UNDER FIRE
It frequently happened that the ambulanciers had been obliged to take their meals in the midst of shell-pitted fields, or perhaps in some little village street. On such occasions planks thrown across a couple of saw-horses served as a table.
At the Hotel de la Palette, however, things were very different. There, in the dining-room of the hostelry, they sat in comfort at the same tables before which, in former times, peasants and care-free patrons had once enjoyed repasts. The room, too, was very attractive, for the visiting artists had recorded with paint and brush their impressions of the charming scenery around. One of these pictures, executed on the panel of a door, was signed by an English landscape artist who later became a celebrated Royal Academician.
The rolling field kitchen, in charge of a French army cook, stood in one corner of the courtyard, and the members of the section took turns in acting as "chow," as the waiter was humorously called.
Don and Dunstan found that during their absence Chase Manning had been doing evacuation work—that is, conveying the wounded from the field hospital to a base hospital further away from the front. They learned, too, that he would be en repos[5] for the day.
"That's fine!" cried Don, as all sat around the breakfast table. "Why not let's pay the Château de Morancourt a visit this afternoon?"
"I'm with you," replied Chase.
"So am I," agreed Dunstan, heartily.
One of the drivers, "Tiny" Mason, began to laugh heartily. He had gained the appellation of "Tiny," so Bodkins explained to the uninformed, because his stature displaced only five feet three inches of atmosphere.
"I suppose you chaps are going to find out all about that missing stuff, eh?" he chuckled.
"If we do I'll let you know," laughed the art student.
Producing a pocket map, he showed his companions the location of the structure.
"Hello! It isn't very far from the Chemin de Mort," exclaimed Don, in surprise.
"Quite correct, my boy," said Dunstan.
"I'd much rather it were in some other direction," muttered Chase.
"Come on, Dunstan, let's get through our work," cried Don, rising from his seat and making a break for the courtyard door. "Old number eight has to be freshened up a bit and overhauled."
This task kept the boys busily occupied until lunch time, but immediately after the meal, accompanied by Chase, they left the hotel and headed toward the east.
The dusty village street was full of reservists; poilus were eating, poilus were lounging about or strolling here and there, all ready at any moment, however, to march to the first-line trenches and face the invisible foe and death.
Now and then, in the midst of all this environment of war, peasants trudged along, sometimes accompanied by children, several so young that they could have known nothing else during their brief existence on earth but the horror, the noise and turmoil of war.
Presently a military car having two stars painted on the right hand corner of the windshield, the insignia of a general, shot past the Americans, and closely following, in the wake of dust which trailed behind, came a motor cyclist with a large wicker basket strapped to his shoulders. Through openings in the receptacle the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a number of birds.
"A despatch bearer carrying pigeons to the front," declared Dunstan. "I understand they have performed most valuable service in delivering messages, and are seldom killed. Thus does man make use of even the birds of the air to further his ends."
"He'd make use of cats if he could," growled Chase.
Passing the ancient porte, where a sentry gravely saluted them, Don, Dunstan and Chase branched off into a road leading in a northeasterly direction toward the rolling hills and battle-front beyond.
The village fell further and further behind, and finally a rise in the ground hid it from view. At length the three stopped on a hilltop to take a survey of a broad and impressive view of the surrounding country. The surface of the earth in innumerable places presented a most singular appearance. It was as if some giant plow had been driven again and again across it, so turning up the rich brown soil that nature's covering of green was almost entirely obliterated.
"The marmites have made a pretty thorough job of it," remarked Don.
"Why are the big shells called marmites?" inquired Chase.
"Because they gouge a big round hole in the ground somewhat like the shape of a saucepan, in French a marmite," explained the aviator's son.
"Thanks. Ruin—ruin, as far as the vision carries; ruin—ruin beyond, and still further beyond!"
"Yes; but there is something which seems to typify the unconquerable spirit of the nation," exclaimed Dunstan.
With a sweep of his hand he called attention to several peasant women and old men, in sabots or wooden shoes, guiding plows and harrows across a field.
"Farming in this part of France just now certainly has its drawbacks," said Don. "I've heard it said that to one shell which lands in the trenches a hundred drop behind the lines."
Resuming the march, the ambulanciers went down the gentle slopes of the hill. Soldiers had scarcely ever been out of their sight, and now more of them became in evidence. Groups of bearded, sun-tanned men, whose uniforms showed the effects of weather and contact with the earth, were taking things easy in the shade of the trees or along the road.
"But if a bombardment should suddenly start up the timber would seem almost to swallow them," declared the art student. "There must be dugouts and bomb-proof shelters all through these woods."
"Votre laissez passer, messieurs, s'il vous plait!"[6]
A sentry's challenge rang out sharply.
One glance at their papers, and he waved them on.
Up and down hill they tramped. The day was superb, and legions of light, fleecy clouds sent legions of delicate shadows skimming across the landscape. But though peace was in nature the ambulanciers were always forcibly reminded of the fact that the great war was going on all about them.
Over the brow of another ridge a sign conspicuously nailed to a tree brought them to a pause.
"No vehicles further than this by daylight," they read.
"I am a sufficient believer in signs to pay attention to that warning," remarked Chase, with an uneasy look on his face.
"It certainly wouldn't be wise to venture where vehicles may not go," laughed Don.
"Scarcely!" put in Dunstan, dryly.
Retracing their steps, the three soon reached a rather narrow crossroad running in an easterly and westerly direction over a series of hills. After following the much-traveled thoroughfare for a considerable distance, the boys discovering, by the aid of Dunstan's map, that they were being taken out of their way, decided to leave it. The ascent up a steep slope, plentifully bestrewn with vegetation, was so hard and toilsome that all were delighted, on arriving at the top, to discover a broad, almost level field stretching over to a tree-crowned ridge about two hundred and fifty yards away.
"Thank goodness!" panted Chase.
"Let's take a breathing spell," suggested Don.
"Most cheerfully, mes cher amis," said Dunstan.
Seating themselves on the edge of an old shell-crater, the three rested until the effects of their strenuous exertions had entirely disappeared. When they started once more they had gone more than half-way across the field when a figure popped into view over the crest of the opposite ridge with almost the suddenness of a Jack-in-the-Box. It was a poilu—evidently a sentry; for they could see him, stationed by the edge of the trees, making energetic motions, as if he wished to hurry them on.
"I suppose we must be breaking some military regulation and are liable to arrest," said Chase, half jokingly.
To his surprise, Don and Dunstan, looking considerably startled, began to cast apprehensive glances toward the east, at the same time increasing their pace. And then, just as the young chap from Maine was about to put into words a query that had flashed into his mind a most alarming thing occurred.
It was the sharp crack of a rifle and the zip of a bullet, as it struck the ground but a few yards distant and plowed up and scattered a bit of earth.
A terrifying fact was revealed to all—they were in full view of the German "snipers."[7] That broad, peaceful-looking field was in reality a miniature "No Man's Land," where none might tarry for a single instant and expect to live.