An American Crusader at Verdun

PAGE
I
The Voyage	[1]
II
“Over There” at Last!	[11]
III
In the Champagne Region	[15]
IV
Qualifying as a Driver	[18]
V
“Car No. 13”	[21]
VI
The “Crusader”	[24]
VII
“Raising Hell Down at Epernay”	[29]
VIII
Norton’s Last Ride	[35]
IX
Bastille Day	[40]
X
Here Kultur Passed	[45]
XI
Verdun	[49]
XII
Awaiting the Big Attack	[54]
XIII
Under Fire in an Ambulance	[56]
XIV
The Big Shells Come Over	[63]
XV
Under the Shell Shower	[68]
XVI
Aftermath of Battle	[72]
XVII
In the Valley of the Shadow	[76]
XVIII
In Paris	[81]
XIX
Aillianville	[90]
XX
Vive l’Amérique! Vive la France!	[98]
XXI
Afterthoughts	[102]

I

The Voyage

It was a glorious afternoon in Spring, to be exact, May 19, 1917, at about three bells, that the French liner Chicago moved out of her dock and started down the North river on the voyage to France, crowded for the most part with volunteers, entering various branches of service in the World War. There were doctors, camion drivers, aviators, ambulanciers—also a few civilians, half a dozen members of the Comédie Française returning to their native land and stage; and more than likely there were one or two spies. It was the largest crowd of “Crusaders” that had embarked for France since the war began.

The deck was crowded, too, with relatives and friends of those who were sailing; there was waving of flags, cheering and shedding of tears, and it was my observation that those who were being left behind took the departure harder than those who were leaving. But I suppose that is true when one starts on any long journey and I suppose it is especially true when one starts on the last long journey to a better world.

Those of us on the boat were not bound for a better world, we were just bound by going to help make the world a little better if we could. But some whom I met on the voyage have since passed on to a better world.

I am sure that most of the men on board were imbued with a spirit of seriousness. I was serious about the journey myself. Practically since the war began, I had been moved with a desire to get into it. I resented the invasion of Belgium, as have all red-blooded people, no matter what their nationality. I resented the murder of Edith Cavell; I resented the sinking of the Lusitania; I resented the atrocities committed, not against the people of any race in particular, but against fellow human beings; I resented the loud clamorings of white-blooded pacifists and Prussian propagandists who would have kept us out of war at any price, even at the price of honor. When I finally reached the decision to take a small part in the war and acted upon that decision by enlisting as a volunteer ambulance driver, I felt touched with a spirit of rest.

I did not know a single soul aboard when the liner cast off and backed out into the river. I knew quite a few before we reached Bordeaux. Shipboard is the easiest place in the world to make acquaintances, and being alone I drifted about, perhaps, more than if I had gone on board with a crowd of my own friends.