THE RED CROSS
In view of the immensity of the conflict and the number of guns employed, it is not surprising that the surgeons at the outpost and this particular Red Cross section had all the work they could possibly attend to. Even as Don and Chase arrived the brancardiers were bringing in the wounded from the firing-line on both stretchers and little two-wheeled carts; so that all that Chase could learn about his companion's movements was that he had passed through some very thrilling times, and after reaching the outpost in safety had remained there until the firing lessened sufficiently for the Red Cross men to begin taking wounded to the hospital. He had already made several trips.
"Well, well!—of all things!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, addressing Chase. "I cannot myself believe it possible that you have come."
Swiftly and silently, four stretchers on which unfortunate poilus had been laid after being picked up on the battle-front were slipped into the ambulance. Don Hale and Chase Manning sprang to their seats, and the car was on the way again.
Down the hill it went at as fast a pace as Don could take it. It was always the old question of saving minutes and perhaps thereby saving lives. Very soon a string of three cars passed them returning to the post.
With never a stop, the ambulance kept plunging over the hills and across the valleys, and once on the broad military road, with a clear track ahead, Don increased its speed until objects by the wayside seemed to be fairly hurling themselves toward the car and flying past with bewildering rapidity.
Now they were on the Chemin de Mort, and a few minutes later had gone far beyond. A Red Cross car again flashed past; then, after a short interval, another. The outlying houses of the village shot into view; the ancient porte, in full sunlight, loomed up against the sky, and the ambulance, without slackening speed, presently rolled under its shadowed arch. The blurred outlines of the Hotel de la Palette soon sprang into the range of vision. The car fairly leaped across the intervening space, Don and Chase had an instantaneous view of the old hostelry at close range, and then it too was sent spinning to the rear. Almost like a flash, the rest of the village passed in review and the Red Cross car was bowling along in the midst of an open country, past encampments of soldiers and through little one-street hamlets crowded with all the evidences of warfare, the toot, toot of its horn, the roar and rumble of its wheels never failing to result in its being given the right of way.
At length, after speeding for about six kilometers, Number Eight swept around a curve and rolled down a rather steep slope at the base of which they could see a cluster of red-roofed houses between the trees. A typical little French village it was—full of charm—full of poetry; and enveloped in the soft haze of the morning it suggested a place of quietude and charm.
At the bottom of the hill there came an abrupt turn in the road. The car rumbled across a little one-arch stone bridge, and almost immediately they were in the midst of the low, stuccoed dwellings. The tall poplars here and there sent a network of delicate shadows across the road. Beyond, a church spire stood out clearly against the glistening white of a mass of fleecy clouds, while the weather-vane, reflecting the sun, gleamed like a spot of flame. Lazily floating near the top of the steeple was that flag before which even the God of War himself must pause—the flag which belongs to no country, to no race, and yet belongs to all—the Red Cross flag; for this little village church was no longer a place of worship but a field hospital where the wounded received treatment before being sent further away from the scene of hostilities. The vestry bad been turned into an operating room, and over the floor of the main body of the church was laid a thick carpet of straw upon which the injured soldiers lay in rows.
There were many poilus about this little village, and also a number of blue-bloused peasants, who, in spite of the terrible conflict, persisted in tilling their fields and pursuing as orderly an existence as events would allow.
Only once was Number Eight obliged to halt before it reached its destination, and that was when a farmer's cart drawn by a pair of clumsy oxen rolled across its path.
Another turn, and the ambulance drew up before the church, which faced a little square.
Scarcely had the car halted when brancardiers, followed by a surgeon in white, put in an appearance, and with the same promptness that had characterized the entire proceeding the wounded were lifted out and carried into the hospital.
"A wonderfully quick trip, mes amis Americaines," declared the surgeon; "and I fear that you will have many more to make."
"There's not much doubt about that, Monsieur le Médecin," exclaimed Don. "Au revoir!"
The young driver took the Red Cross ambulance along the road on the return trip as fast as he could possibly pilot it in safety. A very brief stop was made at the Hotel de la Palette, where the car was given an overhauling and the supply of gasoline replenished. The French cook, too, ever solicitous about the welfare of the men of the section, handed each a substantial lunch, reminding them that care for their own requirements would enable them to better serve the requirements of others.
"We'll certainly have to take it on the fly to-day," said Don, with a grin, as he resumed his post.
