get her. For two kilometres the road
runs over a slight rise in the plain, in full view of the Germans. It
is all screened off with brush cut and stuck up along the side toward
the lines, but here and there the brush was blown down by the terrific
wind which came with the storm. We could not use lights, but we did
not need them, for, though it was raining like fury, the Germans were
sending up illuminating bombs which lighted up the country for miles
around. They are the most fascinating yet weird things you have ever
witnessed. This ball of fire rises from the trenches to a height of
one hundred feet, and then floats along slowly through the air for a
quarter of a mile, illuminating everything around. At one time one
came directly for us, and we stopped the car and watched it. At the
roadside stood a huge crucifix, and, as this ball of fire approached,
it silhouetted the cross, and all we could see was the beautiful shadow
of the figure on the cross rising from the earth against the weird glow
of white fire. It seemed like the sacrifice of Calvary and the promise
of success for poor France.



We did not dare to use our low speed for fear the _Boches_ would
hear us, so we tore over this road on high, rushing past the bare
spots, afraid of being seen. The illuminating bombs are used for this
purpose only; the one which came toward us went out before it
reached us, for which we were grateful. We got the woman. She had to
have her arm amputated.

  _December 27_

We have had very strenuous times, as a big attack has just taken place
and the wounded have come in so fast and so badly cut up they could not
give them the care they would like to, as everything is so crowded. The
Germans lost a lot of trenches, and almost two thousand of them were
taken prisoners. They have been shelling the French lines and towns
constantly; since the 22d, our cars have been more or less under fire.
We moved our quarters about six kilometres nearer the line and bring
the wounded in to the hospital three times a day. The Germans shelled
this place,--why we do not know, for there is nothing military here but
the hospital, and why should people of any intelligence and feeling
wish to shell a hospital?

One of our men was killed on Christmas Day and we are terribly broken
up over it. He was going from this hospital to the _poste_ we go to
daily over a road up the mountain. At four o'clock Christmas morning
one of our boys started up this road, which goes up and up with no
level place on it. He passed the middle of the journey when he thought
he noticed a wagon turned over about forty feet down in the ravine.
He went to a point where he could stop his car, took his lantern, and
walked back. He found one of our Fords so demolished it could not be
distinguished. The top of the car was up in a tree and so were the
extra tires; there was nothing on the ground but a chassis. He saw no
one around, but on going down a little farther, he saw a bundle of
blankets which we always carry for the wounded, and, on walking up to
it, he found one of our fellows, Dick Hall. He was lying on his side
with his arms fixed as if driving and in a sitting position, cold and
rigid. He had been dead a couple of hours. Walter, who found him, went
back up the road for assistance, and, while there, Hall's brother
came along in his car and asked what the matter was and offered his
assistance. Walter told him his brakes were not working and he was
fixing them, so Hall, knowing nothing of his brother, passed on up the
mountain, got his load of wounded, and took them to the hospital.


  _In the Hospital_

  _January 1, 1916_

This brings the war home to us! This and the suffering and torments of
the wounded make me sick at heart. I have seen them suffer particularly
since this last attack, as I am a _blessé_ myself--and am in a French
hospital. It is only a slight arm wound; the bone is cracked a little,
but not broken. I am here to have the piece of shell drawn out and am
assisting these poor wounded all I can. I was sent to the _poste_ we
have nearest the lines, on the other side of the mountain and hidden
in the woods. The trenches begin at this _poste_. The _poste_ itself is
an _abri_, a bomb-proof dug-out in the ground. The roof and supports
are made of timbers a foot or more thick, over these are placed two
feet of heavy rock and again two feet of earth. When I got there the
Germans began bombarding, and fired shells into these woods and into
this _poste_ for almost five hours. I never want to see another such
bombardment; it was frightful. I saw shells land among horses, smash
big trees in half within ten and twenty yards. I saw three men hit; one
had his face shot away. The _poste_ became so full of wounded we had
to stand near the doorway, which is partly protected by a bomb-proof
door. It was not exactly safe inside, for the shells, if big enough,
when they hit such an _abri_ often loosen the supports, and the roof,
weighing tons, falls in and buries people alive. A man in the same room
with me in the hospital here was in an _abri_ not far from where we
were when it was struck; the roof fell and killed three men who were
with him and he was buried for an hour. A shell struck a tree not eight
feet off from where we were standing and smashed it in half; it fell
and almost killed one of two _brancardiers_ (stretcher-bearers) who
were carrying a dead man past the door. A piece of the _éclat_ hit the
other _brancardier_ in the head and killed him. The man standing beside
me had his hand shot off, and I got hit in the elbow. Three pieces went
through my coat, but only one went into the arm. If I had not been
standing against the door I might have fared worse. I was carried with
two other wounded by one of our fellows up the steep mountain road
to our second _poste_. They were bombarding that road as well as the
_poste_. We could see the sky redden from the flash of the guns below
and we could hear the shells shriek as they came toward us, and the
_éclat_ not too far away. Twice we started the Ford on the way up; it
stalled and took five precious minutes to get it going again. The force
of one explosion knocked the fellow with me over when he walked ahead
to try and make out the road. We stuck in the road twice, not daring
to pass a wagon conveying munitions. We could not make the hill, it
was so steep, and we had to seek men to push us. It was pitch-black
and we could not use our lights. This with two gravely wounded men
on our hands rather took the nerve out of us. We finally got back to
headquarters and found them bombarding there, one shell having struck
not far from the hospital.

  _January 20_

I am still in the hospital, but am glad to say my arm is almost quite
well again. It does take time. The bombardment by the Germans of all
our former _postes_ has become pretty nerve-racking. The house we
took for the attack has been hit twice. We had moved out only the day
before. They struck a schoolhouse close by and killed a nun and wounded
three harmless children. Our cars have been hit by scraps of shell, but
fortunately when none of the men were in them.

The suffering of the men in this hospital and the cries in the night
make it an inferno. Though I am glad I can help a little, I must say it
is on my nerves.

In this hospital--which is one of the best--they need very badly beds
for men who have had their vertebræ broken. These men live from two
to six months in a frame on their backs all the time. This is the way
they spend the last months of their lives. We have three men in this
condition now, and each time they are moved it takes at least four
men to change them and they suffer terribly. The special beds I speak
of are made on pulleys with bottom and sides which can be opened for
washing and service purposes. They cost forty dollars and France cannot
afford to buy them, as she has so many needs. If you could raise some
money for this purpose, you would be doing these poor fellows the last
favors they will have on this earth and help them in their suffering.

          L. C. D.


  _New Quarters_

  _August 6, 1915_

I was delighted to see "Doc" to-day. He arrived yesterday evening from
Paris, but I was on M---- duty, so we did not meet until this morning.
We had a long talk and I told him the story of the fatal 22d; the
recital of it only seems to have reimpressed me with the horror of that


We are now quite comfortably settled in our new quarters, a house
never shelled until just after our occupation of it, when we received
a 77 a few feet from our windows. I do not know why it has been spared
unless the _Boches_ were anxious not to destroy a creation so obviously
their own. Architecturally it is incredible--a veritable pastry
cook's _chef d'oeuvre_. Some of the colors within are so vivid that
hours of darkness cannot drive them out of vision. There is no piano,
but musical surprises abound. Everything you touch or move promptly
plays a tune, even a stein plays "_Deutschland über alles_"--or
something. Still the garden full of fruit and vegetables will make up
for the rest. Over the brook which runs through it is a little rustic
bridge--all imitation wood made of cast iron! Just beneath the latter
I was electrified to discover a very open-mouthed and particularly
yellow crockery frog quite eighteen inches long! A stone statue of a
dancing boy in front of the house was too much for us all. We ransacked
the attic and found some articles of clothing belonging to our absent
hostess, and have so dressed it that, with a tin can in its hand, it
now looks like an inadequately clad lady speeding to her bath-house
with a pail of fresh water.

Last night "Mac" and I were on night duty at M----, and when we
arrived at the telephone bureau--where we lie on stretchers fully
dressed in our blankets waiting for a call (the rats would keep you
awake if there were no work to do)--we were told that they expected a
bad bombardment of the village. "Mac" and I tossed up for the first
call, and I lost. "Auberge Saint-Pierre, I bet," laughed "Mac." That
is our worst trip--but it was to be something even more unpleasant
than usual. About eleven o'clock the _Boches_ started shelling the
little one-street village with 105 shrapnel. In the midst of it a
_brancardier_ came running in to ask for an ambulance--three _couchés_,
"_très pressé_." Of course, I had to grin and bear it, but it is a
horrid feeling to have to go out into a little street where shells are
falling regularly--start your motor--turn--back--and run a few yards
down the street to a _poste de secours_ where a shell has just landed
and another is due any moment.

"Are your wounded ready?" I asked, as calmly as I could. "_Oui,
monsieur._" So out I went--and was welcomed by two shells--one on my
right and the other just down the street. I cranked up N{o} 10, the
_brancardier_ jumped up by my side, and we drove to our destination.
I decided to leave the ambulance on the left side of the road (the
side nearer the trenches and therefore more protected by houses from
shell-fire), as I thought it safer on learning that it would be fifteen
minutes before the wounded were ready; and luckily for me, for a shell
soon landed on the other side of the road where I usually leave the
ambulance. My wounded men were now ready; it appeared that one of the
shrapnel shells had entered a window and exploded inside a room where
seven soldiers, resting after a hard day's work in the trenches, were
sleeping--with the appalling result of four dead and three terribly
wounded. As I felt my way to the hospital along that pitch-black road,
I could not help wondering why those poor fellows were chosen for the
sacrifice instead of us others in the telephone bureau--sixty yards
down the street.

However, here I am writing to you, safe and sound, on the little
table by my bedside, with a half-burnt candle stuck in a Muratti
cigarette box. Outside the night is silent--my window is open and in
the draught the wax has trickled down on to the box and then to the
table--unheeded--for my thoughts have sped far. To Gloucester days, and
winter evenings spent in the old brown-panelled, raftered room, with
its pewter lustrous in the candlelight; and the big, cheerful fire that
played with our shadows on the wall, while we talked or read--and were
content. Well--that peace has gone for a while, but these days will
likewise pass, and we are young. It has been good to be here in the
presence of high courage and to have learned a little in our youth of
the values of life and death.



_The Poetry of War_

We have had much talk to-night about the probable effect of the war
upon art and literature in different countries, and gradually the
discussion shifted from prophecy to history and from the abstract to
the concrete, and narrowed down to the question as to the best poem
the war has already produced. In France enough verse has been inspired
by the war to fill a "five-foot shelf" of India-paper editions, but we
all had finally to admit that none of us was in a position to choose
the winner in such a vast arena. Among the short poems in English, some
voted for Rupert Brooke's sonnet which begins:--

    "If I should die, think only this of me:
        That there's some corner of a foreign field
    That is forever England."

But nothing that any of us has seen is more inspired than the verses
which poured from the heart and mind of a young American in the
Foreign Legion here in France. His name is Alan Seeger, and the poem
was written in, and named from, the region in which his regiment was
stationed. It is called "Champagne, 1914-15," and was printed in the
_North American Review_ for October, 1915.

CHAMPAGNE, 1914-15

    In the glad revels, in the happy fêtes,
      When cheeks are flushed, and glasses gilt and pearled
    With the sweet wine of France that concentrates
      The sunshine and the beauty of the world,

    Drink, sometimes, you whose footsteps yet may tread
      The undisturbed, delightful paths of Earth,
    To those whose blood, in pious duty shed,
      Hallows the soil where that same wine had birth.

    Here, by devoted comrades laid away,
      Along our lines they slumber where they fell,
    Beside the crater at the Ferme d'Alger
      And up the bloody slopes of La Pompelle,

    And round the city whose cathedral towers
      The enemies of Beauty dared profane,
    And in the mat of multicolored flowers
      That clothe the sunny chalk-fields of Champagne.

    Under the little crosses where they rise
      The soldier rests. Now round him undismayed
    The cannon thunders, and at night he lies
      At peace beneath the eternal fusillade....

    That other generations might possess--
      From shame and menace free in years to come--
    A richer heritage of happiness,
      He marched to that heroic martyrdom.

    Esteeming less the forfeit that he paid
      Than undishonored that his flag might float
    Over the towers of liberty, he made
      His breast the bulwark and his blood the moat.

    Obscurely sacrificed, his nameless tomb
      Bare of the sculptor's art, the poet's lines,
    Summer shall flush with poppy-fields in bloom,
      And Autumn yellow with maturing vines.

    There the grape-pickers at their harvesting
      Shall lightly tread and load their wicker trays,
    Blessing his memory as they toil and sing
      In the slant sunshine of October days.

    I love to think that if my blood should be
      So privileged to sink where his has sunk,
    I shall not pass from Earth entirely,
      But when the banquet rings, when healths are drunk,

    And faces, that the joys of living fill,
      Glow radiant with laughter and good cheer,
    In beaming cups some spark of me shall still
      Brim toward the lips that once I held so dear.

    So shall one, coveting no higher plane
      Than Nature clothes in color and flesh and tone,
    Even from the grave put upward to attain
      The dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known.

    And that strong need that strove unsatisfied
      Toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore,
    Not death itself shall utterly divide
      From the beloved shapes it thirsted for.

    Alas, how many an adept, for whose arms
      Life held delicious offerings, perished here--
    How many in the prime of all that charms,
      Crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear!

    Honor them not so much with tears and flowers,
      But you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies,
    Where in the anguish of atrocious hours
      Turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes,

    Rather, when music on bright gatherings lays
      Its tender spell, and joy is uppermost,
    Be mindful of the men they were, and raise
      Your glasses to them in one silent toast.

    Drink to them--amorous of dear Earth as well,
      They asked no tribute lovelier than this--
    And in the wine that ripened where they fell,
      Oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss.

              ALAN SEEGER



  JULY 4, 1916

    Yet, sought they neither recompense nor praise,
    Nor to be mentioned in another breath
    Than their blue-coated comrades whose great days
      It was their pride to share, ay! share even to death.
    Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks
      (Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),
    Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,
    Gave them that grand occasion to excel,
      That chance to live the life most free from stain
    And that rare privilege of dying well.

_From a poem written by him in memory of American Volunteers fallen
for France, upon the occasion of a memorial service held before the
Lafayette-Washington statue on the Place des États-Unis in Paris, May
30, 1916._





  _In the Hills of France,
  June 23, 1916_

_Dear Mother_,--

Your two letters of May 23d and June 4th have both arrived in the
last week, but I have been too busy and too sleepy to answer them.
They have given us a very important work as well as a dangerous
one,--to evacuate the wounded about one and a quarter miles from the
first-line trenches,--and since we have been here, about a week, our
little ambulances (holding five wounded) have carried some hundreds of
men. We are quartered in a town about four miles away from the front,
which the Germans take pleasure in shelling twice a day. About fifteen
minutes ago, while we were at breakfast, they dropped two shells,
"150's," which landed four hundred yards away; but I seem so used to
running into danger now, that it hardly affects me at all. We got
here a week ago, on Friday, and on Saturday morning I made my first
trip to our _poste de secours_ on a French machine. The first part of
the drive is through the valley, where there is a beautiful winding
river, and some pretty old towns. There you begin an ascent for about
two miles on a road which is lined with French batteries and quite
open to the view of the Germans, who have a large observation balloon
only a mile or two away. Consequently the road is fired over all the
time, so you feel that a passing shell might at any moment fall on
you. Just this morning, about four o'clock, three shells went over my
machine and broke in a field near by. When one reaches the top of the
ascent, there is a piece of road, very rough and covered with débris
of all kinds--dead horses, old carts and wheels, guns, and confusion
everywhere. This road leads to an old fort where our wounded are, and
on this road the German fire is even worse. Well, this first morning,
just before we arrived, the Germans began a bombardment which lasted
five hours. The shells landed all around us, but we finally got in
safely. It was altogether the most awful experience I have ever been
through. We discovered a small tunnel holding three of our cars, and
here I waited five hours without any breakfast, hearing the roar of
the shells--they make a noise like a loud, prolonged whistle--and then
hearing the French batteries answer with a more awful roar, because
nearer. To add to the interest, two or three gas shells exploded near
us, which made our eyes water. Luckily we had our gas masks with us,
but we had got it in our faces before we could put them on. Meanwhile,
the wounded were being carried in from the first-line trenches by the
stretcher-bearers who, by the way, are some of the real heroes of the
war. The time came for us to go out into the open in order to let
the other cars get in after us. As you may imagine, it was an awful
moment for us; however, we went along slowly but surely, and finally
we got down the hill, away from all the noise and danger. It was worth
while, though, for we were carrying many wounded with us. For a week
we have been doing this work and are all still alive; and we have
to our credit about seven hundred wounded men. The French are, of
course, very appreciative of our work. I wish that I could describe
things more fully, but I am too much "all in." I am well in spite of
the excitement, but tired to death of the horrors, the smells, and
the sights of war. We will be here but a few days more and after this
will be given an easier place for a while; so you need not worry after
receiving this. I am glad to have gotten a taste of real war, though,
so as to know what it really means.

