"We'll certainly have to take it on the fly to-day," said Don, with a grin, as he resumed his post.
Number Eight had not traveled very far beyond the ancient gate when it passed a pathetic procession of wounded poilus. Nearly all were swathed in bandages, and, as though their terrifying experiences on the firing line had dulled their senses, they seemed to be marching along in a weary, listless manner, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and paying not the slightest attention to their surroundings. On the faces of many still rested traces of the horror—of the awful fear which must have been theirs. The strong were assisting the weak; those who could see guided the steps of those who could not; and the speed of the whole straggling group was regulated by the halting, limping gait of men scarcely able to drag themselves along. A strange, melancholy sight indeed were these silent, mud-covered soldiers of France, who had fought and suffered and given all but their lives to their country and who were now almost physical wrecks.
"It's terrible—terrible!" reflected Don Hale. "But c'est la guerre—it is war."
Some distance further on another peculiar procession was encountered, though of an entirely different character. This was a long line of captured Germans, guarded by officers on horseback. Strong, sturdy specimens most of them appeared to be, and only a very few wore bandages of any sort. Their attitude was that of men who felt immensely relieved, and scarcely a downcast or sullen face could be seen among the lot. Fritz, although a reliable fighter while engaged in the business of fighting, is evidently a very philosophical and docile prisoner.
The ambulance reached the outpost without any further incident to mark the journey. And as soon as the wounded could be placed on board another trip to the hospital began.
And thus for the whole day the work continued without intermission. During the greater part of the time both the French and German artillery kept up a heavy cannonade, and on several of their trips Don and Chase ran into sufficient excitement and danger to show that the latter had bravely pulled himself together.
In all, the section carried about three hundred and seventy-five wounded to the hospital, and it was not until after seven o'clock that the car, splashed all over with mud, rolled into the cobbled courtyard of the Hotel de la Palette and the two weary ambulanciers jumped out.
"It's been a wonderful seventeen hours," commented Don.
"I should say it has," agreed Chase. "It seems like an age. But it's me for a nice wash, some supper, and then——"
"A whole lot of conversation," laughed Don. "Just think, during all this time we haven't had a single chance to listen to one another's stories."