Number Eight had not traveled very far beyond the ancient gate when it passed a pathetic procession of wounded poilus. Nearly all were swathed in bandages, and, as though their terrifying experiences on the firing line had dulled their senses, they seemed to be marching along in a weary, listless manner, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and paying not the slightest attention to their surroundings. On the faces of many still rested traces of the horror—of the awful fear which must have been theirs. The strong were assisting the weak; those who could see guided the steps of those who could not; and the speed of the whole straggling group was regulated by the halting, limping gait of men scarcely able to drag themselves along. A strange, melancholy sight indeed were these silent, mud-covered soldiers of France, who had fought and suffered and given all but their lives to their country and who were now almost physical wrecks.
"It's terrible—terrible!" reflected Don Hale. "But c'est la guerre—it is war."
Some distance further on another peculiar procession was encountered, though of an entirely different character. This was a long line of captured Germans, guarded by officers on horseback. Strong, sturdy specimens most of them appeared to be, and only a very few wore bandages of any sort. Their attitude was that of men who felt immensely relieved, and scarcely a downcast or sullen face could be seen among the lot. Fritz, although a reliable fighter while engaged in the business of fighting, is evidently a very philosophical and docile prisoner.
The ambulance reached the outpost without any further incident to mark the journey. And as soon as the wounded could be placed on board another trip to the hospital began.
And thus for the whole day the work continued without intermission. During the greater part of the time both the French and German artillery kept up a heavy cannonade, and on several of their trips Don and Chase ran into sufficient excitement and danger to show that the latter had bravely pulled himself together.
In all, the section carried about three hundred and seventy-five wounded to the hospital, and it was not until after seven o'clock that the car, splashed all over with mud, rolled into the cobbled courtyard of the Hotel de la Palette and the two weary ambulanciers jumped out.
"It's been a wonderful seventeen hours," commented Don.
"I should say it has," agreed Chase. "It seems like an age. But it's me for a nice wash, some supper, and then——"
"A whole lot of conversation," laughed Don. "Just think, during all this time we haven't had a single chance to listen to one another's stories."
At the supper table that evening every one heartily agreed that the aviator's son deserved the Croix de Guerre. Every one heartily agreed, too, that Chase had proved himself a man.
"Honestly, Chase, I never could have believed it of you!" exclaimed Wendell. "You know we—we—that is——"
And here the chef paused.
"Don't get confused, old chap," laughed the other. "To tell the truth, fellows, the horror and tragedy of the war affected my nerves to a much greater extent than I ever expected. I knew every one here thought I had a yellow streak, and I even began to suspect you were right. The whole thing made me feel mighty grouchy and uncomfortable. Sometimes it requires a great crisis to bring a chap to his senses. I didn't think much of myself for running away from the road, and something else occurred which also helped to bring about a wonderful change in my state of mind."
"Pipe us about the something else," exclaimed "Peewee."
Thereupon Chase gave an account of his experience at the Château de Morancourt and his meeting with the soldier.
"The intimation that I was a deserter—actually a deserter—aroused me as nothing else in my life ever did," he continued emphatically. "And the hardest part of it all was the fact that I realized that I actually had been considerably at fault. You can just bet I determined to wipe out the stain—if there was any." Chase's eyes began to sparkle. "In fact I got into such a mood that I actually felt like courting danger instead of avoiding it," he cried. "So I hope no one will ever again be able to justly accuse me of having a yellow streak!"
"Bravo—bravo!" cried Bodkins.
Warm expressions of approval came from all the others.
Following this a general discussion in regard to the poilu started.
"It's really too bad that duelling has gone out of fashion," declared "Peewee," reflectively. "Really, a nice little set-to with either swords or pistols would come as a pleasant change."
"Thinking it over," remarked Bodkins, "I shouldn't mind a bit acting as a second. I'm pining for some excitement. Couldn't the old custom be revived?"
"At any rate, joking aside, I intend to get satisfaction," grinned Chase. "And I shan't be satisfied until I do."
"Let's catch that mysterious poilu and make him listen to some of Bodkins' music," suggested "Peewee."
"No inhuman revenge for me!" laughed Chase. "At the very first opportunity I'll run over to the Cheval Noir and have that third meeting. Boys, I think you'd better chip in and hire a man with a motion picture outfit to film the interview."
"It ought to be a scream," grinned Ravenstock.
"The whole affair is really quite extraordinary," put in Dunstan, thoughtfully.
"It's still much—too much—like one of those confounded 'to-be-continued' yarns," complained "Peewee." "Only, they come to an end some time and this one never will."
"''Tis true, 'tis pity; and pity 'tis 'tis true,'" quoted Bodkins, with his usual giggle.
Dunstan nodded, while Don exclaimed, shrugging his shoulder:
"But, after all, who can tell?"