      Your affectionate son,


  _August 9, 1916_

_Dear K._,--

It is quiet and cool to-night; the moon is shining just as it will with
you a few hours later, for it is now 9.15 here, and only 3.15 with you.
Last night it was quiet and I slept from half-past nine till seven! The
night before, however, the guns roared all night long and increased in
vigor up to six o'clock in the morning. We were waked up a little after
five o'clock by the scream of a shell which hit somewhere back of us.
The house shook amid the roar, as it always does whenever there is much

We are quartered in one of the farmhouses belonging to the château,
which is now a hospital. You remember, no doubt, the French farmhouses:
a blank wall on the roadside with only an entrance to the courtyard, a
dark kitchen, a few bedrooms, and a loft with a few sheds out back. The
loft is divided into two parts. We sleep up in the loft on stretchers
propped up from the floor by boxes or our little army trunks. Some
don't prop up their stretchers, but I find it better to elevate mine,
as the rats run all over the floor and incidentally over you if your
stretcher rests on the floor. The fleas seem more numerous near the
floor, and there are spiders, too. I've been pretty well "bit up," but
yesterday I soaked my blankets in petrol and hung them on the line in
the courtyard for an airing, so I think I've left the vermin behind. I
also sprayed my clothes, especially my underwear, with petrol, which
doesn't make much for comfort, except in so far as the animals are
baffled. We are better off than the other Sections, though, for our
house is very commodious, and we have a river to swim in every day. The
river is quite near by, so it is no effort to bathe.

We carry the wounded from the château to the trains. Some trips are
about seventeen kilometers one way, and others are more. As the roads
are well used, they are rather bumpy, so you have to go very slowly.
You do not dash at full speed with your wounded! It is slow work, for,
in addition to the necessity for making the trip as easy as possible
for the _blessés_, you have to dodge in and out among the transports,
which usually fill up the roads. There is a steady stream going and
coming, horses, mules, and auto-trucks. You never saw so many of
either one of the above. Thousands of each kind. You well know the
dust on the roads. We have to drive ahead regardless of the clouds of
dust, so you can imagine what sights we are when we get back to our
farmhouse. Scarecrows, each one. The dust is powdery and comes off
easily, however, so you can get comfortable in a short time. There is
no lagging or loafing; you blow your whistle and the driver of what's
ahead of you gives you six inches of road and you squeeze through and
take a chance that the nigh mule on the team coming the other way
doesn't kick.


The _blessés_ are a quiet lot, especially after you give them
cigarettes. I always pass around the cigarettes before starting, for
then I'm sure those _en derrière_ will be quiet. Every now and then you
have a "hummingbird," that is, a _blessé_ who is so hurt that the least
jar pains him and he moans or yells. You can't help him any, so you
just have to put up with it. However, I don't like "hummingbirds," for
you feel that you hit more bumps.

I went to a show down in town where some of the soldiers are _en
repos_. It was wonderful, for there, right within range of the _Boche_
guns, the soldiers were giving one of the best musical shows I have
ever seen. Among the actors--men who only a little while before were
in the trenches--were professional musicians, singers, and actors. It
was not amateurish--in fact, it was highly professional. The theatre
was fitted up more or less like the stage at the Hasty Pudding Club at
Harvard (an amateurish back, however), but everything else savored of
the real Parisian touch. Among the audience were generals, colonels,
under-officers, _poilus_, and five of us (we were invited, inasmuch
as we had lent some of our uniforms for the actors). The soldiers who
could not get in thronged the courtyard and cheered after every song
or orchestra piece. The orchestra was made up of everything in a city
orchestra, including a leader with a baton. You see each regiment is
bound to have professional men in it and they get up the shows. (I saw
my cap walk out on the stage on a fellow with a little head, so it
didn't even rest on his ears, but rather on his nose). On the whole,
it was one of the greatest and most impressive sights I've seen, and
on top of it all, there was a continuous firing in the near distance.
Imagine it, if you can!

We have a cook, a chambermaid,--one of the _poilus_ who is quartered
here, too, and who earns a few sous on the side by serving us,--also a
French lieutenant who is really the head of the Section, a _maréchal de
logis_, and a few other French retainers. They sleep in the same loft
with us. Every night they chatter very late and kid each other about
the fish they caught or did not catch during the day in the river.
They laugh and giggle at each other just like kids. They are awfully
amusing. All the _poilus_ who are _en repos_ fish, although there are
only minnows around here. I asked several to-day how many they caught,
and they said they were only fishing to pass the time. I guess it's a
great diversion, for they all do it. They all bathe, too, every day.
We go in with them, the mules and the horses; probably somewhere else
the _Boches_ are bathing in the same river. Such is life, but we are
extremely lucky to get a chance to wash at all and I'm afraid when we
move from here, for we shall soon be moved to _poste_ duty, we shan't
have the comforts such as are found here.

I mentioned _poste_ work in the last paragraph.

There are two kinds of work for ambulances--evacuating and _poste de
secours_ work. The former consists in removing the _blessés_ from the
back hospitals to points where they are put on the trains. The _poste
de secours_ work is going up to the point where the _blessés_ are
dragged from the trenches and carrying them back to the above-mentioned
hospitals. Of course, the _poste_ work is the liveliest and the most
dangerous. We shall be sent up to do that within a week or so, as they
shift about: several months of _poste_ work and then several months of
evacuating. The Section had done its turn at _poste de secours_ before
I joined it; it has also been evacuating from here quite a while, so we
shall no doubt be sent out nearer the front pretty soon. That's what
we are here for. We are not a great distance from the lines now; in
fact, shells have come over us and landed right across the road, but
when we move, it will mean the most dangerous of work, for the roads
are full of shell holes, no doubt, and wild shells get loose now and
then. I'll write you again soon, but now I'm going to bed,--that is,
roll up in my blankets on my stretcher, for there is an early call for
to-morrow morning. Early call means getting your machine over to the
château at six o'clock, all ready for the day's work. It's great fun
and I am awfully glad to be here. Moreover, there is a satisfaction
to realize that you are helping. The French are very appreciative,
from the _poilu_ up to the highest officers. Oh! I forgot to mention,
in describing our billet, that flies and mosquitos are abundant. We
all have mosquito nets which we put over our heads in the evening,
making us all look like the proverbial huckleberry pie on the railroad
restaurant counter. The _poilus_ around us have adopted our methods,
and you see them sitting around looking for all the world like Arabs
in the distance. Before closing I might mention also that besides
fishing to pass the time, the _poilus en repos_ catch foxes, hedgehogs,
rabbits, and other animals and train them. There are two of the cutest
little foxes I have ever seen over across the road in one of the
courtyards. They play around and are just like little collies until we
show up; then they scamper and get behind a box or a stove and blink at
us. We tried to buy one of them, but the owners are too fond of them to
let them go.

Well, good-night and best love to you and G.

      As ever,
          (_Charles Baird_)

Have not seen George Hollister yet, as he is in Section 3. Maybe I'll
run across him later.



  _S. S. Américaine No. 3,
  July 3, 1916_

_Dear ----_

I never meant to let so long a time go by without more than a postal
or so. We are back, far back, of the lines in repose with the tattered
remains of our division. I have a lot that is worth while writing
about, but make allowances if it comes disconnectedly. We have just
come back from two weeks at Verdun! Our cars are battered and broken
beyond a year's ordinary service. Barber, though seriously wounded, is
on the road to recovery. No one else was more than scratched.

The Section we relieved told us what to expect. It began strong. The
first night the fellows worked through a gas attack. I was off duty and
missed out on one disagreeable experience. One has to breathe through a
little bag affair packed with layers of cloth and chemicals. The eyes
are also protected with tight-fitting isinglass, which moists over and
makes driving difficult. The road was not shelled that night, so it
might have been worse. The second night was my go. We rolled all night
from the _poste de secours_ back to the first sorting-station. The
_poste_ was in a little town with the Germans on three sides of the
road and all in full view, which made daylight going impossible. The
day work was evacuating from sorting-stations to field hospitals. There
our work stopped. English and French sections worked from there back
to the base hospitals. The road ran out through fields and a little
stretch of woods, French batteries situated on both sides the entire
way; that is what drew the fire. Four trips between dusk and dawn were
the most possible. The noise of French fire was terrifying until we
learned to distinguish it from the German _arrivées_. It is important
to know the difference, and one soon learns. The _départ_ is a sharp
bark and then the whistle diminishing. The _arrivées_ come in with a
slower, increasing whistle and ripping crash. In noise alone it is more
than disagreeable. The _poste de secours_ was an _abri_ in a cellar of
four walls. Of the town there was scarcely a wall standing: _marmites_
had done their work well. The road was an open space between, scalloped
and scooped like the moon in miniature. We would drive up, crawling
in and out of these holes, turn around, get our load and go. When the
place was shelled, we had time to hear them coming and dive under
our cars. The drive back was harrowing. One was sure to go a little
too fast on a stretch of road that felt smooth and then pitch into a
hole, all but breaking every spring on the body. I'll never forget the
screams of the wounded as they got rocked about inside. At times a
stretcher would break and we would have to go on as it was. Of course
we would have to drive in darkness, and passing _convois_ of artillery
at a full gallop going in opposite directions on either side. Each
night a bit more of tool box or mud guard would be taken off. Often I
found myself in a wedge where I had to back and go forward until
a little hole was found to skip through, and then make a dash for
it and take a chance. One night there was a thunderstorm with vivid
lightning and pitch darkness. The flash of guns and of lightning were
as one and the noise terrific. That night, too, the road was crowded
with ammunition wagons. But worst of all, it was under shell fire in
three places. Traffic became demoralized because of the dead horses and
wrecked wagons smashed up by shrapnel. All our cars were held up in
parts of the road. There is no feeling of more utter helplessness than
being jammed in between cannon and _caissons_ in a road under shell
fire. No one was hit that night. Two of the men had to run ahead and
cut loose dead horses in order to get through....

Barber's car was hit the next night. He had stopped and was crouching
by it, which probably saved him. Subsequently the Germans corrected
their range on the road by the sight of the car, and on our last run it
was level with the ground. The bodies of the wounded he was carrying
mingled with the wreckage. That night was the climax of danger. Things
eased off a bit after, but the strain was telling and our driving
was not so skillful. Next to the last night I collided with a huge
_ravitaillement_ wagon coming at full gallop on the wrong side of the
road. The entire front of the car went into bow knots, but I landed
clear in safety. This occurred under the lee of a cliff, so we went
in search with wrecking car the next day. After twenty hours she was
running again, shaky on her wheels, but strong in engine. She goes
to Paris soon for shop repairs. Poor old Alice! A wrecked car in so
short a time. Patched with string and wire and straps, she looks
battle-scarred to a degree. Her real battle souvenirs are five shrapnel
balls embedded in the roof and sides. I don't believe in collecting
souvenirs, but these I could not help!

There were humorous incidents; that is, humorous when we look back
on them, safely in camp. One goes as follows: Three cars running out
to the _poste_ about thirty yards apart. The whistle of shells and a
great increase in speed in the cars. (Somehow speed seems to give the
feeling of more security.) Road getting too hot--shells falling between
the cars as they run. First car stopped short and driver jumped about
thirty feet into a trench by the roadside. Landed in six inches of
water and stayed. Car No. 2 stopped, but not short enough to prevent
smashing into tail-board of No. 1. Driver made jump and splash No. 2
into trench. Ditto for Car No. 3 (me). Whistle and bang of shell, crash
of hitting cars, and splash of falling men in water. Here we remained
until the "storm blew over."

I am mighty glad we are through and out of it all. Whatever action we
go into again, it cannot be harder or more dangerous than what we have
been through. That will be impossible. I don't know yet whether I am
glad or not to have had such an experience. It was all so gigantic and
terrifying. It was war in its worst butchery. We all of us lost weight,
but health and morale are O.K., and we are ready for more work after
our repose. When you read this, remember I am out of it and in less
dangerous parts....

The French military is giving half of us forty-eight hours _permission_
for the Fourth of July. We are going for a two days' spree in Paris!

My debits to date are one letter from mother of the 7th; one shirt,
chocolate, and corduroy suit.

I would rather you didn't pass this letter around much. It is too
hurried and slapdash, and I may have quite different opinions after we
have calmed down a bit.


P.S. Barber was given the _Médaille Militaire_--most coveted of
military honors.


  ----_France, June 30_

_Dearest "folks at home," abroad--and Grandma!_

Four nights ago I had a pretty narrow escape. I can mention no names
here, but this is the gist of the story:--

I was driving my car with three wounded soldiers in it along a road
that was being shelled. Well, I got in the midst of a pretty hot
shower, so I stopped my car and got under it. A few minutes later I
supposed it was blowing over, so I got out. I had no sooner done so
than I heard one of those big _obus_ coming, the loudest I had ever
heard. I ran to the front of my car, crouching down in front of the
radiator. When it burst it struck the car. My three soldiers were
killed. I was hurt only a little. I am not disfigured in any way. It
just tore my side and legs a bit.

The French treated me wonderfully. I succeeded in getting the next
American Ambulance driven by Wheeler (a great boy) who took me to the
City of ---- where our _poste_ is. Here I was given first aid, and the
_Médecin chef_ personally conducted me in an American Ambulance, in the
middle of the night, to a very good hospital. They say I have the best
doctor in France--in Paris.


Well, I woke up the next day in a bed, and have been recuperating
ever since. Every one is wonderful to me. General Pétain, second
to Joffre, has stopped in to shake hands with me, and many are
my congratulations, too, for above my bed hangs the _Médaille
Militaire_, the greatest honor the French can give any one. Really, I
am proud, although I don't deserve it any more than the rest. Please
excuse my egotism.

Mr. Hill and my French lieutenant come to see me every day, and some of
the boys also. They joke around here, saying that I am getting so well
that they have lost interest in me and must move on. In three or four
days I go to the hospital at Neuilly where I can have every comfort.

Of course you won't worry about me. I will be just as good as new soon,
and really this is true.

The Germans peppered the life out of my car. No one goes over the road
in daylight, but the fellows brought me back the next day a handful of
bullets taken from it, and said they could get me a bushel more if I
desired them.

A----, I got your letter; it was great. The first one that I have
received from some one who has heard from me.

F----, thanks for the $----. I am sorry I have made you so much trouble
about the prescription. It is just my shiftlessness.

For three days I was not allowed to eat or drink and could hardly move
in bed. My spirits were high, too. I will try to write better and take
more pains.


  July 10, 1916_

Well, I am here at Neuilly! This is a wonderful hospital and they
do treat you great! I am just getting back to normal and have no
temperature. The doctors here are _the_ best in the world....

Now I want to ask your advice or permission. When I get well, in two
or three weeks, how would you like it for me to spend a week resting
in some suburb of London? I would just take a room there and live and
sleep. I have read so much about life in England that I am dying to try
it and I think it would do me good. I don't think the cost would be
heavy and I will consider it a go if you cable me a loan for the trip.

When my wounds heal up, which they are fast doing, I will be just as
good as new, no scars at all. I am very happy here and hope every day
that you are as happy and never worry about me. I surely have given
you a lot of trouble and anxiety, and hope that I will do always as
you say after this. The best of my experience is that I have never
once regretted this great trip, and I think I have done a small part
of a great work, and my _Médaille_ shows what the French think of my
services. I will throw aside modesty for the moment. It is given for
discipline and valor, and by the way, what amuses me, there is an
annual pension of one hundred francs. I have been treated wonderfully
since I had it given me. The French keep me in official quarters and
give me officer's grub, which is about one hundred per cent better
than the soldiers'. I am having some wonderful experiences....

I am still continuing my diary, and I assure you it is full of thrills.
I am the only ambulance boy who has been given a _Médaille_, and I am
told that Mr. Balsley, an American aviator, is the only other American
who has it. Well, enough of this conceit.

Excuse writing; written in great haste in bed.

Please cable me some money if you will permit me to go to England for a
week. Perhaps I can get ---- to go with me.

Lots of love to all; my best to Grandma.


[_The following paragraphs are from a letter written to the family of
William Barber by his Section leader, Lovering Hill._]

... William was wounded on the night of the 27th of June while bringing
back wounded from the _poste de secours_.

