And again Don went flying toward the fighting front, toward the level fields filled with crimson flowers, waving grass or ripening grain, stretched south and west from Belleau Wood.
Up the slopes of the hill he could now see the indomitable marines, still charging, overcoming all opposition, destroying the machine-gun nests, bayoneting the gunners, and defeating every attempt of the enemy to check their attack. On into the fields—to the very foot of the hill—Don drove his car, looking to the right and left for blessés. The bullets, as never before, sung around him, threshing out the grass and grain, and tearing up the blood-red poppies.
Here also the stretcher-bearers were more than busy. Two, with a wounded man, came running to Don. Another wounded man crawled and dragged himself toward the car, until the boy saw and helped him. The soldier could speak only in halting accents.
“There’s one—our corporal—down back—bush. Helped me—water—canteen. Fainted, then—good fellow—get him.”
Don, fishing in his pockets for his ammonia spirits and grabbing a water bottle, ran to the spot designated, a hundred feet away. The marine lay on his stomach, his face hidden in the crook of his left arm. Evidently he had come to. The other arm lay limp on the grass. A clot of blood stained the clothing on his left side.
“Ambulancier here. I’ll help you, or get a stretcher if you can’t—” Don began, stooping to lift the fellow. The wounded man twisted about, raised his head and once again Don Richards and Clement Stapley gazed into each other’s eyes. But the look of defiance was gone.
“Clem, poor chap, are you hurt much? Where?”
“Arm busted, Don. Side cut a little. Flesh wound, I think. If it’s worse, tell mother and dad.”
“I don’t believe it’s bad, Clem. Don’t you think it! We’ll see that it isn’t. My car—”
“I can walk to it, perhaps. Legs O. K. Use gun as crutch.”