A BLOCK ON THE ROAD
Ambulance Number Eight came to an abrupt halt. Although almost stunned—almost overwhelmed by the shock—Don Hale had managed to prevent it from crashing into a camion close ahead. He knew what had happened—a shell had landed on an ammunition wagon and fairly blown it to atoms. The lightning showed a huge, towering column of smoke spreading across the road; it also revealed horses lying prostrate in the mud, struggling desperately to rise, and other horses, wild and panic-stricken, kicking, plunging and endeavoring to break away from their restraining traces.
It took some moments before Don Hale could recover the use of his faculties sufficiently to stir from his inaction. His head was aching; his pulse throbbed and jumped; he felt as if he had been almost deafened by the explosion. A frightened horse which had managed to tear itself loose from the wreckage came running madly—furiously along, dragging a part of the traces and barely missing the ambulance as it clattered by.
"Come on, Chase!" yelled Don, springing to the ground.
The road was blocked, and drivers of all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity were hurrying as fast as they could through the mud and water toward the wreck ahead.
Without waiting to see whether Chase intended to join him or not, the boy started off. But he had only gone a dozen yards or so when another tremendous concussion caused him to stagger toward the nearest wagon. And in the grip of a fear he had never known before—a fear that robbed him of his strength—he leaned heavily against it. Half stunned and gasping, Don felt as though the end of all earthly things had come.
And now additional shells began bursting close to the road. Don had a vague, confused impression of seeing men dashing this way and that, but he himself, his faculties for the moment almost paralyzed, was held fast to the spot. And while he stood there in that helpless condition, his form shaking violently, the whole air seemed filled with pandemonium—a hideous whirring, screeching, screaming series of sounds, mingling in with terrific, thunderous blasts that sent violent tremors through the earth and made the huge camions rock and lurch as though they were about to topple into the roadway. Flashing jets of flame from the exploding shells cast a weird, unnatural light over the surroundings, and as if some mighty convulsion of nature was upheaving them, giant geysers of earth, mud and débris shot high in the air, while streams of iron and steel created havoc and destruction on every hand.
The terrified Don Hale heard the thud of bullets and fragments of shells all about him. He seemed to be no longer living in the world but in the midst of some awful inferno from which there was no possibility of escape. But though it was unbelievably, fearfully appalling, he managed to keep his wits about him. Faint, weak, every instant expecting utter annihilation, the boy made an effort to walk forward and just then there came a bright, wicked-looking flash, accompanied by a detonation that seemed fairly to crack his ear-drums. The concussion was great enough to hurl him backward; and while his senses were still reeling from the shock, a veritable stream of earth, thrown up as if from the crater of a volcano in eruption, descended upon him and in a moment he was almost buried beneath a mass of mud.
For a time he remained in a state that was neither consciousness nor yet a lack of consciousness—a state wherein the terror of the situation seemed to be softened to such a degree as to make it easy to bear. When the dull, dazed sensations did finally depart, however, leaving him with a clear understanding of the realities, he gave a gasp of wonderment—of almost stupefaction.
A strange calmness had come into the world—of course only a relative calmness, for the batteries had not ceased to fire; yet the contrast between the present and the immediate past was so remarkable as to make it appear as though such a thing could not be. Was it possible that the bombardment was over? Was it possible that he had gone through such peril and remained unscathed?
With a cry expressive of gladness—of the thankfulness he felt, Don Hale endeavored to regain his feet. But a heavy weight was pinning him down to the earth. He kicked and struggled to free himself from the soft, though tenacious grip of the mud. Now, after a valiant effort, he sat up and jerked one leg out of the mire. It was hard work in his weakened condition. The mud was in his eyes—in his hair. The boy happened to recall the officer's description of life in the trenches during rainy weather, and for the first time since leaving headquarters Don smiled, though the smile was grim and set. At any rate, it served to still further relieve his pent-up, overwrought feelings.
Again he exerted all the strength he possessed and presently the other leg slipped out of the mud. And as he struggled up, unstable on his feet, a great throbbing was in his temple. Like a man on the point of swooning, he clutched the nearest object for support.
Then Don suddenly thought of Chase. A terrible fear that his companion had not been so fortunate as himself took possession of him.
A thick pall of smoke hung over the road; and when the lightning came again he caught a faint, shadowy image, a mere silhouette, of Number Eight standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, but he could see no signs of Chase Manning, indeed, no human beings were in view. The road was deserted—he was alone.
What was to be done? Should he, too, seek some abri by the roadside?
"No—no!" he muttered—"no!"
Though almost choking with the smoke and fumes, he nevertheless raised his voice in a loud cry of:
"Chase—Chase!"
No answer.
Again and again he shouted, and then, as still no response came to his keenly-attuned ears, the boy was filled with dreadful forebodings, and in his anxiety he seemed to momentarily forget all else.
Shells were coming that way again. At any instant the road might be swept by another deadly stream. But Don Hale, whose mental faculties and strength began to return, paying not the slightest heed, started toward the ambulance, often splashing through great pools and puddles. The thunder still rolled and boomed overhead. There were longer intervals, however, between the flashes of lightning and it was not until he arrived quite abreast of the car that the landscape once more sprang into view.
Chase Manning was not in the driver's seat nor was he anywhere to be seen.
"Hello, Chase! Hello!" yelled Don.