It was a dangerous road, and seeing some shelling on the road ahead of
him, he had stopped to await its cessation. He was about to start up
again when a shell fell a few feet away, many small fragments of which
struck him, one large one striking him a glancing blow on the side.
He ran back a few yards and was picked up by one of his comrades who
brought him to the dressing-station at Verdun, where I was at the time.
There his wounds were dressed; one of them proved to be serious.

I got in touch at once with the _Médecin divisionnaire_, who is the
chief of the _Service de Santé_ of our Division, who immediately took
charge of the case and personally accompanied your son in the ambulance
which brought him to Vadelaincourt--the nearest surgical ambulance,
twenty-five kilometers back. There he awakened a very well-known
Parisian physician and surgeon, Dr. Lucas Championière, who operated at

As soon as I could leave my work, at six o'clock the next morning,
accompanied by our French lieutenant, I went to Vadelaincourt to see
William, who was just coming to from the anæsthetic. The doctor told
me it was serious because the fragment had cut into the peritoneum,
but without injuring the intestine--the danger being in the chances
of peritonitis setting in; that he could tell me in forty-eight hours
whether there would be the danger of this complication. On your son's
insistence, and on my own judgment, I decided not to cause you needless
anguish by cabling until his case should have been judged. On the third
day I was told he was out of danger, so I advised William to cable you,
and I cabled his brother myself.

One of his other wounds consisted in a small splinter that lodged in
his lung, but this was not considered by the doctor to be the cause of
any concern, the only wound which might have dangerous consequences
being the abdominal one.

[Illustration: A CORNER OF VERDUN, JULY, 1916]

The Section was moved away shortly after, so that July 1st was the
last day on which I saw him, but I have telephoned for news daily, and
have been always told he was doing well.

Before closing I wish to tell you how courageous he has been
throughout, not only after he was wounded, when he showed the most
splendid pluck, but before, when he was doing really dangerous work
with enthusiasm and coolness. The French authorities have recognized
this in awarding him the _Médaille Militaire_, the highest medal for
military valor in France.



  _Armées de l'Est_

  _État-Major Général_

  _G. Q. G., le 24 Mai 1916_


     Le Général Commandant en Chef à Monsieur PIATT ANDREW, Inspecteur
     Général du Service aux Armées de l'hôpital Américain de Neuilly

Je vous remercie vivement pour votre offre d'une nouvelle section
automobile, qui va porter à cinq le nombre de vos formations sanitaires
aux armées.

Je tiens à vous exprimer ma satisfaction de l'oeuvre accomplie par vos
volontaires qui n'ont cessé, en toutes circonstances, de faire preuve
de courage, d'endurance et de dévouement.

Les bons résultats donnés par votre organisation sont dus, pour une
bonne part, à votre activité et votre zèle inlassables.

Agréez, Monsieur, l'expression de ma considération très distinguée.


  _Armies of the East_

  _General Staff_

  _Grand Headquarters, 24 May, 1916_

     The General Commanding in Chief to Monsieur PIATT ANDREW,
     Inspector General of the Field Service of the American Hospital of

I thank you warmly for your offer of an additional automobile section,
which will increase to five the number of your sanitary units with the

I desire to express to you my satisfaction with the work performed by
your volunteers who have unremittingly, under all conditions, given
proof of their courage, endurance, and devotion.

The excellent results achieved by your units are due in large measure
to your own untiring activity and zeal.

Accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my most distinguished consideration.


  _Ministère de la Guerre_

  _Sous-Secrétariat d'État du
  Service de Santé Militaire_

  _1{ère} Division Techn._

  _Paris, le 31 octobre 1915_


Mon attention a été appelée sur les services éminents rendus au Service
de Santé par la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 2, que vous
dirigez, et particulièrement sur le zèle et le courage avec lequel elle
a porté secours à nos blessés, dans la région de Pont-à-Mousson.

J'ai appris avec plaisir que votre formation dans son ensemble, et la
plupart de ses membres à titre particulier, avaient été cités à l'ordre
du jour de la 73{ème} Division de Réserve.

Je me fais un devoir d'adresser à la Section Sanitaire Automobile
Américaine N{o} 2, les sincères remerciements du Département de la

          (Signé) JUSTIN GODARD

      _Chef de la Section Sanitaire Automobile N{o} 2_



  _War Department_

  _Office of the Under Secretary
  Military Sanitation Service_

  _First Technical Division_

  _Paris, 31 October, 1915_


My attention has been called to the eminent services rendered to the
Sanitation Service by American Automobile Sanitary Section No. 2,
which is under your direction, and especially to the zeal and courage
with which it carried succour to our wounded in the Pont-à-Mousson

I have learned with pleasure that your unit as a whole, and the greater
number of its members, have been mentioned in the orders of the day of
the 73rd Reserve Division.

I make it my duty to extend to American Automobile Sanitary Section No.
2, the sincere gratitude of the War Department.

          (_Signed_) JUSTIN GODARD

      _Commanding Automobile Sanitary Section No. 2._


  de la Guerre_

  Sous-Secrétaire d'État_

  _Paris, le 23 mai 1916_


Je connais et apprécie la part très active que vous et vos amis avez
pris aux propagandes faites en Amérique, depuis le début de la guerre,
en faveur de la cause du Droit que défendent la France et ses Alliés.
Je sais, en particulier, vos efforts pour aboutir à la manifestation
de la sympathie de vos concitoyens pour nos vaillants soldats, par
une coopération effective et pratique à la tâche du Service de Santé
français. Aussi je tiens à vous exprimer, d'une façon spéciale, toute
la satisfaction que donnent à mon Département, depuis leur entrée en
service aux Armées, les Sections sanitaires automobiles de l'Ambulance

Grâce non seulement à leur excellent organisation matérielle, mais
encore et surtout au dévouement courageux du personnel d'élite que nous
a envoyé votre Pays pour les diriger, ces Sections contribuent, de la
façon la plus heureuse, à atténuer les souffrances de nos blessés, en
abrégeant les heures si douloureuses qui s'écoulent entre le moment où
le soldat tombe sur le champ de bataille et celui où il peut recevoir,
dans des conditions convenables, les soins qu'exige son état.

Veuillez donc agréer, pour vous, Monsieur, et transmettre à vos amis
d'Amérique l'assurance de ma profonde gratitude, pour l'oeuvre que vous
avez si parfaitement conçue et réalisée, et dont vos compatriotes
continuent d'assurer l'entretien en personnel et en matériel, avec
autant de vaillance que de générosité.

Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de ma considération distinguée.

          (Signé) JUSTIN GODARD

      _Monsieur_ PIATT ANDREW




  of the

  _Paris, 23 May, 1916._


I know and value highly the very active part that you and your friends
have taken in the propaganda carried on in America, ever since the
outbreak of war, in favour of the cause of Right, which France and her
Allies are defending. I know, in particular, of your efforts to arrive
at a manifestation of the sympathy of your fellow citizens for our
gallant soldiers, by effective and practical coöperation in the work
of the French Sanitary Service. Therefore I am desirous of expressing
to you, with special emphasis, the perfect satisfaction which the
Automobile Sanitary Sections of the American Ambulance have given my
department since they first entered the service of our armies.

Thanks not only to their excellent material organization, but beyond
even that, to the courageous devotion of the picked personnel which
your country has sent us to lead them, these Sections are contributing
in the most gratifying fashion toward lessening the sufferings of our
wounded by shortening the agonizing hours that elapse between the time
when the soldier falls on the battlefield and that when he is able to
receive, under suitable conditions, the care that his condition demands.

Pray, therefore, Monsieur, accept for yourselves and convey to your
friends in America the assurance of my profound gratitude for the work
which you have planned and carried on so perfectly, and of which your
compatriots continue to ensure the support, both in personnel and in
supplies, with no less gallantry than generosity.

Accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my distinguished consideration.

          (_Signed_) JUSTIN GODARD

      _Monsieur_ PIATT ANDREW


  des Députés_

  _Paris, le 6 août 1915_

_Monsieur le Directeur,--_

J'ai l'honneur de vous remercier, au nom de la Commission d'Hygiène
publique, des soins éclairés et dévoués que l'Ambulance Américaine
prodigue à nos blessés de Pont-à-Mousson.

Dans les tristes heures que nous vivons, il nous est particulièrement
doux de savoir que des mains amies s'empressent autour de ceux des
nôtres qui si courageusement versent leur sang pour la défense de notre

Veuillez agréer, Monsieur le Directeur, l'assurance de ma haute

          (Signé) LE PRÉSIDENT
          DR. H. DOIZY

      DR. H. DOIZY
      _Maison de Convalescence_
      SARCELLES (Seine et Oise)



  of Deputies_

  _Paris, 6 August, 1915_

_Monsieur le Directeur,--_

I have the honor to thank you, in the name of the Commission of Public
Health, for the enlightened and devoted attention which the American
Ambulance is lavishing upon our wounded at Pont-à-Mousson.

In the distressing hours that we are passing through, it is
particularly sweet to us to know that friendly hands are zealously
employed about those of our troops who are shedding their blood so
fearlessly in defence of our country.

Pray accept, Monsieur le Directeur, the assurance of my distinguished

          (_Signed_) THE PRESIDENT
          DR. H. DOIZY

      DR. H. DOIZY
      _Convalescents' Home_
      SARCELLES (Seine et Oise)

  _Détachement d'Armée
  de Belgique_


  _1{er} Bureau_

  _Au Q. G. le 5 mai 1915_

     Le Général PUTZ, Commandant le Détachement d'Armée de Belgique,

     à Monsieur ANDREW, Inspecteur du Service des Ambulances de
     l'Hôpital Américain


Mon attention a été appelée sur les précieux services rendus au
détachement d'Armée de Belgique par la Section Sanitaire Automobile
Américaine qui lui est attachée.

Cette Section a du, en effet, concurremment avec la Section Anglaise,
assurer l'évacuation d'Elverdinghe sur Poperinghe de nombreux
militaires blessés au cours des récents combats. Malgré le bombardement
d'Elverdinghe, des routes qui y accèdent, et de l'Ambulance même, cette
évacuation s'est effectué nuit et jour, sans interruption, et dans
d'excellentes conditions de promptitude et de régularité.

Je ne saurais trop louer le courage et le dévouement dont a fait preuve
le personnel de la Section et je vous serais obligé de vouloir bien
lui transmettre mes félicitations et mes remerciements pour l'effort
physique considérable qu'il a si généreusement consenti, et les
signalés services qu'il a rendus.

Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, l'expression de ma considération très

          (Signé)   PUTZ


  _Detachment of the Army
  of Belgium_


  _1{st} Bureau_

  _Headquarters, 5 May, 1915._

     General PUTZ, Commanding the Detachment of the Army of Belgium,
     to Monsieur ANDREW, Inspector of the Ambulance Service of the
     American Hospital.


My attention has been called to the valuable services rendered to this
army by the American Automobile Sanitary Section, which is attached to

This Section did, in fact, in conjunction with the English Section,
safeguard the removal from Elverdinghe to Poperinghe of numerous
soldiers wounded in recent battles. Despite the bombardment of
Elverdinghe, of the roads leading to it, and of the Ambulance itself,
this removal was proceeded with, night and day, without interruption,
and with particular efficiency as to speed and regularity.

I cannot possibly praise too highly the courage and devotion manifested
by the members of the Section, and I should be obliged to you if you
would kindly transmit to them my congratulations and my thanks for the
great physical effort which they so generously consented to make, and
for the notable services they have rendered.

Pray accept, Monsieur, the assurance of my most distinguished

            (_Signed_) PUTZ



Le Général D. E. S. adresse ses félicitations au Personnel militaire
et aux infirmières, de l'H. O. E. 20, pour le dévouement et le
sang-froid dont il a fait preuve le 1{er} Juin, pendant le bombardement
de Bar-le-Duc par les avions allemands, au cours duquel les Officiers
et Hommes de troupe dont les noms suivent se sont fait plus
particulièrement remarquer:

       *       *       *       *       *

Les Militaires de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 2, qui restèrent
tous à découvert pendant la durée du bombardement et se portèrent,
à chaque bombe qui éclatait, au secours des victimes, sans souci du
danger dont ils étaient menacés.



     General D. E. S. offers his congratulations to the military
     personnel and nurses of H. O. E. 20 on the devotion and sang-froid
     which they displayed on June 1, during the bombardment of
     Bar-le-Duc by German air-ships, in the course of which the
     officers and men whose names follow particularly distinguished

       *       *       *       *       *

     The military members of American Sanitary Section No. 2, all of
     whom remained exposed throughout the bombardment, and at every
     explosion of a bomb, hastened to the assistance of the victims,
     regardless of the danger with which they were threatened.

  _1{ère} Armée_

  _73{ème} Division_


  _1{er} Bureau_

  _Au Q. G., le 20 juillet 1915_


Le Général Commandant la Division cite à l'ordre:


"Composée de volontaires, amis de notre pays, n'a cessé de se faire
remarquer par l'entrain, le courage et le zèle de tous ses membres
qui, insouciants du danger, se sont employés sans répit à secourir nos
blessés, dont ils se sont acquis la reconnaissance et l'amitié."

      Le Général LEBOCQ
      Commandant la 73{ème} Division
          (Signé) LEBOCQ


  _First Army_
  _73rd Division_


  _First Bureau_

  _Headquarters, 20 July, 1915_


The General commanding the Division "mentions" in general orders:


"Composed of volunteers, friends of our country, has constantly
attracted favorable notice by the enthusiasm, the courage, and the zeal
of all its members, who, regardless of danger, have been employed,
without respite, in rescuing our wounded, whose gratitude and affection
they have won."

          General LEBOCQ
        Commanding the 73rd Division
            (_Signed_) LEBOCQ

  _VII{ème} Armée_
  _66{ème} Division_

  _6 novembre 1915_

Le Général SERRET, Commandant la 66{ème} Division d'Infanterie, cite à
l'Ordre de la Division:--


"'A de nouveau affirmé son inlassable dévouement en assurant avec une
froide crânerie et dans des circonstances très correctes pendant les
journées et les nuits des 15, 16 et 17 octobre 1915, dans une région
difficilement practicable et en partie battue par le feu de l'ennemi,
l'évacuation de nombreux blessés.'"


  _Seventh Army_
  _66th Division_

  _November 6, 1915_

     General SERRET Commanding the 66th Infantry Division, "mentions"
     in general orders:--


"'Has demonstrated anew its unwearying devotion, by safeguarding with
cool audacity and in perfect order, during the days and nights of
October 15, 16, and 17, 1915, in a district in which such movements
were very dangerous, and which was partly within range of the enemy's
guns, the removal of numerous wounded.'"


  _Nancy, 4 juillet 1915_

Le Préfet de Nancy à Ambulance Américaine, Pont-à-Mousson

En ce jour où vous célébrez fête votre indépendance nationale,
à l'heure même où dans des rudes combats la France défend son
indépendance contre un ennemi dont la folie de domination menace la
liberté de tous les peuples et dont les procédés barbares menacent les
conquêtes morales de la civilisation, vous adresse expression profondes
sympathies françaises pour votre grande et généreuse nation, et je
saisis cette occasion vous présenter nouvelles assurances gratitude
émue populations lorraines pour dévouement admirable de tous les
membres Ambulance Américaine de Pont-à-Mousson.



  _Nancy, 4 July, 1915_

Prefect of Nancy to American Ambulance, Pont-à-Mousson

On this day when you celebrate anniversary your national independence,
at the very hour when in hard-fought battles France defends her
independence against a foe whose mad lust for world-domination
threatens liberty of all nations, and whose savage deeds threaten moral
conquests of civilization, I extend you profound French affection for
your great and generous nation, and seize opportunity to offer renewed
assurances heartfelt gratitude people of Lorraine, for admirable
devotion of all members American Ambulance, Pont-à-Mousson.


  _VII{ème} Armée_

  _66{ème} Division d'Infant{ie}_

  _Médecin Divisionnaire_

  _Q. G., le 21 janvier 1916_

     Le Médecin Principal de 2{ème} Classe Georges, Médecin Divisionnaire
     de la 66{ème} Division d'Infanterie,

     à Monsieur le Lieutenant
     Commandant la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3

J'ai pu voir à l'oeuvre journellement depuis sept mois la Section
Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 3 qui est à la disposition de la
66{ème} Division depuis près d'un an. Elle a eu à opérer constamment
dans une région dont les routes sont particulièrement difficiles. Elle
a eu à supporter à maintes reprises un travail absolument intensif
de jour et de nuit, dû à diverses chaudes actions militaires ayant
entrainé en quelques jours un chiffre élevé d'evacuations.

