The abri was quite a pretentious-looking little place. Over the arching entrance was layer upon layer of sand-bags, and on top of these the earth had been packed into a hard, solid mass, thus affording a good protection from the enemy's fire. The shelter, which was situated only a few hundred yards from the front, also served as a poste de secours,[4] three French army surgeons always being in attendance. Still nearer to No Man's Land, in fact almost directly on the battle-line, and, of course, shielded as well as possible, was a "Refuge des blessés," or dressing station, where the brancardiers, or stretcher bearers, conveyed the wounded for first aid treatment.
The duties of the brancardiers were of the most perilous nature. Frequently the men were obliged to crawl out of the trenches after the fallen soldiers, and then, once burdened with the victims of the great war, their movements were so restricted that it became all the more difficult for them to protect themselves. The soldier may have his reward in fame and glory and wear the hero's crown; the brancardier has little but that which comes from his own conscience.
The wounded were brought in from the first-line trenches through connecting trenches, called in French boyaux, to the poste de secours and the waiting Red Cross cars. The brancards—stretchers—are all of the same size, so that they may be used in any ambulance or railway car. It sometimes happens that a "couchée," which means a lying-down case, generally one of a serious nature, reaches a base hospital on the same stretcher on which he was placed after being picked up on the battle-field.
During the early part of the war the wounded were often obliged to wait a long time before being removed, and it was generally in a slowly-moving horse-drawn vehicle. The advent of the Red Cross and the American Field Ambulance was the means of bringing about a wonderful change. The light cars of the sections could travel fast, and whenever haste was the chief and perhaps deciding factor between life and death the patients could be taken to the field hospitals in from ten to twenty minutes. These hospitals were situated about six or seven kilometers from the front. Usually the base hospitals were placed much further away.
During the fierce fighting which had occurred a short time before, the ambulance section to which Don Hale belonged had carried over two thousand wounded inside of a week.
Over the brow of the hill, about a hundred paces from the poste de secours, the main road began to descend, leading in a rather zigzag fashion to a little one-street village which we shall designate as Montaurennes. Montaurennes, with its air of quiet, rustic beauty, well set off by age-mellowed stuccoed walls enclosing gardens, had, at one time, when viewed between the trees from the hilltop, made a charming picture. Not so now, however. Scarcely a whole house was left standing—the majority had been reduced to disordered heaps of bricks and stones, and of the little spired church which once graced its center only a few pieces of jagged walls remained.
Three times the little village had changed hands, and its streets and lanes had witnessed some of the most terrible hand-to-hand conflicts, when steel met steel, and bayonets—not guns—became the deciding factor.
The Germans, however, were finally dislodged, and now the French trenches cut squarely across the eastern end of the highway. Beyond, though not so very far beyond, running in an irregular fashion across the ridges of the opposite hills, stretched another line of trenches—those held by the Germans.
So the eight who had just entered the abri were very close indeed to the scene of actual warfare.
The underground shelter, the air of which was faintly impregnated with the odor of antiseptics, in the glare of the electric light became revealed as a roomy and comfortable retreat. The principal object which struck the eye on entering was an operating table in the center. There were also several stools, a couple of benches ranged alongside the walls and cots for the surgeons.