The lieutenant received the orders and was responsible to the army for their execution. The lieutenant gave the chef his orders, and the chef was responsible to him for their execution by the section. The sous-chefs were the chef’s assistants.
The routine when at work is for a certain number of cars to be on duty at one time, the number depending on the work. The section is divided into shifts of the number of cars required. When on duty a man must always have his car and himself ready to “roll,” and when off duty, after putting his car in condition, must rest so as to be in shape for his next turn. When the work is heavy, the cars on duty are rolling all the time with very little opportunity for food or rest for the driver; consequently, for a man not to get himself and his car ready in this period of rest means that the service is weakened; and that, if other cars go en panne unavoidably, it is possibly crippled—and lives may be lost. When the work is light, men are usually twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off; when moderate, twenty-four on and twenty-four off; when stiff, forty-eight on and twenty-four off, and during an attack almost steadily on. The longest stretch that my section kept its men continuously at work was seven days and nights in the Verdun sector during an attack, and we were compelled to cease then only because too few of our cars were left able to roll to carry the wounded.
From headquarters the day’s shift is sent to the relay station, and from there cars go as needed to the postes de secours. The postes are as near the trenches as it is possible for the cars to go, and some can be visited only at night. The wounded are brought to these by the brancardiers through the boyaux, or communication trenches, and usually have their first attention here. After first aid has been administered, and when there are enough for a load, or there is a serious case, the car goes to the triage, stopping at the relay station, from which a car is sent to the poste to replace the first, which returns to the relay station directly from the hospital.
The hospitals also are divided into two main classes, the triages, or front hospitals in the zone of fire, and the H.O.E.’s, hospitals of evacuation, anywhere back of the fines. The hospital of evacuation is the third of the four stages through which a wounded man passes. The first is the front-line dressing station, the abri; the second, if the wound is at all serious, is the triage; the third, if serious enough, is the hospital of evacuation; and the fourth, if the soldier has been confined to the hospital for ten or more days, is the ten-day permission to Paris, Nice, or some other place of his choice. Then these classes, in some cases, are subdivided into separate hospitals for couchés, assis, and malades.
These subdivisions sometimes make complications, as in the case of one driver who was given what appeared to be a serious case to take to the couché hospital. While on the way, however, the serious case revived sufficiently to find his canteen. After a few swallows he felt a pleasant warmth within, for French canteens are not filled with water, and sat up better to observe his surroundings and to make uncomplimentary remarks to the driver. Arrived at the hospital, the brancardiers lifted the curtain at the rear of the car, and seeing the patient sitting up and smoking a cigarette, apparently in good health, they refused to take him, and sent the car on to the assis hospital. Overcome by his undue exertion, the wounded man lay down again, and by the time the ambulance had reached the other hospital was peacefully dozing on the floor. The brancardiers shook their heads, and sent the car back to the couché hospital. Somewhat annoyed by this time, the ambulancier did not drive with the same care, and the jolts aroused the incensed poilu, who sat up and began to ask personal questions. The driver, not wishing to continue his trips between the two hospitals for the duration of the war, stopped the car outside the couché hospital, and, seeing his patient sitting up, put him definitely to sleep with a tire tool, and sent him in by the uncomplaining brancardiers.
WE spend a good part of our time in the abri. Just now the Boche appears to have taken a particular dislike to this part of the sector, for he is strafing it most unmercifully. We do not doubt at all that it is because we are here. The fact that there are six thousand French guns massed in the woods, so near together that you cannot walk a dozen feet without tripping over one, may, of course, have something to do with the enemy’s vindictiveness, but that does not occur to us.
After taking an hour or two of interrupted sleep in the abri, we step out in the early morning to get a breath of fresh air and to untangle our cramped muscles. A shell or two whines in uncomfortably near, and we are convinced that the enemy knows our every move by instinct. When we sit in the abri during the day, and there is never a second that we do not hear the whine of at least one shell overhead, and the intervals between shells striking near enough to shake the abri and rattle éclats on its steel roof grow less, we are convinced the Boche is searching for our dugout. When I am making a run to P 2, and, rounding Dead Horse Corner, start on the last stretch, and a shell knocks a tree across the road a hundred feet ahead, blocking us completely, and two more shells drop on the road by the tree, two more strike ten yards on our right, and another lands within fifteen feet on our left, there is no doubt in my mind that the enemy is after me.
In reality, of course, the enemy has no idea where the abris are located, and just now is simply taking a few chance shots at a likely corner—but every man knows that every shell he hears is meant for him personally,—all of which goes to prove how egotistical we really are.