En toutes circonstances, tous et chacun ont fait leur devoir,--et plus
que leur devoir,--avec un parfait mépris personnel du danger, avec une
simplicité touchante, avec un imperturbable sang-froid n'ayant d'égal
que l'empressement foncièrement généreux des secours inlassablement

La mort d'un conducteur tué à son volant, la blessure grave d'un autre
conducteur contractée au cours de son service, témoignent encore bien
plus que les citations à l'ordre du jour décernées à la Section et à
un nombre élevé de ses membres, de la façon dont elle a compris ses
devoirs et tenu à les remplir.

Au moment où cette Section, si bien dirigée par vous et par le
lieutenant Lovering Hill, quitte la Division pour une autre
destination, j'ai à coeur de lui adresser,--au nom de tous nos blessés
et malades,--mes remercîments les plus vifs pour la façon véritablement
admirable dont elle s'est acquittée de son service.

          (Signé)   GEORGES


  _Seventh Army_

  _66th Infantry Division_

  _Divisional Medical Officer_

  _Headquarters, January 21, 1916_

     GEORGES, Principal Physician of the Second Class, Divisional
     Medical Officer of the 66th Infantry Division, to MONSIEUR LE
     LIEUTENANT commanding American Sanitary Section No. 3.

I have had the opportunity daily for seven months to see at work the
American Automobile Sanitary Section No. 3, which has been at the
disposal of the 66th Division for nearly a year past. The Section
has had to operate constantly in a district where the roads are
particularly bad. It has had on many occasions to work day and night
under the greatest possible strain, due to the fact that successive
fierce actions have necessitated a large number of removals in a few

Under all conditions one and all have done their duty--and more than
their duty--with an absolute disregard of danger, with a touching
simplicity, with an imperturbable sang-froid equalled only by the
absolutely single-hearted zeal with which they have unwearyingly given
their assistance.

The death of one driver, killed at his post, the severe wound of
another driver received in the course of his service, bear even more
eloquent witness than the _citations_ in the orders of the day awarded
to the Section and to a large number of its members, to the way in
which they have understood their duties and striven to fulfil them.

At the moment when this Section, so ably led by you and by Lieutenant
Lovering Hill is about to leave the Division for another field of
operation, I have it at heart to offer to you all, in the name of all
our wounded and sick, my warmest thanks for the truly admirable way in
which you have done your work.

          (_Signed_) GEORGES

  _121st Division_

  _S. P. 76_

     Le Médecin Aide-Major de 1{ère} Classe Rocher, Médecin-Chef du G.
     B. D.

     à Monsieur le Lieutenant Commandant la S. S. A. A. N{o} 7.

J'ai l'honneur de vous faire connaître que pendant toute la durée
du dernier bombardement dans le secteur de Vic-Fontenoy, la Section
Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 1 a assuré le service souvent
périlleux de l'évacuation des blessés avec sang-froid, zèle et
dévouement. Tous vos conducteurs sont dignes d'éloge, et je signale
particulièrement à votre attention le conducteur Woolverton, qui,
malgré le bombardement très rapproché de sa voiture, a continué son
service avec la plus belle assurance.

          (Signé) DR. ROCHER


  _121st Division_

  _S. P. 76_

     ROCHER, Assistant Physician of the 1st Class, Physician-in-Chief
     of the G. B. D.

     to MONSIEUR THE LIEUTENANT commanding the S. S. A. A. No. 7.

I have the honor to inform you that throughout the last bombardment in
the sector of Vic-Fontenoy, the American Automobile Sanitary Section
No. 1 safeguarded the often very hazardous process of removing the
wounded, with coolness, zeal, and devotion. All your drivers are
deserving of praise, and I call particularly to your attention Driver
Woolverton, who, notwithstanding the bombardment very near his car,
continued his service with the most splendid self-possession.

          (_Signed_) DR. ROCHER

  _Direction de l'Arrière_

  _Service Automobile_

  _Inspection Permanente
  Régions de l'Est_

  _Vittel, le 8 juillet 1916_

     Le Capitaine DE MONTRAVEL, Inspecteur permanent des Services
     Automobiles des Régions de l'est à Monsieur Piatt Andrew,
     Inspecteur Général des Ambulances Américaines à Neuilly.

_Cher Monsieur et ami_,--

Vous savez combien je suis fier d'avoir été le premier à apprécier les
vaillants jeunes gens que votre généreux pays nous envoyait, d'avoir
pu obtenir l'envoi de votre première section sur la terre d'Alsace,
et enfin de conserver comme un titre de gloire, le nom de "Père des
Sections Américaines" que me donnèrent spontanément ces nobles jeunes
hommes le jour où ils apprirent leur départ pour l'Alsace.

L'amitié sincere de leur infatigable Inspecteur Général m'est aussi
bien précieuse.

Mes occupations m'ont empêché malheureusement de revoir vos courageuses
sections qui ont si bien su prouver par leurs actes que j'avais raison
lorsque, dès le début, je me suis porté garant pour elles. D'autre
part, vos travaux absorbants vous ont obligé vous-même à espacer
vos bonnes visites. Mais voilà qu'aujourd'hui votre aimable envoi
renouvelle le souvenir de notre union étroite et en resserre encore les

Merci donc de tout coeur, cher Monsieur et ami; souvenez-vous qu'à
Vittel vous avez un arrêt obligatoire à chacun de vos passages, et que
cet arrêt procurera une grande joie à

      Votre entièrement dévoué
          (Signé) DE MONTRAVEL


  _Headquarters of the Rear_

  _Automobile Service_

  _Permanent Inspection
  Office of the Eastern District_

  _Vittel, 8 July, 1916_

     Captain DE MONTRAVEL, Permanent Inspector of Automobile Service in
     the Eastern District to Monsieur Piatt Andrew, Inspector-General
     of the American Ambulances at Neuilly.

_Dear Monsieur and friend_,--

... You know how proud I am of having been the first to appreciate the
gallant young men whom your noble-hearted country sent to us, of having
succeeded in having your first section sent to Alsatian territory, and,
lastly, of bearing, as a symbol of honour, the name of Father of the
American Sections, which was spontaneously bestowed upon me by those
noble young men on the day when they learned that they were to go to

The sincere friendship of their indefatigable Inspector-General is also
very precious to me.

My duties have unhappily prevented me from visiting again your fearless
sections, which have proved so conclusively by their deeds that I was
right when, at the very beginning, I became their sponsor. On the other
hand, your own absorbing tasks have compelled you to make your welcome
visits very rare.... But to-day your pleasant message revivifies the
memory of our close connection, and tightens its bonds afresh.

Thanks, with all my heart, dear Monsieur and friend; remember that you
are bound to break your journey at Vittel whenever you pass through,
and that such break will give great pleasure to

      Faithfully yours
          (_Signed_) DE MONTRAVEL

  _Groupement D. E._


  _1{er} Bureau_

  _N{o} 6369 B/1_

  _S. C. N{o} 6611_

  _Au Q. G., le 1{er} Novembre 1916_


     Le Général Commandant le Groupement D. E. cite à l'ordre du Corps


"Sous le commandement du lieutenant ROBERT DE KERSAUSON DE PENNENDREFF
et de l'officier Américain HERBERT TOWNSEND, en Août et Septembre 1916,
a assuré l'évacuation des blessés de trois divisions successivement
dans un secteur particulièrement dangereux; a demandé comme une faveur
de conserver ce service où officiers et conducteurs ont fait preuve du
plus brilliant courage et du plus complet dévouement."

          (Signé) Le Général Commandant le Groupement D. E. MANGIN.


  _Group D. E._


  _1st Bureau_

  _No. 6369 B/1_

  _S. C. No. 6611_

  _Headquarters, 1 November, 1916_


     The general commanding Group D. E. "mentions" in the orders of the
     Army Corps:--


"Under the command of Lieutenant ROBERT DE KERSAUSON DE PENNENDREFF
and of the American officer HERBERT TOWNSEND, in August and September,
1916, effected the removal of the wounded of three divisions
successively in a particularly dangerous sector; has asked as a favor
to be permitted to maintain this service, in which officers and drivers
have given proof of the most brilliant courage and the most complete

          (_Signed_) General commanding Group D. E. MANGIN.

  _2{ème} Armée_

  _Direction du Service
  de Santé du
  Groupement E_


     En exécution des prescriptions réglementaires le Docteur du
     Service de Santé du 6{me} Corps d'Armée, cite à l'ordre du
     Service de Santé du 6{me} Corps d'Armée:--


"Sous la direction du Lieutenant Robert de Kersauson de Pennendreff, et
des Officiers Américains, Herbert Townsend et Victor White, la Section
Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 1, composée entièrement de volontaires, a
assuré remarquablement le service quotidien des évacuations en allant
chercher les blessés le plus loin possible, malgré un bombardement
parfois violent.

S'est particulièrement distinguée le 11 juillet 1916 en traversant
à plusieurs reprises une nappe de gaz toxiques sous un feu intense
sans aucun répit pendant 32 heures pour emmener aux ambulances les

          (Signé) TOUBERT

      _Q. G. le 26 juillet 1916
      Le Directeur du Service de Santé_


  _2d Army_

  _Headquarters of
  the Sanitary Service
  of Group E_


     In fulfillment of regulations the Physician of the Sanitary
     Service of the 6th Army Corps "mentions" in orders of the day of
     the 6th Army Corps:--


"Under the direction of Lieutenant Robert de Kersauson de Pennendreff,
and of the American officers, Herbert Townsend and Victor White,
American Sanitary Section No. 1, composed entirely of volunteers,
has been wonderfully efficient in the daily service of removing the
wounded, going very long distances to fetch them, despite a bombardment
sometimes of great intensity.

It especially distinguished itself on July 11, 1916, by passing through
a sheet of poisonous gas again and again, without respite, under a
sustained fire, for thirty-two hours, bringing the men prostrated by
the gas to the ambulances."

          (_Signed_) TOUBERT

      _Headquarters, 26 July, 1916_
      _Chief of the Sanitary Service_

  _1{er} C. A. C._

  Service de Santé_

  _No. 5161_

  _Q. G., le 19 juillet 1916_

     Le Médecin Principal de 1{ère} Classe LASNET, Directeur du
     Service de Santé du 1{er} Corps d'Armée Colonial, au Lieutenant
     DE KERSAUSON, Commandant la S. S. A. U. 1.

Au moment où la S. S. A. U. 1 est appelée à suivre une autre
destination, le Directeur du Service de Santé adresse au Lieutenant
DE KERSAUSON et à tout le personnel de la Section ses chaleureuses
félicitations pour le zèle, le courage et l'activité inlassables dont
tous out fait preuve pendant leur séjour sur le secteur du 1{er} C. A.

Les Troupes Coloniales ont su apprécier le dévouement des volontaires
Américains et elles leur en gardent une vive reconnaissance. C'est avec
un profond regret qu'elles les ont vu partir et elles n'oublieront pas
de longtemps les conducteurs hardis, habiles et empressés qui venaient
enlever leurs blessés jusque dans les postes de secours les plus

          (Signé) LASNET


  _1st C. A. C._

  of the
  Sanitary Service_

  _No. 5161_

  _Headquarters, 19 July, 1916_

     The Physician-in-Chief of the First Class LASNET, Superintendent
     of the Sanitary Service of the First Colonial Army Corps, to
     Lieutenant DE KERSAUSON, Commanding S. S. A. U. 1.

At the moment when the American Sanitary Section U. 1 is called upon to
proceed to another field of action, the Superintendent of the Sanitary
Service expresses to Lieutenant DE KERSAUSON and the whole personnel of
the Section his warm congratulations upon the unwearying zeal, courage,
and activity of which one and all have given abundant proof during
their stay in the sector of the First C. A. C.

The Colonial troops have not failed to appreciate at its true value
the devotion of the American volunteers, and are profoundly grateful
to them therefore. It was with deep regret that they learned of their
departure, and they will not soon forget the fearless, skilful, and
enthusiastic drivers who went even to the most advanced _postes de
secours_ to collect their wounded.

          (_Signed_) LASNET


     En exécution des prescriptions réglementaires le Directeur du
     Service de Santé du 6{e} Corps d'Armée, cite à l'Ordre du Service
     de Santé du 6{e} Corps d'Armée


"Sous la direction du Lieutenant Paroissien, Robert Charles, et du
Commandant Adjoint Américaine Mason, Austin Blake, la Section Sanitaire
Américaine N{o} 8, composée entièrement de volontaires, a assuré
remarquablement le service quotidien des évacuations en allant chercher
le plus loin possible les blessés, malgré un bombardement parfois

"S'est particulièrement distinguée le 23 juin, en traversant à
plusieurs reprises la nappe de gaz toxiques sous un feu intense sans
aucun répit pendant plusieurs heures pour emmener au plus vite aux
ambulances les intoxiqués."

      _Q. G. le 4 Août 1916
      P. O. le Directeur du Service de Santé_


     In carrying out the prescribed regulations the Director of the
     Sanitary Service of the 6th Army Corps "mentions" in the orders of
     the day of that service


"Under the direction of Lieutenant Robert Charles Paroissien and of the
American Deputy-Commandant Austin Blake Mason, the American Sanitary
Section No. 8, composed entirely of volunteers, has been wonderfully
efficient in the daily service of removing the wounded, going very
long distances to fetch them, despite a bombardment sometimes of great

"It especially distinguished itself on June 23, by passing through
the sheet of poisonous gas again and again, without respite, under a
sustained fire, for many hours, bringing the men prostrated by the gas
to the ambulances as speedily as possible."

      _Headquarters, 4 August, 1916
      P.O. The Director of the Sanitary Service_


As a result of the extension of the Field Service of the American
Ambulance, the headquarters of the field ambulance sections have been
transferred from the Lycée Pasteur, Neuilly-sur-Seine, to 21 rue
Raynouard, Paris (XVI), and are installed in the beautiful premises
generously placed at their disposal for the duration of the war by the
Hottinguer family.


This house at Passy has, since the beginning of the last century,
been the property of the family of Benjamin Delessert, the great
philosopher, who founded the Caisse d'Épargne in Paris. On the
extensive neighboring land belonging to him he established a refinery
where beetroot sugar was made for the first time. The Emperor Napoleon,
as an appreciation of this discovery, created him a Baron of the Empire
and Chevalier of the Légion d'Honneur.

There exist in the park at Passy three ferruginous springs, the waters
of which were famous even in the seventeenth century. Madame de Sévigné
speaks of them in a letter to her daughter, dated 1676. Later a thermal
establishment was organized. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who lived on the
edge of the park, speaks in his "Confessions" of taking the waters.
Voltaire was also an assiduous visitor. From 1777 to 1785 Benjamin
Franklin often came to take the cure, and walked in the shade of these
wooded acres. It is even said that he made here his first experiment
with a lightning-rod. More recently, history recounts that in this same
spot Zola wrote his book "Pages d'Amour." The house was occupied for
a long time by the Bartholdi family and was frequently visited by the
great sculptor of the Statue of Liberty, given to the United States by
France. A description of the place is given in a book on "Old Paris" by
Georges Cain, and also in a book called "Paris," by André Hallays. The
property belongs at the present day to the Hottinguer family and their
descendants, heirs of the Delesserts.


[Illustration: THE "CROIX DE GUERRE"]

[Illustration: CITATIONS


[Illustration: CITATION AU 36{ème} CORPS D'ARMÉE

     BALBIANI, Roger M. L., Conducteur, puis chef d'une section
     sanitaire étrangère:--

     "A déployé depuis plusieurs mois un grand dévouement; s'est
     particulièrement distingué du 22 Avril 1915 lors de l'attaque
     allemande au moyen de gazs asphyxiants et pendant les
     bombardements de Dunkerque."


     BALBIANI, Roger M. L., Driver, afterwards in command of a foreign
     Sanitary Section: For many months past has displayed the most
     devoted courage; distinguished himself particularly on April 22,
     1915, at the time of the German attack with asphyxiating gas, and
     during the bombardments of Dunkirk.]


     BARTLETT, Edward, Conducteur volontaire de la S. S. Américaine
     N{o} 4:--

     "S'est particulièrement distingué par son sang-froid, son courage
     et son dévouement en concourant, du 18 au 30 Juin 1916, aux
     évacuations des blessés des postes de secours, dans un secteur
     battu par l'artillerie ennemie."


     BARTLETT, Edward, Volunteer Driver of American S. S. No 4:
     Distinguished himself particularly by his coolness, courage, and
     devotion, while assisting, between the 18th and 30th of June, 1916,
     in the removal of wounded from _postes de secours_, in a sector
     swept by the enemy artillery.]


