I
THE WHITE ROAD OF MYSTERY
A SHARP whistle cuts the tense silence. It is the signal to start. It marks the line which breaks the past from the future; it is the boundary between the Known and the Unknown, and the frontier where duty and service merge. For a second, as the motors race, there is commotion—quickly settling into a rhythmic whir. The men are in their seats with somewhat of an echo of that whir in their hearts. The lieutenant’s car rolls slowly out of the gate, followed by the chef’s, and in turn by the others of the section, and as the last car crosses the threshold there is a cheer from the friends gathered to bid us Godspeed,—for Section XXXI is born.
WE are off. We do not know where we are going. After a number of interminable delays and halts we pass through the gates of the city, and leave behind the last vestige of the Known. Ahead of us the road stretches white in the sunlight—the white road of mystery leading on to adventure and redemption. We have ceased to be our own masters. We are units, cogs in the machine, infinitesimal pawns in the giant game, and move as the dust which rises from the car ahead—where we know not, why we know not,—and how we often wonder!
CONVOY formation allows, by the book, for an interval of twenty feet between cars when passing through cities, and for one hundred feet when in the country. The flesh, however, is weak. In cities it is rare indeed to see cars separated by more than a nose except in spasms, while in the country a matter of miles is unimportant. A convoy is like a pack of dogs on the hunt, racing pell mell up hill and down dale one minute, and crawling the next, with an occasional dog straying off and losing itself for an indefinite length of time.
For example, we come to some small town where we are to have lunch. We arrive in a hurry and with much dust, the first few cars in close formation, nose to tail, the last a few miles in the rear. Suddenly the driver of the leading car, who has been admiring the scenery on the right of the road, sees the chef standing on the left making frantic motions for him to stop. Perhaps the driver puts out his hand, perhaps he does not. At any rate, he applies the brakes and comes to a dead stop—for an instant. The driver of the second car may have been adjusting his carburetor or observing an aeroplane, or a peasant girl, or a map—the exact object is beside the question. He suddenly comes to earth when he finds his charge valiantly trying to climb over the car in front—more brakes. Of course there is a third car, and possibly a fourth, or more, which demand attention. The final result advances the leading car some feet, decreases the supply of spare radiators, and as a rule does not contribute to the general harmony.
One or more cars must always have taken the wrong road, and lead a hare and hound chase for some minutes before the final roundup, leaving for clues numerous peasants who, when queried, always know just where it went. Of course, by the law of chance, some one of these has undoubtedly seen it, and the lost is eventually found.
There was one particular member of our section who was a rover at soul, and led several interesting hunts. A little later in the season this same rover took a by-road and started through the Hesse Forest for Germany. Our whole pack was called out, and after an exciting chase he was finally caught and convinced of his error. Fortunately for both him and us the chef has a sense of humor, and the section, in spite of our many innocent attempts to disintegrate it and take individual excursions to different parts of France, continues to be a unit.
For five days we proceed thus, with the white road stretching out in front and the brown dust trailing behind. We stop to get gasoline, to eat, and to sleep. We begin to near the front, and pass through town after town of roofless houses, shattered churches, and scattered homes. Through fields dotted with wooden crosses with the tricolored ribbon, and pock-marked with shell-holes. We pass aeroplane hangars and batteries of guns. We see more saucisses in the sky and soldiers on the ground. The hand of the Hun lies heavy on the land, and his poison breath scorches the grass of the fields. We see fewer civilians and more steel helmets, and yet the rumble of the guns is no louder. But there is a certain breath of power and energy in the air, and one feels himself waiting for something to happen.