I thought of this story a thousand times while over there, and I think I told it at least half that number of times. The mud in the spring is so thick that it oppresses one. It gets on your mind as well as on your body. A person who only has an occasional trip may laugh at it, but when one drives through it day and night, and night and day for weeks the humor of it all wears off. It becomes a mighty serious affair. In many places it is thick and sticky like bread dough and piles up on your wheels or feet making it almost impossible to move. The clay, or gumbo, in America cannot compare with it. It is whitish gray in color and even when it is not heavy it is exceedingly disagreeable. It splashes on your clothes and flies in your eyes. It gets into your ears, your nose, and your hair, and not infrequently into your mouth if you talk or laugh too much. It has a resemblance to gray paint and partakes very much of its nature. Once it gets on your clothes it is impossible to get it off and it even sticks to and stains your flesh so that it requires hard scrubbing with soap and hot water to remove it. Yet when it splashes you in this manner it is pleasant—compared to the discouraging effect when it is heavy!
One day when I was going to a shop with an empty car for some repairs, I met my old antagonist, French mud. It was the genuine article this time too, the kind that gets a hold and doesn't let go. I was turning out of the road to allow a camion to go by but in my eagerness to avoid it I swerved an inch too far. Little by little I felt the back end of my car sliding off the road so I threw in low speed and opened the gas. The front wheels stayed on the higher ground but the rear wheels seemed to be trying to catch up with them and finally did so, but when they did, they pulled the whole car off into the gutter which was not steep but oh, so muddy. I labored and struggled with the gas and the low speed. I groaned and swore, I stalled my engine and got out to crank it, and when I did I couldn't get in again. I used up ten minutes in getting my feet out of that mud and getting them cleaned up. I tried it again but it was no use, the car would not come, for it was stuck. That was the only explanation there was, it was stuck in French mud. Not having any chains I tried to put sticks and boards under the wheels and I succeeded but they went so far under that I could not see what became of them. I finally began pulling a farmer's rail fence to pieces in my attempt to pry out the wheels and get a foundation to start from, but at last I had to walk more than a mile till I found two men at a farmhouse who came down with a heavy team to pull me out. When they arrived at the place where the car was stuck, lo, the fence which I had dismantled belonged to one of the men. He looked at me with a peculiar expression. I thought he was angry and was going to scold me and demand payment for damage to his property. In a couple of seconds, however, we both burst out into a hearty laugh for he appreciated the situation as well as I. With a large log chain looped around the front axle of the car the great horses put their necks into the collar and hauled it out. The men would not accept a cent of pay, one of them saying, "Not a sou, it's for France."
CHAPTER VI A WEIRD NIGHT
One midnight after a certain engagement "somewhere in France" in which many men fell, I learned of an experience which burned its way into my soul, and I believe will stay there till the Judgment Day. I have read in history of individuals such as the one I am telling of, but never in my life have I had actual knowledge of any but this one, and I hope that I shall hereafter forever be delivered from such.
This particular night the firing for some reason had suddenly ceased. A man named Valke was an emergency watcher at a listening post, when the most blood-curdling thing I have ever known occurred.
A listening post is a branch off from the main trench toward the enemy or in his general direction, which is dug secretly as you go, the dirt being carried back in bags so as not to disclose its location. These posts must be changed often, as the enemy is apt to discover them, and then look out!
Valke was standing in the darkness and seclusion of the post when a shriek rent the air, the sound of which he said he would hear through eternity. It came from a man who was prostrate on the ground. He had noticed the body lying there before, a few yards away, and had assumed that the man was dead. He was a Frenchman, and on account of the darkness could be seen with difficulty. But he was not dead, only unconscious, and something had suddenly revived him.