     BUSWELL, Leslie, de la S. S. A. A., Conducteur très consciencieux,
     très dévoué et très courageux.

     Se présentant pour toutes les missions dangereuses.

     Conduite remarquable pendant le bombardement du 22 Juillet.


     BUSWELL, Leslie, of the S. S. A. A. A most conscientious, faithful,
     and fearless driver. Offers himself for all dangerous duties.
     Noteworthy conduct during the bombardment of July 22.]


     CAMPBELL, Joshua, Conducteur. Engagé volontaire à la S. S. A. U. 1
     depuis Janvier 1915:--

     "A fait preuve en toutes circonstances d'un calme imperturbable et
     d'un absolu dévouement. A assuré le service des évacuations depuis
     le poste de secours de l'Eclusier sous plusieurs bombardements
     dans des conditions de rapidité parfaites et avec un extrême souci
     du confort des blessés.


     CAMPBELL, Joshua, Driver. Volunteer in the S. S. A. U. 1 since
     January, 1915: Has given proof, on all occasions, of imperturbable
     coolness and undivided devotion to duty. Looked after the matter
     of removals from the dressing-station at l'Eclusier, during
     several bombardments, with the greatest possible speed, and with
     the utmost care for the comfort of the wounded.

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     CAREY, Graham, sujet Américain, domicilé à Cambridge
     (Massachusetts) États-Unis, sous-chef de la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:

     "A affirmé son courage et son dévouement en allant spontanément
     recueillir, sous les obus, les blessés d'un corps de troupe,
     voisin de son poste d'attache, et en assurant leur évacuation


     CAREY, Graham, an American, living at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
     second in command of the American Automobile Sanitary Section No.
     3: Manifested his courage and his devotion to duty by going out
     spontaneously under a storm of shells, to collect the wounded of a
     detachment stationed near the post to which he was attached, and
     assuring their immediate removal to the rear.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 129{ème} DIVISION

     CLARK, John, volontaire Américain de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "A donné depuis huit mois l'exemple d'une fidélité entière à son
     service. Pendant la période du 22 Juin au 2 Juillet a montré une
     intrépidité parfaite et a fait allègrement plus que son devoir
     dans des circonstances dangereuses."


     CLARK, John, American Volunteer of American Sanitary Section
     No. 3: In the past eight months has set an example of absolute
     fidelity to duty. During the period from 22 June to 2 July,
     displayed perfect intrepidity, and readily did more than his duty
     in circumstances of great peril.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     CURLEY, E. J., de la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o}
     3, sujet Américain:--

     "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un dévouement digne des plus grands
     éloges en assurant nuit et jour, pendant quinze jours, avec un
     parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés sur une
     route de montagne constamment battue par les projectiles ennemis."


     CURLEY, E. J., of American Automobile Sanitary Section No. 3, an
     American: Has again given proof of a devotion deserving of the
     highest praise, by safeguarding night and day, for a fortnight,
     with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many wounded over a
     mountain road constantly swept by the enemy's fire.]


     Le Volontaire Américain DAWSON, Benjamin, de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "A fait preuve à la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3 d'un
     entier dévouement en particulier au cours des mission dangereuses
     effectuées sous le feu de l'ennemi en Décembre-Janvier 1916 et
     pendant la période du 22 Juin au 2 Juillet 1916."


     The American Volunteer, Benjamin DAWSON, of American Sanitary
     Section No. 3: Has displayed in the work of American Sanitary
     Section No. 3 absolute devotion to duty, especially in the
     execution of certain dangerous commissions under the enemy's fire
     in December, 1915-January, 1916, and during the period from 22
     June to 2 July, 1916.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     DOUGLASS, David B., de la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine
     N{o} 3, sujet Américain: "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un dévouement
     digne des plus grands éloges en assurant nuit et jour, pendant
     quinze jours, avec un parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation de
     nombreux blessés sur une route de montagne constamment battue par
     les projectiles ennemis."


     DOUGLASS, David B., of American Automobile Sanitary Section No. 3,
     an American: Has again given proof of a devotion deserving of the
     highest praise, by safeguarding night and day, for a fortnight,
     with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many wounded over a
     mountain road swept by the enemy's fire.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     Le Conducteur DOYLE, Luke C., de la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 3, sujet Américain: "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un
     dévouement digne des plus grands éloges en assurant nuit et jour,
     pendant 15 jours, avec un parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation
     de nombreux blessés sur une route de montagne constamment battue
     par les projectiles ennemis."


     DOYLE, Luke C., Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American: Has again given proof of a devotion deserving
     of the highest praise, by safeguarding night and day, for a
     fortnight, with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many
     wounded over a mountain road swept by the enemy's fire.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 127{ème} DIVISION

     EDWARDS, Brooke Leonard, Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 1: "A montré le plus grande courage et
     un sang-froid remarquable en allant chercher des blessés dans un
     poste avancé. Sa voiture ayant été atteinte par plusieurs éclats
     d'obus en traversant une zone violemment bombardée, s'est arrêté
     pour réparer et a rempli sa mission jusqu'au bout en ramenant des
     blessés hors de la zone dangereuse."[12]


     EDWARDS, Brooke Leonard, Driver, in American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 1: Displayed the greatest bravery and noteworthy
     coolness in going to take up the wounded in an advanced position.
     His car having been hit by several fragments of shell as he
     crossed a zone then under a heavy bombardment, he stopped to
     repair it and performed his mission to the end, bringing back a
     number of wounded men from the dangerous zone.]

[12] This citation was approved and signed by General Joffre, General
Nivelle, commanding the 2d Army, the General commanding "Groupement E,"
the General commanding the 127th Division, the Médecin Divisionnaire of
the 127th Division.

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     Le Conducteur FENTON, Powel, de la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 3, sujet Américain:--

     "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un dévouement digne des plus grands
     éloges en assurant nuit et jour, pendant quinze jours, avec un
     parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés sur une
     route de montagne constamment battue par les projectiles ennemis."


     FENTON, Powel, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American: Has again given proof of a devotion deserving
     of the highest praise, by safeguarding night and day, for a
     fortnight, with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many
     wounded over a mountain road swept by the enemy's fire.]


     GALATTI, Stephen, sujet Américain, Conducteur à la Section
     Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:

     "A pendant quinze jours assuré nuit et jour, sur une route de
     montagne difficile, et constamment battue par les projectiles
     ennemis, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés, avec un zèle et un
     dévouement dignes de tous les éloges."


     GALATTI, Stephen, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American subject: On a bad mountain road, constantly
     swept by the enemy's fire, safeguarded night and day, for a
     fortnight, the removal of many wounded, with a zeal and devotion
     deserving of the highest praise.]


     GLOVER, Halcott, sous-chef de Section à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 2:

     S'est toujours distingué par son esprit de devoir, son dévouement,
     son calme absolu dans le danger et ses qualités d'organisateur.
     Conduite remarquable lors du bombardement du 22 Juillet. Toujours
     à son poste les jours d'attaque.


     GLOVER, Halcott, second in command of American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 2: Has constantly distinguished himself by his sense
     of duty, his devotion, his perfect coolness in danger, and his
     talent as an organizer. Noteworthy conduct at the time of the
     bombardment of July 22. Always at his post on days of assault.]


     HALL, Richard, de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3.

     Le Bon Samaritain qu'était Richard Hall avait pris la décision
     de voyager beaucoup de concert avec nous, sur notre route,
     pour tendre une main inlassablement secourable à ceux de nos
     compatriotes militaires que les hostilités actuelles auraient
     plongé dans le malheur. Il l'a fait depuis de longs mois avec la
     constante ténacité que vous savez.

     Sur cette route un projectile ennemi l'a tué. Je salue bien bas sa
     dépouille en lui disant, à lui et à ses émules en dévouement, les
     membres de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3, mon sentiment de
     profonde et entière admiration au nom du Service de Santé de la
     66{ème} Division.

     Par ordre du Général commandant la 66{ème} Division, j'épingle à ce
     cercueil la Croix de Guerre Française avec citation à l'ordre de
     la Division.

       26 Décembre 1915.


     HALL, Richard, of the American Sanitary Section No. 3. The good
     Samaritan, Richard Hall, had determined to travel often with us,
     on our regular road, in order to extend an untiringly helping
     hand to those of our military compatriots upon whom the present
     hostilities had brought misfortune. He did this for many long
     months with the tenacious persistence that you know of.

     On that road a German shell killed him. Reverently I salute his
     mortal remains, expressing to him and to his rivals in devotion
     to the cause, the members of American Sanitary Section, No. 3, my
     sentiment of profound and unstinted admiration, in behalf of the
     Sanitary Service of the 66th Division.

     By order of the General commanding the 66th Division, I pin to
     this coffin the French Croix de Guerre, together with this mention
     in the divisional order of the day.

       December 26, 1915.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     HALE, Dudley, sujet Américain, domicilié à New York, États-Unis,
     Conducteur de la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:

     "A affirmé son courage et son dévouement en allant spontanément
     recueillir, sous les obus, les blessés d'un corps de troupe voisin
     de son poste d'attache, et en assurant leur évacuation immédiate."


     HALE, Dudley, an American, living at New York, United States,
     Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section No. 3:
     Demonstrated his courage and his devotion to duty by going out,
     of his own motion, under shell-fire, to pick up the wounded of a
     force near his station, and ensuring their immediate removal.]


     HANSEN, Sigurd, Conducteur volontaire de la S. S. Américaine N{o}

     "S'est particulièrement distingué par son sang-froid, son courage,
     et son dévouement en concourant, du 18 au 30 Juin 1916, aux
     évacuations des blessés des postes de secours, dans un secteur
     battu par l'artillerie ennemie."


     HANSEN, Sigurd, Volunteer Driver of American S. S. 4:
     Distinguished himself particularly by his coolness, courage, and
     devotion, while assisting, between the 18th and 30th of June,
     1916, in the removal of wounded from _postes de secours_, in a
     sector swept by the enemy artillery.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     HILL, Lovering, Chef de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3:

     "A de nouveau affirmé son inlassable dévouement en assurant avec
     une froide crânerie et dans les conditions très correctes pendant
     les journées et les nuits des 15, 16 et 17 Octobre 1915, dans une
     région difficilement practicable et en partie battue par le feu
     l'ennemi, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés."


     HILL, Lovering, in command of American Sanitary Section No. 3: Has
     demonstrated anew his untiring devotion to duty by safeguarding,
     with cool audacity and in perfect order, during the days and
     nights of October 15, 16, 17, 1915, in a district where such
     movements were very difficult and which was partly within range of
     the enemy's guns, the removal of numerous wounded.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     Le Lieutenant HILL, Lovering, Commandant la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3, sujet américain:

     "A de nouveau affirmé son courage, son dévouement et son esprit
     d'organisation en faisant assurer et assurant lui-même, nuit et
     jour, pendant quinze jours, avec un parfait mépris du danger,
     l'évacuation de nombreux blessés sur une route de montagne
     constamment battue par les projectiles ennemis."


     HILL, Lovering, Lieutenant Commanding American Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American subject: Has demonstrated anew his courage,
     devotion to duty, and talent for organization by superintending
     and taking an active part in safeguarding night and day, for a
     fortnight, with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many
     wounded, over a mountain road constantly swept by the enemy's

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 2{ème} ARMÉE

     HILL, Lovering, de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3.

     "Délégué de l'hôpital Américain de Neuilly à la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3, a montré une fois de plus, au service de la
     129{e} Division, pendant les évacuations difficiles et dangereuses
     du 22 Juin au 2 Juillet, les plus belles qualités d'un chef,
     l'oubli de lui-même, un entier dévouement à son service et à ses


     HILL, Lovering, of American Sanitary Section No. 3: Ordered from
     the American hospital at Neuilly to American Sanitary Section No.
     3, has shown once more, in the service of the 129th Division,
     during the dangerous and difficult "evacuations" of 22 June to 2
     July, the finest qualities of leadership--forgetfulness of self,
     and absolute devotion to his duties and to his volunteers.]


     Le Volontaire Américain HITT, Lawrence, de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "S'est toujours distingué par son zèle et son dévouement et
     particulièrement du 22 Juin au 2 Juillet 1916 au cours de
     l'évacuation des blessés de la Division effectuée en dépit de
     bombardements constants et violents de la route et des postes."


     The American Volunteer HITT, Lawrence, of American Sanitary
     Section No. 3: Has constantly distinguished himself by his zeal
     and devotion, and especially from 22 June to 2 July, 1916, during
     the removal of the wounded of the Division, which was safely
     effected despite constant and intense bombardments of the road and
     the stations.]


     HOLLISTER, George, Volontaire Américain de la S. S. Américaine N{o}

     "S'est toujours distingué par son dévouement et son entrain,
     particulièrement au cours des évacuations périlleuses du 22 Juin au
     2 Juillet 1916 opérées par une route continuellement bombardée."


     HOLLISTER, George, American volunteer in the American Sanitary
     Service No. 3: Has always distinguished himself by his devotion
     and his spirit, particularly during the dangerous removal of the
     wounded from June 22 to July 2, 1916, over a road under constant

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 129{ème} DIVISION

     JACKSON, Everett, Volontaire Américain de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "Volontaire Américain de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 3,
     volontaire pour toutes les tâches et en toutes circonstances; a
     rendu par son dévouement les plus grands services à la section
     pendant la période d'activité intense et dangereuse du 22 Juin au
     2 Juillet."


     JACKSON, Everett, American Volunteer of American Sanitary Section
     No. 3: American Volunteer of American Sanitary Section No. 3,
     volunteers for all tasks and under all circumstances; by his
     devotion rendered the most valuable service to the Section during
     the period of intense and dangerous activity, from 22 June to 2

[Illustration: CITATION AU 1{er} CORPS D'ARMÉE, 3{ème} DIVISION

     LEWIS, Philip, Conducteur à la S. S. U. 1:--

     "Engagé volontaire, conducteur à la S. S. U. 1 depuis Mars 1916 se
     trouvant dans une localité soumise à un violent bombardement le
     15 Juin 1916; a montré la plus grande bravoure et le plus absolu
     mépris du danger; a aidé à soigner les blessés et n'a consenti à
     s'éloigner que sur l'ordre formel des médecins après avoir pris
     dans sa voiture tous les blessés qu'elle pouvait contenir et qu'il
     a conduits dans les meilleures conditions à la formation sanitaire
     qui lui était indiquée.


     LEWIS, Philip, Driver in S. S. U. 1: Volunteer, Driver in S.
     S. U. 1 since March, 1916, being in a locality subjected to a
     violent bombardment, on 15 June, 1916, displayed the greatest
     gallantry and utter contempt of danger, assisted in caring for the
     wounded and refused to retire except upon the formal order of the
     physicians, after he had taken in his car all the wounded it would
     hold and driven them under the best possible conditions to the
     Sanitary station to which he was directed.]


     LOVELL, Walter, sous-chef de Section à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine No. 2:--

     "A toujours fait preuve d'un moral remarquable; a toujours été un
     example de courage pour les autres conducteurs, et un précieux
     auxiliaire pour le Chef de sa Section."


     LOVELL, Walter, second in command of the American Automobile
     Sanitary Section No. 2: Has always given proof of a noteworthy
     spirit; has constantly set the example of courage to the other
     drivers, and has been an invaluable assistant to the commander of
     his Section.]


     McCONNELL, James R., Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 2:--

     "Conducteur engagé dès la première heure; animé d'un excellent
     esprit; a toujours fait preuve d'un courage et d'une hardiesse
     dignes des plus grands éloges."


     McCONNELL, James R., Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 2: Volunteered as a driver at the very beginning;
     inspired by praiseworthy zeal; has always given proof of a courage
     and fearlessness worthy of the highest praise.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 16{ème} DIVISION

     L'automobiliste volontaire MACMONAGLE, Douglas, de la S. S. A.
     Américaine N{o} 8:--

     "Un obus étant tombé en plein poste de secours a conservé tout
     son calme et avec le plus grand dévouement a contribué sous un
     bombardement au chargement de trois blessés dont l'évacuation
     était urgente."


     Volunteer automobilist Douglas MACMONAGLE of American A. S. S. No.
     8: A shell having fallen in the middle of a poste de secours, he
     retained his self-possession, and with the utmost devotion, under
     bombardment, assisted in loading three wounded men whose removal
     was imperative.]


     MARTIN, William T., Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine 2 depuis le mois de Décembre:--

     "S'est toujours distingué par son dévouement extrême et par son
     esprit de devoir. S'est avancé avec sa voiture sous un violent
     bombardement pour ramener vers l'arrière plusieurs blessés. L'auto
     fut très endommagé par des éclats de shrapnell."