Many times he repeated the cry, and if Chase had been uninjured and anywhere near he must have heard the strained, anxious voice of his comrade.
Had a tragedy occurred?
As Don Hale stood there in the middle of the road, with the wind and rain still sweeping against him, he shivered at the thought and at the recollection of the awful moments through which he had passed. It seemed to him a most marvelous thing that any one in that vicinity could have escaped alive.
Putting all the force of his lungs in a final effort, he shouted:
"Chase!—Chase!"
And then, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he made a despairing gesture and hurried away—not in search of an abri, however, but toward the scene of destruction ahead. He felt shocked, depressed and disheartened.
But, all at once, he recalled the words of Doctor Savoye—"Tres pressé." His paramount duty was to take the car to the outpost, if such a thing was possible. He must get there. He would get there. And with this thought, which for the time being drove all doubts, perplexities and worries from his mind, he broke into a run.
Then, very soon, he began hearing voices and footsteps—the drivers of the convoys were returning.
Presently the aviator's son almost stumbled over the prostrate form of a horse. Its body quivered; its iron-shod hoofs flew in all directions. Recovering his balance, the boy, with a startled gasp, leaped aside and continued on, in another moment finding himself close upon a scene of extraordinary confusion. A flash of lightning revealed wagons wrecked and débris strewn along the road. A number of horses were lying about, those which still remained alive, as a result of their furious struggles, having become completely entangled in the harness. Several on their feet immediately started to rear and plunge anew as the men arrived among them.
"Great Julius Cæsar! This is another dangerous game," murmured the aviator's son.
The wild and fear-stricken animals had to be set free, and unless extraordinary care and precautions were used they might stampede along that narrow passageway and perhaps cause either serious injury or death.
The adventurous Don Hale had no intention of standing idly by. He watched his chance, and, taking advantage of a succession of brilliant flashes of lightning, groped his way cautiously past several of the prostrate horses—a very dangerous proceeding. Hoofs were continually on the move and every now and again one or another of the animals managed to struggle to its knees, remain in that awkward position for an instant or two, and then fall back with a dull and heavy thud.
It was a strange, awe-inspiring situation for a boy to be placed in—close to the battle-front, with the storm-clouds overhead, in the midst of wreckage and frantic horses, and facing the possibility of a tragic end. Yet, though all these things were vaguely impressed on Don Hale's mind, his thoughts were not upon them. The words "Tres pressé—tres pressé" continually sounded in his ears.
He advanced boldly, right into the midst of the prancing, pawing animals. Hoofs were thudding down hard all about him; streams of liquid mud often splashed against his figure. The movements of the ponderous bodies made Don forcibly realize that one false step, one moment's lack of thought, might cause the most disastrous results. Again the lightning proved a friendly aid. A horse stood directly in front of him. Its mate lay stretched in the mud. Originally the team had been one of eight horses, but how many were still on their feet Don could not tell. He did know, however, that the drivers, in the darkness, in the slippery road, were having a mighty hard time to control the fractious beasts.
A man brushed roughly past him and seized the bridle of the fallen horse.
"Quick!—if you've got a knife, comrade, cut the traces!" he yelled. "Fast now! We've got to get them out of this. And watch yourself, or it's good-night!"
"I know it," muttered Don.
He took out his knife. A sharp, quick slash, and one of the leather traces was cut in two. Then the keen-bladed instrument ripped its way through another. And from that moment the aviator's son was constantly in the midst of the greatest excitement and danger.
Now he was cutting the traces; now helping to urge the horses to one side; now tugging hard at a bridle, jerked this way and that, or lifted bodily off his feet, perhaps to get a fleeting glimpse by means of a bluish glare of lightning of a great head with foaming mouth, distended nostrils and glaring eyes rearing high above him and to feel the hot breath of the animal upon his cheek. More than once he was violently bumped and almost sent to his knees.
The constant shuffling of feet, the pounding of hoofs, the loud rough voices of men raised in harsh yells and commands and the accompaniment of rolling, booming thunder and bursting shells seemed in Don Hale's mind to form a part of some strange, wild fantasy rather than of actual reality.
At last, however, the war in the roadway was at an end; one by one the horses capitulated to superior intelligence and skill and were led aside. Only those which lay helpless where they had fallen remained to be attended to.
The aviator's son, quite exhausted, his head still throbbing violently, felt compelled to rest. Every joint and muscle in his body seemed to be aching. A dull pain caused by the repeated concussions was in his ears. And then:
"Tres pressé! Tres pressé!"
The words, shaping themselves in his mind again, fell from his lips.
Their appeal could not be disregarded. With an energy born of an earnest desire to fulfil his duties to the uttermost, he resolutely cast aside every thought of physical discomfort or of fatigue and once more lent his efforts to the work of clearing the road.
Never had he toiled harder than he did during the next three-quarters of an hour, and by that time the last uninjured horse was up and the wreckage and débris sufficiently cleared away to permit the passage of Ambulance Number Eight.
It was a joyful moment to the weary Don Hale when he climbed aboard the car, yet, withal, a very sad one. Where was Chase? How lonely—how depressing it seemed without him!
"Hello, Chase—hello!" he called.
He heaved a great sigh, as no answering hail was received, and, murmuring, "Well, such is war!" put the vehicle into motion. There was no help for it—he must continue on to the outpost alone.