ALSATIAN WOODS IN WINTER
November 13. A bad number and a grim day for 168. At daybreak one blessé, one malade, to Moosch. Brake loose as an empty soap-bubble. Endless convoy of mules appeared at bottom of hill. Tail-enders received me sideways or full breach—couldn't stop—didn't think to put on reverse, so did some old-fashioned line-plunging. Heard cases crack, men swear, mules neigh, but heard no brake taking hold. Tried to stop later, but only succeeded in doing so by dragging against bank, which was so straight car rubbed along like an old elephant scratching its cutlets, and padlocks, keys, tools, side-boxes removed like flies. Incidentally a young army on the way up the hill—a few casualties if I had not stopped. Tornado of rain. A big tree had fallen across the road this morning—just got under it—had been chopped down on the way back. Nothing doing since, but frightful weather—good chance to write in diary—most devilish wind in p.m. Walked over to Bain-Douches in the evening to see Hartmann's by night by star bombs, but weather too bad and saw no bombs. The valley of the Rhine so near our feet—impossible to realize that somewhere between us and that flat vast plain, with all its villages alight at night, were both lines of trenches—yet the trees only moved in the wind and the only noise the batteries to the rear.
November 14. Got up about an hour earlier than any one else, looked out to find trees covered with snow—most splendid. The two Fords snowed into the background. Built fire for sleeping sluggards. Took two "birds" and one brancardier down the hill—brakes refused to work—used reverse successfully—no mules slaughtered or even touched—oxen in the way, of great service—dropped my men at Moosch. Blow-out just pulling into Wesserling with two malades—let 'em walk—put on new tube—also blew out—ran into hospital—put on new tire—no lunch.
November 15. Cold and clear, mountains amazingly fine—was orderly. Tried to move an eight-story Boche stove with Carey from wall to centre of room where heat might radiate more effectually—weight two tons—toppled like Tower of Pisa. I held it one second saving Carey's life after imperilling it first—just got out before the whole damn shooting-match crashed to floor a mass of broken cast-iron, broken baked clay, and ashes. With great patience and science utilized lower stones still standing by fixing top, shortening pipe, etc. Now in centre of room where one can sit, talk, read, etc. Two vain trips with Carey to see Burgomaster to report catastrophe.
November 17. Snowing to beat hell. All hands to Bussang to evacuate hospital—minus usual sumptuous repast. Fenton moved rear roller of his boat in usual dashing style—came around the corner a minute later with conservative momentum and received from master-mechanic a severe dissertation on over-speeding, etc., standing on his own ruins as he spoke. Got late to Krüth—found Douglass there—then eased victuals into us at the "Joffre"—six eggs in my inner tube. Took three frozen feet to Bussang. We slipped as skating-rink camions stuck all along the line—snow packed in hard. 168 ran poorly on way back—slow going on slippery road—the col magnificent—trees loaded with fresh snow.
December 3. To Thoms—enormous amount of heavy artillery on the road—eternal convoys of mules on way up. Kept getting stuck—finally got through—found Galatti—terrible weather, road sea of mud, mountain torrents across it. In the afternoon we each took down a load of four—difficult driving—so tired when we got to Moosch. We had dinner there. My carbide worked feebly, so G. followed with electric lights to show me the way. On steep grade after zigzag I stuck—backed into bank. G. thought he had callé'ed his wheel, but voiture rolled downhill into the gutter. An hour's hellish pushing, cranking, etc., of no avail. Finally I got out a trench spade and dug away bank and he backed—some tringlots came by and we pushed him up. Next assault was on steep turn. G., having burned out his electric lights trying to get out of gutter, went ahead of me with his barnyard lantern on bowsprit. He missed the road. I slowed up and we rested side by side, neither daring to lift the toe on the brake. Finally G. backed into a frightful hole—got out, callé'ed my voiture, and we went in and routed up some charbonniers in some log cabins off the road—two cabins full—got out of bed with most charming grace and pulled the car out and we finally got back—three hours from Moosch to there—très tired, tous les deux.
December 7. Hung around expecting to leave early to-morrow—took a contagious call in Hall's car, mine being chargée, to Wesserling, where at the end of the valley between the mountains three avions were flying around—two French, one German. The sky clear for once and, lit by sun about to sink over Ballon d'Alsace, was studded with white shrapnel puffs—while the German puffs were flaked into black clouds. On the way to Bussang with my contagious passed Hill who yelled, "We stay."
Waldo Peirce
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