     MARTIN, William T., Driver of the American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 2, since December: Has constantly distinguished
     himself by his extreme devotion and his sense of duty. Drove
     forward in his car under a fierce bombardment, to pick up several
     wounded men and take them to the rear. The car was badly damaged
     by pieces of shrapnel.]


     MELLEN, Joseph, sujet Américain, conducteur à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:

     "A pendant quinze jours assuré nuit et jour, sur une route de
     montagne difficile et constamment battue par les projectiles
     ennemis, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés, avec un zèle et un
     dévouement dignes de tous les éloges."


     MELLEN, Joseph, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American subject: Safeguarded night and day, for a
     fortnight, on a difficult mountain road, constantly swept by
     the enemy's guns, the removal of many wounded, with a zeal and
     devotion worthy of the highest praise.]


     OGILVIE, Francis Dashwood, de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o}
     2, conducteur depuis le début de la campagne:

     "S'est toujours distingué par son esprit de devoir, son dévouement
     et son calme absolu dans le danger."


     OGILVIE, Francis Dashwood, of American Sanitary Section No.
     2, Driver since the beginning of the campaign: Has constantly
     distinguished himself by his sense of duty, his devotion, and his
     perfect coolness in danger.]


     Le volontaire Américain PEIRCE, Waldo, de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "Volontaire depuis Novembre 1915 à la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine; a pris part aux évacuations d'une Division en Décembre
     et Janvier 1915 et aux missions périlleuses du 22 Juin au 2
     Juillet 1916. Maintes fois exposé à des bombardements violents, a
     été à deux reprises atteint au visage et au corps par des éclats
     d'obus pendant cette dernière période."


     The American Volunteer Waldo PEIRCE, of American Sanitary Section
     No. 3: Volunteer since November, 1915, in the American Sanitary
     Section; took part in the removal of the wounded of a division in
     December and January, 1915, and in carrying out dangerous missions
     from 22 June to 2 July, 1916. Constantly exposed to intense
     bombardment, has been wounded twice, in the face and body, by
     fragments of shell, during the latter period.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 129{ème} DIVISION

     POTTER, Thomas, volontaire Américain à la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "Volontaire infatigable, d'une énergie et d'un sang-froid
     exemplaires dans le danger."


     POTTER, Thomas, American volunteer of American Sanitary Section
     No. 3: An indefatigable volunteer, of exemplary energy and
     composure in danger.]


     PUTNAM, Tracy J., sujet Américain, conducteur à la Section
     Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "A pendant quinze jours assuré nuit et jour, sur une route de
     montagne difficile et constamment battue par les projectiles
     ennemis, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés, avec un zèle et un
     dévouement dignes de tous les éloges."


     PUTNAM, Tracy J., Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 3, an American: Safeguarded for a fortnight, night and day, on
     a difficult mountain road constantly swept by the enemy's guns,
     the removal of many wounded, with a zeal and devotion worthy of
     the highest praise.]


     RANTOUL, Beverley, conducteur volontaire Américain de la Section
     Sanitaire Automobile N{o} 4:--

     "A toujours fait preuve du plus grand sang-froid et d'un
     dévouement absolu aux blessés, en procédant à leur évacuation
     sur des routes fréquemment bombardées. S'est acquitté de
     certaines missions périlleuses avec beaucoup de calme et de
     courage, notamment le 30 Mars 1916 à Grosrouvres, au cours d'un
     bombardement, et le 10 Avril, à Xivray, où, allant chercher un
     blessé au poste de secours, sa voiture fut atteinte par des éclats


     RANTOUL, Beverley, American volunteer, Driver in Automobile
     Sanitary Section No. 4: Has always displayed the greatest coolness
     and entire devotion to the wounded, while assisting in their
     removal on roads frequently under bombardment. Acquitted himself
     of certain perilous commissions with great composure and courage,
     notably on 30 March, 1916, at Grosrouvres, during a bombardment,
     and on 10 April, at Xivray, where, as he was on his way to bring
     in a wounded soldier to the _poste de secours_, his car was struck
     by fragments of shell.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     Le Conducteur RICE, Durant, de la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 3, sujet Américain:--

     "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un dévouement digne des plus grands
     éloges en assurant nuit et jour, pendant quinze jours, avec un
     parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés sur une
     route de montagne constamment battue par les projectiles ennemis."


     RICE, Durant, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section No.
     3, an American: Has demonstrated anew a devotion worthy of the
     highest praise by safeguarding night and day, for a fortnight,
     with utter contempt of danger, the removal of many wounded over a
     mountain road constantly swept by the enemy's guns.]


     ROEDER, George, Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o}

     "Depuis les premiers jours de la mobilisation a montré au service
     de la Croix Rouge une ardeur et un entrain qui ne se sont jamais


     ROEDER, George, Driver, of American Sanitary Section No. 2: Since
     the first days of mobilization has displayed in the service of the
     Red Cross a zeal and energy which have never slackened.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 73{ème} DIVISION

     SALISBURY, Edward, Chef de la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 2:--

     "A fait preuve des meilleures qualités dans la conduite de sa
     section: infatigable, d'une volonté ferme et résolue, il a donné
     l'exemple du dévouement, de la bonté et du courage."


     SALISBURY, Edward, Commander of American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 2: Has given proof of most excellent qualities
     in the management of his Section; indefatigable, with a firm
     and determined will, he has set a fine example of devotion,
     kindliness, and courage.]


     SCHRODER, Bernard, de la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine
     N{o} 2:--

     "Conducteur engagé depuis le début de la campagne, n'a cessé de
     faire preuve de courage et de sang-froid. Toujours aux postes
     les plus dangereux, a fait admiration de tous le 22 Juillet à
     Pont-à-Mousson, où il a porté les premiers secours aux victimes du


     SCHRODER, Bernard, of American Automobile Sanitary Section No.
     2: Volunteered as Driver at the beginning of the campaign, and
     has constantly given proof of great courage and self-possession.
     Always to be found at the most dangerous posts, he aroused
     universal admiration on July 22, at Pont-à-Mousson, where he
     administered first aid to the victims of the bombardment.]


     SPONAGLE, James Milton, Mécanicien à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 1:--

     "Le 11 Juillet 1916 est allé réparer une voiture restée en panne
     sur une route violemment bombardée; a accompli la réparation
     sous le feu de l'ennemi avec un sang-froid remarquable, s'est
     ensuite proposé pour conduire une voiture d'Ambulance et a aidé
     à l'évacuation des blessés pendant une période de bombardement


     SPONAGLE, James Milton, mechanic in American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 1: On 11 July, 1916, went out to repair a car left
     stranded on a road that was being violently bombarded; made the
     necessary repairs under the enemy's fire with notable composure;
     then volunteered to drive an Ambulance car and assisted in
     removing wounded throughout a period of intense bombardment.]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 66{ème} DIVISION

     Le Conducteur SUCKLEY, H., de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o}
     3, sujet Américain:--

     "A de nouveau fait preuve d'un dévouement digne des plus grands
     éloges en assurant nuit et jour, pendant quinze jours, avec un
     parfait mépris du danger, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés sur une
     route de montagne constamment battue par les projectiles ennemis."


     SUCKLEY, H., Driver, of American Sanitary Section No. 3: Has again
     given proof of a devotion deserving of the highest praise by
     safeguarding night and day, for a fortnight, with utter contempt
     of danger, the removal of many wounded over a mountain road
     constantly swept by the enemy's fire.]


     TAYLOR, John, Conducteur Américain de la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 2:--

     "Animé du meilleur esprit, plein d'entrain et de courage. Le 19
     Décembre, étant de service à Montauville, un obus ayant explosé
     près du poste téléphonique, s'est porté au secours des blessés
     qu'il a aidés à relever, bien qu'il ait été lui-même légèrement
     contusionné. Le 20 Décembre, 1915, lors d'un bombardement violent
     de Pont-à-Mousson, s'est porté le premier au secours des blessés
     avec un réel mépris du danger."


     TAYLOR, John, American, Driver in the American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 2: Inspired by the most exemplary sentiments, full of
     "go," and courage. On December 19, being on duty at Montauville,
     and a shell having exploded near the telephone station, he went
     to the assistance of the wounded, whom he helped to remove,
     although himself slightly wounded. On December 20, 1915, during a
     violent bombardment of Pont-à-Mousson, was the first to go to the
     assistance of the wounded, with a genuine disregard of danger.]


     TINKHAM, Edward, Volontaire Américain de la S. S. Américaine N{o}

     "A constamment rendu par son inlassable dévouement les plus
     appréciables services; a pris part aux évacuations difficiles
     et dangereuses du 22 Juin au 2 Juillet 1916 opérées sous le feu
     violent de l'ennemi."


     TINKHAM, Edward, American volunteer in the American Sanitary
     Service No. 3: Has constantly rendered by his untiring devotion
     most valuable services; took part in the difficult and dangerous
     removal of wounded from June 22 to July 2, 1916, under the violent
     fire of the enemy.]


     WALDEN, Donald M., de la Section Sanitaire Automobile Américaine.

     "A toujours fait preuve de la meilleure volonté et s'est fait
     remarquer par son audace lors de l'attaque du 4 Juillet."


     WALDEN, Donald M., of American Automobile Sanitary Section: Has
     constantly given proof of the greatest zeal, and drew attention to
     himself by his fearlessness during the assault of July 4.]


     WALKER, J. Marquand, sujet Américain, conducteur à la Section
     Sanitaire Automobile Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "A pendant quinze jours assuré nuit et jour, sur une route de
     montagne difficile et constamment battue par les projectiles
     ennemis, l'évacuation de nombreux blessés, avec un zèle et un
     dévouement dignes de tous les éloges."


     WALKER, J. Marquand, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 3: Safeguarded for a fortnight, night and day, on a
     difficult mountain road constantly swept by the enemy's guns, the
     removal of many wounded, with a zeal and devotion worthy of the
     highest praise.]


     WHITE, Victor, S/Chef de la Section Sanitaire Américaine N{o} 1, le
     3 Mai 1916, chargé d'évacuer les blessés d'un village violemment
     bombardé, a fait preuve de sang froid, de courage et du plus beau
     dévouement en chargeant rapidement sa voiture, et en la mettant
     aussitôt en marche, ne se souciant que de soustraire ses blessés à
     de nouveaux coups de l'ennemi.

  Le Général MAZILLIER, Cdt. la 2{ème} Div.
      Signé: MAZILLIER


     WHITE, Victor, Second in Command of American Sanitary Section No.
     1, on May 3, 1916, being ordered to remove the wounded from a
     village that was being heavily shelled, gave proof of coolness,
     courage, and the noblest devotion, by loading his car rapidly, and
     instantly driving away, thinking of nothing except to save his
     wounded from being hit again.

  Commanding the 2d Division.


     WHITE, Victor, Conducteur.

     Engagé volontaire à la S. S. A. U-1 depuis Avril 1915; a montré
     en toutes circonstances beaucoup d'entrain, de courage et de
     sang froid. S'est particulièrement distingué lors de l'attaque
     allemande par les gaz le 22 Avril, des bombardements de Dunkerque
     et pendant les évacuations des postes de l'Eclusier et de Cappy
     (Février-Mai 1916).


     WHITE, Victor, Driver. Served as volunteer in the S. S. A. U-1
     since April, 1915; has displayed on all occasions much energy,
     courage, and self-possession. Distinguished himself particularly
     at the time of the German gas attack on April 22, during the
     bombardments of Dunkirk, and during the removal of the wounded
     from the stations of Eclusier and Cappy (February-May, 1916).]

[Illustration: CITATION À LA 129{ème} DIVISION

     WHEELER, Walter, volontaire Américain de la Section Sanitaire
     Américaine N{o} 3:--

     "S'est toujours proposé comme volontaire pour les missions les
     plus périlleuses et a particulièrement fait preuve, pour secourir
     les blessés d'un poste de recueil sous un violent bombardement,
     d'un élan spontané digne de tout éloge."


     WHEELER, Walter, American volunteer, of American Sanitary Section
     No. 3: Has invariably offered himself as a volunteer for the
     most hazardous undertakings, and on one occasion especially gave
     proof of a spontaneous energy deserving of the highest praise,
     in assisting the wounded of a receiving post under a violent


     WILLIS, Harold, Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire Automobile
     Américaine N{o} 2:--

     "A toujours fait preuve d'un courage et d'une hardiesse dignes
     des plus grands éloges, notamment pendant l'attaque du 4 Juillet,
     s'offrant pour aller chercher des blessés dans un endroit très
     périlleux, et eut sa voiture criblée d'éclats d'obus."


     WILLIS, Harold, Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary Section
     No. 2: Has always given proof of a courage and fearlessness worthy
     of the highest praise, notably during the assault of July 4, in
     volunteering to go after the wounded in a very dangerous spot; his
     car was riddled with fragments of shell.]


     WOOLVERTON, William H., Conducteur à la Section Sanitaire
     Automobile Américaine N{o} 1:

     "Sous un bombardement incessant a continué à assurer le service
     des évacuations sans la moindre hésitation. A un endroit
     particulièrement exposé, au moment où les obus tombaient avec
     violence, a arrêté sa voiture pour prendre des blessés qu'il a
     aidé à charger avec le plus grand calme, donnant ainsi preuve de
     courage et de sang-froid."

     WOOLVERTON, William H., Driver, of American Automobile Sanitary
     Section No. 1: Under an incessant bombardment continued to
     superintend the removals without the slightest hesitation. At
     one specially exposed spot, where shells were falling in swift
     succession, he stopped his car to pick up some wounded men whom he
     helped to put aboard, with the utmost coolness, thus demonstrating
     his courage and self-possession.]

[Illustration: WILLIAM M. BARBER]

[Illustration: ROSWELL S. SANDERS]


  Grand Quartier Général
  des Armées
  _État Major_

  _Bureau du Personnel_

    _Au G. Q. G., le 17 juin 1916_

ORDRE N{o} 3234-D


     La Médaille Militaire a été conféré au militaire dont le nom

     BARBER, William, Conducteur au Service de Santé d'une Division

"Au cours des récentes opérations, s'est distingué par son courage et
son sang-froid en assurant toutes les nuits l'évacuation des blessés
sur une route continuellement bombardée par l'artillerie ennemie. A été
grièvement blessé dans l'accomplissement de ses devoirs."

(La présente nomination comporte l'attribution de la Croix de Guerre
avec Palme.)

          (Signé) J. JOFFRE

      Pour extrait conforme
      Le Lt. Colonel
      Chef du Bureau du Personnel

SANDERS, Roswell S., has been awarded the _Médaille Militaire_, but his
citation was received too late to be included in this volume.

  (_November, 1916._)


  _General Headquarters
  of the Armies_

  _Bureau du Personnel_

  _General Headquarters, 27 June, 1916_

ORDER NO. 3234-D


The _Médaille Militaire_ has been conferred upon the soldier whose name

BARBER, WILLIAM, Driver in the Sanitary Service of an Infantry

"In the course of recent operations has distinguished himself by his
courage and coolness in safeguarding night after night the removal of
the wounded over a road constantly bombarded by enemy artillery. Was
severely wounded in the performance of his duties."

(The present decoration carries with it the conferring of the _Croix de
Guerre avec Palme_.)

          (_Signed_) J. JOFFRE

      _A true copy:
      The Lieutenant-Colonel
      Chief of the Bureau du Personnel_

The text of the citations of the following men was received too late to
be included in the foregoing list.


[Illustration: AA]

In the presence of mortal conflict, where the fulfilment of their labor
of friendship lies, the men whose names here follow have seen fortitude
greater even than the courage of the wounded. They have beheld the
strength of a people unified by sacrifice so complete that its
individuals are unconscious of personal heroism. They have worked side
by side with hundreds of thousands of men and women who in consummating
this sacrifice have yielded, without measure of cost, their ambition
and love, and challenged death--with dauntless resolution to save not
only their country, but the principles of democracy for the whole
world. France, invincible in her resistance, has issued no acclamation
of glory, has sought no sympathy for the costliness of the onslaught,
nor published denunciation of the enemy, but by intrepid manhood has
won the honor of all nations.

These Americans, in their service of conservation, have gained
immutable evidence of that spirit upon which the highest citizenship
and patriotism depend. Whatever bitterness chance may bring
into their futures, they at least can never lose faith in human
nature--remembering the standard under which these days of their youth
have been consecrated.

