Don Hale Over There

by W. Crispin Sheppard

Now they were on the Chemin de Mort, and a few minutes later had gone far beyond. A Red Cross car again flashed past; then, after a short interval, another. The outlying houses of the village shot into view; the ancient porte, in full sunlight, loomed up against the sky, and the ambulance, without slackening speed, presently rolled under its shadowed arch. The blurred outlines of the Hotel de la Palette soon sprang into the range of vision. The car fairly leaped across the intervening space, Don and Chase had an instantaneous view of the old hostelry at close range, and then it too was sent spinning to the rear. Almost like a flash, the rest of the village passed in review and the Red Cross car was bowling along in the midst of an open country, past encampments of soldiers and through little one-street hamlets crowded with all the evidences of warfare, the toot, toot of its horn, the roar and rumble of its wheels never failing to result in its being given the right of way.

At length, after speeding for about six kilometers, Number Eight swept around a curve and rolled down a rather steep slope at the base of which they could see a cluster of red-roofed houses between the trees. A typical little French village it was—full of charm—full of poetry; and enveloped in the soft haze of the morning it suggested a place of quietude and charm.

At the bottom of the hill there came an abrupt turn in the road. The car rumbled across a little one-arch stone bridge, and almost immediately they were in the midst of the low, stuccoed dwellings. The tall poplars here and there sent a network of delicate shadows across the road. Beyond, a church spire stood out clearly against the glistening white of a mass of fleecy clouds, while the weather-vane, reflecting the sun, gleamed like a spot of flame. Lazily floating near the top of the steeple was that flag before which even the God of War himself must pause—the flag which belongs to no country, to no race, and yet belongs to all—the Red Cross flag; for this little village church was no longer a place of worship but a field hospital where the wounded received treatment before being sent further away from the scene of hostilities. The vestry bad been turned into an operating room, and over the floor of the main body of the church was laid a thick carpet of straw upon which the injured soldiers lay in rows.

There were many poilus about this little village, and also a number of blue-bloused peasants, who, in spite of the terrible conflict, persisted in tilling their fields and pursuing as orderly an existence as events would allow.

Only once was Number Eight obliged to halt before it reached its destination, and that was when a farmer's cart drawn by a pair of clumsy oxen rolled across its path.

Another turn, and the ambulance drew up before the church, which faced a little square.

Scarcely had the car halted when brancardiers, followed by a surgeon in white, put in an appearance, and with the same promptness that had characterized the entire proceeding the wounded were lifted out and carried into the hospital.

"A wonderfully quick trip, mes amis Americaines," declared the surgeon; "and I fear that you will have many more to make."

"There's not much doubt about that, Monsieur le Médecin," exclaimed Don. "Au revoir!"

The young driver took the Red Cross ambulance along the road on the return trip as fast as he could possibly pilot it in safety. A very brief stop was made at the Hotel de la Palette, where the car was given an overhauling and the supply of gasoline replenished. The French cook, too, ever solicitous about the welfare of the men of the section, handed each a substantial lunch, reminding them that care for their own requirements would enable them to better serve the requirements of others.