          H. D. S.


(_The abbreviations of names of colleges and universities represented
in this list are as follows._)

  A.      = Ames
  Am.     = Amherst
  B.      = Brown
  B.C.    = Beloit Coll.
  Bow.    = Bowdoin
  C.C.    = Cooper Coll.
  C.G.S.  = Cornell Graduate School
  Cam.    = Cambridge
  Co.     = Columbia
  Col.C.  = Colorado Coll.
  Cor.    = Cornell
  D.      = Dartmouth
  F.      = Fordham
  G.      = Groton School
  H.      = Harvard
  H.-S.   = Hampton-Sidney
  Ham.    = Hamilton
  I.      = Iowa
  J.H.    = Johns Hopkins
  L.C.    = Lehigh Coll.
  M.A.    = Mass. Agricultural
  M.I.T.  = Mass. Inst. Technology
  N.U.    = Northwestern Univ.
  New.C.  = Newberry Coll.
  O.      = Oberlin
  P.      = Princeton
  P.S.    = Pennsylvania State
  Pa.     = Paris
  Pitts.  = Univ. of Pittsburgh
  St.P.S. = St. Paul's School
  Sew.    = Sewanee
  Sw.     = Swarthmore
  T.C.    = Trinity Coll.
  U.A.    = Univ. of Arizona
  U.C.    = Univ. of California
  U.M.    = Univ. of Michigan
  U.Mo.   = Univ. of Missouri
  U.N.    = Univ. of Nevada
  U.N.C.  = Univ. of North Carolina
  U.N.D.  = Univ. of North Dakota
  U.P.    = Univ. of Pennsylvania
  U.S.C.  = Univ. of South Carolina
  U.U.    = Univ. of Utah
  U.V.    = Univ. of Virginia
  V.      = Vanderbilt
  W.R.    = Western Reserve
  W.U.    = Washington Univ.
  Wab.    = Wabash
  Wms.    = Williams
  Y.      = Yale

[Illustration: "_It is good to have made friends among you, to have
clasped some of your brown hands, to have walked a little along the
road with you_"


  OCTOBER, 1916

  _Name_               _Entered_  _Left_     _Address_       _Coll._ _Sec._

  John R. Abbott        July'16             Andover, Mass.             2
  Eustace L. Adams      Feb.'15  June'15    Newtonville, Mass. T.C.    3
  Harry Adamson         Jan.'16  June'16    Pittsfield, Mass.  T.C.    4
  Fred Hunter All       April'15 Aug.'15    Allendale, S.C.    H.    [1]
  Julian B. L. Allen    Aug.'15             New York City      St.P.S. 4
  Charles Burton Ames   Sept.'16            W. Newton, Mass.   Am.     8
  John Worthington
    Ames, Jr.           Oct.'16             Cambridge, Mass.   H.      2
    _Inspector General_ Dec.'14             Gloucester, Mass.  P.-H.   1
  Donald C. Armour      April'16            Evanston, Ill.     Y.    8,3
  Kenneth L. Austin     Mar.'15             Lausanne                   4
  Percy L. Avard        July'15  June'16    New York                   1

  Charles Baird, Jr.    July'16             New York           H.    2,3
    _Section Director_  Oct.'14  Dec.'15    Paris                      1
  Alwyn Ball            Nov.'14  Feb.'15    New York                   1
  William M. Barber     May'16   Aug.'16    Toledo, Ohio       O.      3
  Norman L. Barclay   { Nov.'14  July'15    New York           Y.      2
                      { Nov.'15  June'16
  _Edward O. Bartlett_
    _Chief of
      Construction_     Oct.'15             Florence, Italy    B.   4[2]
  _Frederick B. Bate_
      Officer_          Aug.'14  April'16   Chicago                  [3]
  Frank L. Baylies      Feb.'16             New Bedford, Mass.       1,3
  James D. Beane        July'16             Concord, Mass.             9
  Wm. De Ford Bigelow   July'16             Cohasset, Mass.   H.       4
  Malbone H. Birckhead  April'16            New York          H.       8
  Percy A. Blair        Jan.'16  Mar.'16    Kent, England     H.       4
  Arthur Bluethenthal   May'16              Wilmington, N.C.  P.       3
  John E. Boit          May'16              Brookline, Mass.   H.      2
  Douglas T. Bolling    Aug.'16             University, Va.    U.V.    4
  Robert Bowman       { Sept.'15  Nov.'15   Lake Forest, Ill.  Y.      1
                      { Feb.'16
  Jackson H. Boyd       April'16            Harrisburg, Pa.    P.      8
  Alfred M. Brace       July'16             Green Bay, Wis.    B.C.    9
  Amos F. Breed         Sept.'16            Brookline, Mass.   H.
  Michael Brenner       Nov.'14.  Sept.'15  New York                   1
  Leighton Brewer       July'15   Sept.'15  New York                   1
  Charles H. Brown      Oct.'15   Mar.'16   New York           U.V.    4
  John F. Brown, Jr.    Nov.'15   Feb.'16   Readville, Mass.   H.      1
  J. Paulding Brown     Sept.'14  May'15    Montclair, N.J.    H.      1
  Otto W. Budd          Nov.'14   Oct.'15   San Antonio, Texas         1
  Thomas B. Buffum      Mar.'16             New York           H.    8,3
  Lyman T. Burgess      May'16              Sioux City, Ia.    D.      2
  Robert G. Burleigh    Feb.'15   Aug.'15   Hudson, Mass.      U.    [1]
    _Section Commander_ Feb.'16             Boston             H.    2,9
  Leslie Buswell        June'15   Oct.'15   Gloucester, Mass.  Cam.    2

  Victor B. Caldwell,
    Jr.                 June'15   Sept.'15  Omaha, Nebr.       Y.      3
  _Joshua G. B. Campbell_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Dec.'14             New York                   1
  David Carb            Feb.'15   July'15   Boston             H.      1
  _A. Graham Carey_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Dec.'14             Cambridge, Mass    H.      3
  James L. Carson       Jan.'16   April'16  Chicago                    1
  Philip T. Cate        Oct.'15   Mar.'16   Boston             H.      3
  Walter Chrystie, Jr.  June'16             Bryn Mawr, Pa.     P.S.    9
  Coleman T. Clark      April'16            Westfield, N.J.    Y.      3
  John W. Clark         Nov.'15             Flushing, L.I.     Y.      3
  Philip R. Clark       Feb.'16   Mar.'16   Shelter Island, N.Y.       3
  Charles R. Codman,
    Jr.               { Mar.'15   July'15   Boston             H.      3
                      { Feb.'16   Aug.'16
  Charles H. Cogswell   Mar.'16.  Sept.'16  Cedar Rapids, Ia.  I.      4
  George R. Cogswell    June'16             Cambridge, Mass.   H.      9
  Samuel H. Colton, Jr. April'15  July'15   Worcester, Mass.   Bow.    1
  R. Folger W. Conquest June'16             Philadelphia       U.P.    9
  Sidney A. Cook        Sept.'16            New Haven, Conn.   Y-C.G.S.2
  William D. Crane      Mar.'16   Sept.'16  New York           H.      4
  Charles T. Crocker    April'16  June'16   Fitchburg, Mass.           8
  Charles R. Cross, Jr. Feb.'15   Mar.'15   Brookline, Mass.   H.      1
  Tingle W. Culbertson  Mar.'16             Sewickley, Pa.     P.      1
  Lawrence B. Cummings  Aug.'16             Indianapolis, Ind  H.    3,4
  John E. Cunningham    April'15  Aug.'16   Boston             M.I.T.  1
  _Richard J. Cunninghame_
    _Section Sous-chef_ April'15  Nov.'15   Edinburgh                [1]
  Edmund J. Curley    { Mar.'15   Aug.'15   New York           H.      3
                      { Oct.'15   Jan.'16
  Enos Curtin           Feb.'15   June'15   New York           M.I.T.
  Brian C. Curtis       June'16             New York           H.      9
  Nicholson F. Curtiss  Dec.'15   Aug.'16   Cleveland          W.R.    4
  Edwin G. Cushing      Mar.'15   Feb.'16   New York                4[1]

  William B. Dana       June'16   Aug.'16   New Haven, Conn.   Y.    [2]
  Colgate W. Darden,
    Jr.                 Aug.'16             Franklin, Va.      U.V.    1
  Wm. S. Davenport, Jr. July'16             Paris                      9
  Charles C. Davis      Feb.'16             Boston             H.      4
  Mahlon W. Davis       Jan.'15   Aug.'15   Brookline, Mass.           2
  Alden Davison         Feb.'16   Sept.'16  New York           Y.      8
  Henry P. Davison, Jr. June'16   Aug.'16   New York           G.    [2]
  Benjamin F. Dawson    June'15   July'16   Philadelphia       U.P.    3
  Harwood B. Day        Sept.'15  Dec.'15   Providence, R.I.           1
  Samuel G. Dayton      Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Philadelphia       P.-U.P. 4
  William S. Dell       July'16             Princeton, N.J.    P.      4
  _Harry De Maine_
    _Assistant to
      Inspector_        Sept.'14            Roby, England            [3]
  Edward H. De Neveu    July'16             Asnières, France   Pa.     3
  Clifford A. De Roode  July'15   April'16  New York                1[1]
  Edward J. M. Diemer   Mar.'16             New York                   2
  George Dock, Jr.      May'16              St. Louis          D.      2
  Arthur G. Dodge       April'16            Weatogue, Conn.    Y.      8
  David B. Douglass     Jan.'15   April'16  West Newton, Mass.         3
  Jerome I. H. Downes   Sept.'15  Feb.'16   Brookline, Mass.   H.      1
  Luke C. Doyle         Sept.'15  Feb.'16   Worcester, Mass.   Y.      3
  Vivian Du Bouchet     Sept.'14  Feb.'16   Paris                      2
  Rex W. Dunlap         Nov.'15   Feb.'16   Kansas City, Mo.   Y.      4

  Brooke Leonard
    Edwards             Feb.'16             Philadelphia               1
  Wm. K. B. Emerson     July'15   Nov.'16   New York           H.      3
  George K. End         Dec.'15   July'16   New York           Sw.-Co. 1
  Edwin H. English      June'16             New Haven, Conn.   Y.      9
  Josiah W. Eno         July'15   Mar.'16   New York                   1
  John N. d'Este        Sept.'16            Boston             H.
  John E. Ewell         Feb.'16             Washington, D.C.   J.H   [2]

  Charles S. Faulkner   April'16  Oct.'16   Keene, N.H.                8
  Samuel P. Fay         May'15    Sept.'15  Boston             H.      1
  William P. Fay        Sept.'15  Mar.'16   New York           H.      2
  Powel Fenton        { Feb.'15   May'16    Philadelphia       U.P.    3
                      { Aug.'16
  Danforth B. Ferguson  Sept.'14  Aug.'15   Brooklyn, N.Y.             2
  Fearchear Ferguson    Dec.'14   Aug.'15   New York                   1
  Pierre Fischoff       April'15  Mar.'16   Paris                   2[1]
  John R. Fisher        May'16              Arlington, Vt.     Co.     2
  Charles H. Fiske, 3rd Aug.'16             Boston             H.      3
  C. Stewart Forbes     Feb.'16   Sept.'16  Boston             H.      4
  Frederick M. Forbush  April'16            Detroit                    8
  Eric A. Fowler        Aug.'16             New York           P.      4
  Giles B. Francklyn    June'15             Lausanne                 1,3
  V. Frank              April'15            Paris                    [2]
    _Section Commander_ Mar.'15             San Francisco      Y.    [3]
  _George F. Freeborn_
    _Equipment Officer_ July'15   May'16    San Francisco            [3]

  Frank H. Gailor       Dec.'15   April'16  Memphis, Tenn.     Sew.-Co.2
    _Assistant General
      Inspector_        Sept.'15            New York           H.      3
  Rufus W. Gaynor       Sept.'16            St. James, L.I.    Am.     1
  Harold H. Giles       July'15   Sept.'15  Colorado Springs   P.      1
  John L. Glenn         Dec.'15   Jan.'16   Chester, S.C.      U.S.C.[3]
  _J. Halcott Glover_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Nov.'14   Dec.'15   London                     2
  Robert R. Gooch       Aug.'16             Charlottesville,   U.V.    4
  John R. Graham        Nov.'15   May'16    Philadelphia       U.P.    2
  John McC. Granger     July'15   Nov.'15   New York           F.      1
  Roger Griswold        Jan.'16   Sept.'16  Cambridge, Mass.   H.      2
    _Chief physician_   Aug.'14             Paris              C.C.   3]

  H. Dudley Hale        Mar.'15   April'16  New York           H.      3
  _Louis P. Hall, Jr._
    _Supply Officer_  { Sept.'15  Dec.'15   Ann Arbor, Mich.   D.      3
                      { April'16                                     [2]
  Richard N. Hall       June'15   Dec.'15   Ann Arbor, Mich.   D.      3
    (Killed in service)
  Paul S. Haney         Jan.'15   July'15   Quakertown, Pa.    P.      1
  Sigurd Hansen         Nov.'14             Paris                    1,4
  Henry K. Hardon       June'15   Sept.'15  New York           H.      3
  James W. Harle        Feb.'15   Oct.'15   New York                 2,1
  Raymond Harper        June'16             New York           P.      2
  William C. Harrington Oct.'16             Worcester, Mass.   H.      4
  H. Sydnor Harrison    Mar.'15   July'15   Charleston, W. Va. Co.     1
  J. Letcher Harrison   June'16             Charlottesville,   U.V.    9
  Willis B. Haviland    Sept.'15  Jan.'16   Indianapolis       A.      2
  Bartlett E. Hayden    Feb.'15   Oct.'15   Watertown, Mass.           1
  John R. Heilbuth      May'16              Paris                      2
  Walter H. Hellier     June'15   Oct.'15   Boston             Y.      2
  Alex. R. Henderson    June'15   Sept.'15  New York           H.      3
    _Section Commander_ Nov.'14             New York           H.      3
  Lawrence W. Hitt      Jan.'15   Aug.'16   New York           Cor.    3
  William A. Hoeveler   Feb.'16   Sept.'16  Pittsburgh         Pitts.  2
  George M. Hollister   Feb.'16             Grand Rapids, Mich.H.      3
  Carlyle H. Holt       Feb.'15   Aug.'15   Hingham, Mass.     H.      2
  Thomas G. Holt        Feb.'16   Sept.'16  Grand Rapids, Mich Y.      2
  Sidney Howard         June'16             Oakland, Cal.      U.C.    9
  John F. W. Huffer     Dec.'14   Sept.'15  Paris                      2
    _Section Director_  Feb.'15   Mar.'16   St. Louis          W.U. 4[1]

  _Oscar A. Iasigi_
      Sous-chef_      { Jan.'15   July'15   Boston             M.I.T 1,8
                      { April'16
  Jerry T. Illich       Dec.'15   May'16    San Diego, Cal.    U.C.    3
  Robert W. Imbrie      Dec.'15             Washington               1,3
  Henry G. Iselin       Feb.'16             Genêts (Manche)
                                                     France            2
  John P. Iselin        Sept.'16            Genêts (Manche)
                                                     France            2

  Everett Jackson       Dec.'15             Colorado Springs   Col.C.3,8
  Leslie P. Jacobs      Mar.'16   Sept.'16  Laramie, Wyo.      H.      8
  Allan R. Jennings     July'15   Jan.'16   Philadelphia       H.      3
  Walter Jepson         July'16             Sparks, Nevada     U.N.    9
  Henry D. Jewett       Aug.'16             West Newton, Mass. M.A.    4
  Archibald B. Johnston April'16  July'16   Pittsburgh         Cor.    3
  Terence R. Johnston   Feb.'16             Chicago            M.I.T.2,9
  Henry S. Jones        May'16              Brooklyn, N.Y.     L.C.    1
  Frederick S. Judson   June'15   Nov.'15   New York                   3

  Edward J. Kelley      Aug.'16   Sept.'16  Philadelphia, Pa.          4
    (Killed in service)
  Dr. Owen Kenan        May'16              Kenansville, N.C.  U.N.C.  2
  Peter L. Kent         Dec.'14             New York           Co.[1][3]
  Hugo A. Kenyon        Sept.'15  Dec.'15   Peacedale, R.I.    B.      1
  Grenville T. Keogh    April'16  Oct.'16   New Rochelle, N.Y.         8
  James M. Killeen      Oct.'16             Concord, N.H.      D.      8
  Arthur Kingsland      June'15   Oct.'15   New York                   3
  _Harold L. Kingsland_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Dec.'14   Oct.'15   New York           Cam.    1
  Paul B. Kurtz       { Aug.'15   Nov.'15   Germantown, Pa.    H.      1
                      { July'16

  Julian L. Lathrop     Feb.'16   Aug.'16   New Hope, Pa.      H.      1
  Empie Latimer         Nov.'15   July'16   Wilmington, N.C.   P.      1
    _Section Commander_ Nov.'14   July'15   Groton, Mass.      H.      3
  George Lebon          Oct.'16             Great Neck, L.I.
  Robert R. Lester      June'16             Kansas City, Mo.   P.      9
  David W. Lewis        June'15   Nov.'15   Brooklyn, N.Y.     H.      3
  Philip C. Lewis       Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Indianapolis, Ind. H.      1
  Clark E. Lindsay      Aug.'16             Charlottesville,
                                                         Va.   H.-S.   1
  Howard B. Lines     { Sept.'15  Dec.'15   Cambridge, Mass.   D.    1,8
                      { Sept.'16
  Robert Littell        July'16   Sept.'16  New York           G.    [2]
  John D. Little        May'16              Malden, Mass.      D.      1
  _Preston Lockwood_
    _Assistant to
      Inspector_      { May'15    Oct.'15   St. Louis          W.U. 3[3]
                      { Dec.'15   Feb.'16
    _Section Director_  Feb.'15   June'16   Newtonville, Mass. H.      2
  Arthur E. Lumsden     June'16            Chicago                     8
  George H. Lyman       June'16            Boston              H.      9

  George A. McCall      Nov.'15   Aug.'16   Philadelphia       U.P.    4
  George B. McClary     June'15   Oct.'15   Oak Park, Ill.     D.      3
  James R. McConnell    Feb.'15   Dec.'15   Carthage, N.C.     U.V.    2
  Harold F. McCormick,
    Jr.                 July'16   Oct.'16   Chicago            G.    [2]
    _Treasurer_         Oct.'14             Philadelphia       U.P.  [3]
  Donald H. McGibeny    July'15   Nov.'15   Indianapolis       Ham.    1
  _Dallas D. L. McGrew_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Jan.'15             Boston             H.      3
  Donald S. MacLaughlan Oct.'16             New York                   2
    _Section Director_  Aug.'14   Oct.'15   New York           Co.  1[1]
  Logan McMenemy        July'15   Dec.'15   Rockford, Ill.     Y.      2
  Douglas MacMonagle    Dec.'15   Sept.'16  San Francisco      U.C.  3,8
  Francis W. MacVeagh   July'16   Sept.'16  New York           G.    [2]
  Jacques Magnin        July'16             Paris                      3
  Francis P. Magoun,
    Jr.                 Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Cambridge, Mass.   H.      1
  Harold A. Manderson   July'16             Portland, Maine    Bow.    9
  Kenneth Marr          Dec.'15   July'16   Livermore, Cal.            2
  Verne Marshall        Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Cedar Rapids, Ia.  Coe.    4
  William T. Martin     Nov.'14   Nov.'15   Burlington, N.J.   Pitts.  2
    _Section Commander_ Mar.'16             Boston             H.-T. 4,8
  Robert Matter         Sept.'15  Dec.'15   Marion, Ind.       P.      3
  Frank Mauran          July'16   Aug.'16   Philadelphia       Y.    [2]
  John Melcher          April'15  Aug.'15   New York           H.      3
  Joseph M. Mellen      June'15   Jan.'16   Garden City, N.Y.  H.      3
  Appleton T. Miles     Oct.'16             Brattleboro, Vt.   D.      8
  Donald W. Monteith    Feb.'16   June'16   New York                   2
  Rodman B. Montgomery{ June'15   Sept.'15  Rhinebeck, N.Y.    P.  2,4,3
                      { June'16
  H. Kirby Moore        Aug.'15   Nov.'15   Philadelphia               3
  John C. B. Moore      June'16             Cambridge, Mass.   H.      9
  Lawrence S. Morris    July'16             Albany, N.Y.       H.      4
  Philip R. Morse       Aug.'15   Oct.'15   Chestnut Hill,
                                                      Mass.    H.      3
    _Chief of Repair
      Park_             Jan.'15             New York           H.   2[2]
    _Comptroller_       Jan.'15             Paris                    [3]
  Stephen I. Munger     Sept.'16            Dallas, Texas      V.      8
  John K. Munroe        May'16              Tuxedo Park, N.Y.  H.      3

  Albert Nalle          June'15   Sept.'15  Bryn Mawr, Pa.     P.      3
  Basil K. Neftel       Oct.'16             Larchmont, N.J.            8
  David T. Nelson       Dec.'15   April'16  Mayville, N.D.     U.N.D.  1
  Charles W. Nevin, 2nd Sept.'16            Philadelphia       P.      9
  Ogden Nevin           April'15  July'15   Burlington, N.J.   Y.      1
  Winthrop P. Newman    May'16              Orange, N.J.               2
  Emory H. Niles        June'16             Baltimore          J.H.    9

  John Oakman           Nov.'14   Feb.'15   New York           Wms.    1
  Leonard Ober          June'15   Oct.'15   Baltimore          P.      3
  _Francis D. Ogilvie_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Nov.'14             Lindfield,  Sussex         2
  James A. O'Neill      Feb.'16   July'16   Jersey City, N.J.  Co.     2
  Earl D. Osborn        July'15   Oct.'15   New York           P.      3
  Frederick R.
    Ostheimer           Aug.'16             Paris                      4

  Henry B. Palmer       June'16             New York           H.      3
  Joseph A. Parrott     Sept.'16            San Mateo, Cal.    Cam.    4
  W. Barclay Parsons,
    Jr.                 July'16   Sept.'16  New York           H.    [2]
  John G. Paul          Aug.'16             Watertown, Fla.    P.      4
  Samuel H. Paul        Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Chestnut Hill, Pa.         1
  Waldo Peirce          June'15   July'16   Bangor, Maine      H.      3
  J. R. Osgood Perkins  Nov.'16   April'16  West Newton, Mass. H       3
    _Section Commander_ Feb.'16             Elmhurst, L.I.     P.      4
  George W. Phillips    Dec.'15   April'16  S. Sudbury, Mass.  M.I.T.  3
  Carleton M. Pike      Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Lubec, Maine       Bow.    4
  Gerhard W. Pohlman    Mar.'16             New York                 3,8
  Carleton A. Potter    June'16             Oneida, N.Y.       D.      2
  Thomas W. Potter      Dec.'16             Westchester, N.Y.          3
  W. Clarkson Potter    June'16             Riverdale-on-Hudson,
                                                     N.Y.      P.      1
  Emory Pottle          Sept.'15  June'16   Lago di Como,
                                                       Italy   Am.     2
  Howard H. Powel       Feb.'16             Newport, R.I.      H.      2
  Wm. Prickett          Mar.'16   Sept.'16  Wilmington, Del.   P.      4
  Tracy J. Putnam       April'15  Jan.'16   Boston             H.    1,3
  Meredith H. Pyne      June'16   Sept.'16  Bernardsville, N.J.G.    [2]

  Kenneth M. Quinby     June'15   Sept.'15  Pittsburgh                 3

  Walter K. Rainsford   Jan.'16   Aug.'16   Litchfield, Conn.  H.      3
  Beverley Rantoul      Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Salem, Mass.               4
  John V. Ray           Dec.'15   May'16    Charleston, W. Va. U.V.    3
  Bertwall C. Read      April'16            Bloomfield, N.J.   P.      8
  Charles Reed          Nov.'14   Feb.'15   Great Barrington,
                                                      Mass.            1
  George F. Reese       June'15   Oct.'15   Ravenna, Ohio            3,1
  P. Newbold
    Rhinelander         July'16             Lawrence, L.I.     H.      9
  _Durant Rice_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Jan.'15   Feb.'16   New York           H.      3
  William G. Rice       July'16            Albany, N.Y.        H.      1
  Allan S. Richardson   May'15,   Aug.'15   New Brunswick, N.J.        1
  Gardner Richardson    Dec.'14   April'15  New York  Y.               1
  William E. Richardson Aug.'15   Oct.'15   New York                   1
  Carroll G. Riggs      June'15             McCormick, Wash.   Y.      2
  Malcolm T. Robertson  April'15  July'15   Brooklyn, N.Y.     P.      1
  Robert T. Roche       Mar.'16             East Orange, N.J.  P.      1
  _George J. Rockwell_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'15   Aug.'16   Bradbury, Conn.          1,4
  _George H. Roeder_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Jan.'15   Mar.'16   New Brunswick,
                                                       N.J.    H.      2
  Randolph Rogers       April'16  Sept.'16  Grand Rapids, Mich         8
  Wm. B. Rogers, Jr.    June'16   Sept.'16  Dedham, Mass.      G.    [2]
  Lawrence Rumsey       Dec.'14   Aug.'15   Buffalo, N.Y.      H.      1
  William P. Russell    Aug.'16             Curwansville, Pa.  Y.      4
  Dolph F. Ryan         June'15   Jan.'16   New York           F.      1

    _Section Commander_ Sept.'14  Sept.'16  Chicago            H. 2,1[2]
  Roswell S. Sanders    Jan.'16             Newburyport, Mass.         4
  Daniel Sargent        Mar.'16             Wellesley, Mass.   H.      3
  James K. Saunders     Sept.'16            New York           U.Mo.   8
  J. Sears R. Sayer,
    Jr.                 Feb.'15   July'15   New York                   1
  Bernard N. P.
    Schroder            Nov.'14   Mar.'15   Neuilly-sur-Seine  N.U.    2
  Edgar Scott, Jr.      June'16   Aug.'16   Bar Harbor, Maine  G.    [2]
  William B. Seabrook   April'16  Sept.'16  Atlanta, Ga.       New.C.  8
  Edward M. Seccombe    Feb.'16   Oct.'16   Derby, Conn.               2
  Henry Seton           June'16             Tuxedo Park, N.Y.  H.    3,8
  Loyal F. Sewall       Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Bath, Maine        Bow.    4
  Edward W. Shattuck    Nov.'14   May'15    Bristol, N.H.              3
  M. C. Shattuck        May'16              Bristol, N.H.      Am.     8
  Henry Sheahan         Aug.'15   Feb.'16   Topsfield, Mass.   H.   2[3]
  Clarence B. Shoninger June'16             New York           Y.      8
  Hiram Sibley          May'15    Sept.'15  South Bend, Ind.           1
  J. Hopkins Smith, Jr. Jan.'16   May'16    New York           H.      3
  Philip D. H. Smith    June'15   Sept.'15  Brooklyn, N.Y.     D.      2
  Thomas J. Smith       Nov.'14   July'15   Chicago                  1,2
  Francis N.
    Solis-Cohen         Julyl'16            Philadelphia       U.      9
  Edward C. Sortwell    April'16            Wiscasset, Maine   H     8,3
  George F. Spaulding   Dec.'15   Mar.'16   Harper, California U.A.    1
  James M. Sponagle     Nov.'15             Gloucester, Mass.          1
  Ernest N. Stanton     Nov.'15   July'16   Grosse Isle, Mich. U.M.    4
  _Roland W. Stebbins_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'15   June'15   Williamstown,
                                                      Mass.    H.      1
  William Y. Stevenson  Mar.'16             Philadelphia       U.P.    1
  George B. Struby      April'16            Denver, Colo.      Y.      2
  Kimberly Stuart       Aug.'16             Neenah, Wisc.      M.I.T.  4
  _Henry M. Suckley_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'15             Rhinebeck, N.Y.    H.      3
  Edward H. Sudbury     Oct.'15   Jan.'16   New York           Am.     2
  Robert W. Sykes       Sept.'15  Mar.'16   Brooklyn, N.Y.          4[1]

  Arthur R. Taber       Nov.'15   Feb.'16   New York           P.      4
  George F. Talbot      June'16             Falmouth, Maine    H.      9
  Melvin F. Talbot      June'15   Sept.'15  Falmouth, Maine    H.      3
  John C. Taylor        July'15   Jan.'16   New York           F.      2
  Joseph M. Taylor      July'15   April'16  New York           F.      1
  Lionel V. Teft        June'15   Nov.'15   Peoria, Ill.       D.      3
  Aubrey L. Thomas      April'16  Oct.'16   Washington, D.C.   P.      8
  Moyer D. Thomas       Aug.'16             Salt Lake City     U.U.    4
  Edward I. Tinkham     Feb.'16             Upper Montclair,
                                                     N.J.      Cor.  3,4
  Paul Tison            Feb.'16             New York           H.    3,1
  _Robert C. Toms_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'16   Sept.'16  Marion, Iowa       A.   4[2]
  Vernon R. Tower       Sept.'16            Hanover, Mass.
  Edward D. Townsend  { Mar.'15   April'16  New York           P.      1
                      { June'16
    _Section Commander_ Mar.'15             New York           P.      1
  Roger T. Twitchell    Oct.'16             Dorchester, Mass.  H.      4

  John G. Underhill     Feb.'16   May'16    Owego, N.Y.        Wms.    1

  William E. Van Dorn   Nov.'15   Mar.'16   Chicago            Wab.    2
  George Van Santvoord  Mar.'16   Sept.'16  Troy, N.Y.         Y.      8

  Donald M. Walden      Jan.'15   Dec.'15   Brooklyn, N.Y.             2
    _Section Director_  Sept.'15            New York           H.    3,2
  Samuel S. Walker      June'16             Garrison-on-Hudson,
                                                       N.Y.    Y.      1
  William H. C. Walker{ Dec.'15   May'16    Hingham, Mass.             2
                      { Sept.'16
  Wm. Henry Wallace,
    Jr.                 July'16             New York           Co.     4
  Wm. Noble Wallace     June'16             Indianapolis       Y.      1
  _Richard C. Ware_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'16             East Milton, Mass. H.      4
  Chas. L. Watkins      July'16             New York           Y.    3,8
  Paul B. Watson, Jr.   Mar.'15   June'15   Milton, Mass.      H.      3
      Commander_      { Jan.'15   Oct.'15   Chicago            Y.   2[3]
                      { Oct.'16
  Berkeley Wheeler      Oct.'16             Concord, Mass.
  Walter H. Wheeler     Feb.'16   Aug.'16   Yonkers, N.Y.      H.      3
  Kenneth T. White      Nov.'15   Aug.'16   Grosse Isle, Mich. U.M.    4
  _Victor G. White_
    _Section Sous-chef_ Feb.'15   Oct.'16   New York           Cor.    1
  Harold B. Willis      Mar.'15   June'16   Boston             H.      2
  Randolph C. Wilson    May'16              New York           Co.     1
  Cornelius Winant      June'16             New York           P.      3
  Frederick J. Winant   July'15   Sept.'15  New York           P.      2
  Charles P. Winsor     Aug.'15   Aug.'16   Concord, Mass.     H.      1
  Oliver Wolcott        Feb.'16   June'16   Milton, Mass.      H.      2
  Robert W. Wood, Jr.   July'16             Baltimore, Md.     H.      9
  Benjamin R. Woodworth May'15    July'16   Germantown, Pa.            1
  William H. Woolverton Sept.'15  April'16  New York           Y.      1

[1] Tent Hospital

[2] Park

[3] Base


  |  Transcriber's note:                                               |
  |                                                                    |
  |  Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note where |
  |  the author's original intent was clear.                           |
  |                                                                    |
  |  Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant  |
  |  form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.     |
  |                                                                    |
  |  Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.             |
  |                                                                    |
  |  Mid-paragraph illustrations have been moved between paragraphs    |
  |  and some illustrations have been moved closer to the text that    |
  |  references them. The List of Illustrations paginations were       |
  |  changed accordingly.                                              |
  |                                                                    |
  |  The illustrations captioned "Some of the Men of the American      |
  |  Ambulance Field Service at their Headquarters, 21 Rue Raynouard,  |
  |  Paris" and "Croix de Guerre" are both listed as being on page     |
  |  278.  This was not corrected.                                     |
  |                                                                    |
  |  The entry in the Contents page "letter from Section Leaders xix"  |
  |  is not matched by an entry in the text.                           |
  |                                                                    |
  |  The abbreviation "Coe" on page 342 does not appear in the list of |
  |  abbreviations on page 336.                                        |
  |                                                                    |
  |  Other corrections:                                                |
  |  p.   3: Crombec changed to Crombeke.                              |
  |  p. 111: Battle of Champarng changed to Battle of Champagne.       |
  |  p. 186: Waldo Pierce changed to Waldo Peirce.                     |
  |  p. 200: Oeleville changed to Oëlleville.                          |
  |  p. 269: Entrèrement changed to entièrement.                       |
  |  p. 340: Laurence Hitt changed to Lawrence Hitt.                   |
  |  p. 344: Owega, N.Y. changed to Owego, N.Y.                        |

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