DON HALE
OVER THERE

By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

Author of

"DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES," ETC.

Illustrated by H. A. BODINE

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1918

COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

"Don Hale in the War Zone" recounts the many adventures of Don on a dangerous trip across the ocean, as well as in war-torn France, while seeking his father, an aviator in the service of the Allies. His chum, George Glenn, too, was an active participant in numerous exciting events.

The present volume, the second of the series, tells about the thrilling experiences that fell to the lot of Don, who, in common with numbers of other young Americans, volunteered his services as an ambulance driver in that great organization, the Red Cross, which has done so much for the cause of humanity during the world war.

Don views the operations at close range, and, naturally, amid such perilous surroundings, often finds himself in extremely serious situations.

His life in the war zone, however, is not all danger, and besides his work with the Red Cross he and some of his friends have an interesting experience in connection with a mystery which hovers over the ancient Château de Morancourt.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

Illustrations

Don Hale Over There

[CHAPTER I]

THE NEW ARRIVAL

"Yes, sir, it's been rather quiet along this sector for a week or two past, Chase, but believe an old veteran in the ambulance service when he says that it isn't going to remain so very long. An attack by one side or the other is bound to happen; and then—whizz!—bang! You'll hear more shells popping than you ever could have dreamed existed in the world. This is no children's party—eh, fellows?"

A volley of assents came from nine hearty voices.

The "old veteran," who had spoken with a great deal of earnestness, fixed his gaze quite searchingly, even sternly, upon Chase, a big, husky chap sitting close by, who had made no answer.

"Say, mon ami, what made you join the Red Cross, anyway?" he asked.

Chase, disregarding his question, rose to his feet, stretched himself and yawned. He wore the air of one who is entirely out of harmony with his surroundings. Whereas all the rest, in spite of the hazardous nature of their calling, appeared to be full of life and spirits, he looked sullen and discontented.

"I declare, these nights are about the limit!" he exclaimed, in a growling tone—"nothing to do but loaf around and——"

"One kicker in a crowd is one too many," remarked the "old veteran," or, rather, Dunstan Farrington, with a laugh which softened the bluntness of his observation.

"Too bad he didn't remain in the states," added Hugh Wendell.

The observations of the two had only the effect of causing Chase to shrug his shoulders and lapse into a silence which no one seemed inclined to disturb.

On the table in the middle of a large, bare room occupied by the boys stood an oil lamp which cast a yellowish glimmer over the surroundings and threw upon the walls and floor huge, grotesquely-shaped shadows. In the far corners the feeble light could not cope successfully with the darkness, and there somber gloom and mystery lurked.

To a casual observer the gathering might have appeared to be a social affair—a mere coming together of young chaps who had no very serious object in view; in reality, however, it was something far different—they belonged to a unit of Red Cross ambulance drivers, stationed for the time being in an abandoned hotel at a little shell-torn village not far from the now famous city of Verdun. The eleven were within a zone of death and destruction—a zone where peril was never absent for a single hour.

From the roadway outside came a ceaseless rumble. Motor lorries, huge supply trucks, ammunition wagons, in fact practically every kind of vehicle belonging to the transportation service of an army in the field was making its way under cover of darkness toward the front. And in the opposite direction a continuous line of "empties" flowed steadily past.

The constant growling and grumbling of the French batteries, from their masked positions in the hills to the east and northeast, were growing louder. The German artillery, too, located to the north and northwest, kept booming away.

After a while Dunstan Farrington brought out a sketch book, and with swift, sure strokes began to record some impressions he had received during the day. Dunstan was not a collegian, but a former student of the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris. During the early part of the great war, like numerous other young men, he had felt the call to action and had volunteered under the Red Cross.

More than once while under fire the boyish-looking young chap had performed some valiant deed in conveying the wounded soldiers from the battle-field, and had incidentally narrowly escaped death or serious injury. Dunstan, with several other equally brave Americans, also ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross, which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.

During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.

The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette, a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers behind the lines.

During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris—an inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.

The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and peaceful indeed it looked—just the sort of a place where one might expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.

A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.

The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual commanders were two college men from the United States—Hugh Wendell, Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks supplied the meals, and the section also included several French mechanics, though of course all the drivers were fully competent to overhaul and repair their cars.

From four to ten men and a number of ambulances were always on duty near the dressing stations, a few thousand yards from the front-line trenches—a dangerous post indeed, where the men were very often obliged to make a precipitous rush for their dugouts in order to escape the rain of devastating shells.

Yes, there was plenty of action, plenty of thrill and excitement in the life.

Chase, who had arrived but a short time before, during a lull in the fighting on that part of the western front, had as yet seen no dangerous service. The young chap was not very popular—persons of a sullen or taciturn disposition seldom are—and though he must have realized this he made no effort to turn the tide in his favor.

Bodkins, the musical member of the unit, had just brought forth his banjo, ready to indulge in his favorite pastime, when a noise at the door stopped him.

"Hello! Somebody's coming in," he exclaimed, looking up.

At that moment the door opened, and a dim, very vague form was seen standing at the threshold about to enter.

"Hello, fellows! Bon soir, Messieurs!" cried a cheery, youthful voice.

Whereupon every one in the room except Chase gave utterance to a hearty shout of welcome, Dunstan Farrington's voice rising high above the others.

"Hello yourself, Don Hale!" he shouted. "Back from your ten days' furlough, eh? You're a sight for sore eyes! Well, well, we're mighty glad to see you!"

[CHAPTER II]

A MYSTERY

"Say, what kind of a time did you have in Paris, boy?" exclaimed Gideon Watts. "Give us the latest news from civilization. What's in that bundle? Newspapers, by Jove! Hooray!"

It seemed as if every one in the room were intent upon shaking the newcomer's hand at the same identical moment.

"Had a perfectly dandy trip," returned the smiling Don Hale. "Maybe I didn't enjoy every minute of it, too. What do you think?—I actually saw an air raid on Paris. But the anti-aircraft guns soon sent the Kaiser's bomb-droppers flying to the cover of the nearest clouds. Hello!—a new member?"

"Ah, Monsieur, nous avons oublié quelquechose. Pardon our lack of politeness," laughed Bodkins—"also, I might say, my use of French. Honestly, fellows, it's like second nature to me now to let it roll off the tip of my tongue, and——"

"I've seen some Frenchmen almost roll over with mirth when they heard it," broke in Watts, cruelly.

"Jealousy!—there's another mean fling thee has to thy credit," sighed Bodkins. "Really, somebody ought to take a correspondence school course in manners. But here's what I intended to say: Mr. Chase Manning and Mr. Don Hale—let me introduce you to each other."

The newest member of the section and the youngest driver thereupon shook hands.

Then, after each had spoken the pleasant words appropriate to such an occasion, Chase drawled, slowly:

"'Pon my word, Mr. Hale, I never expected to see a youngster like you holding down such a responsible position! Why in the world did you come to France?"

Don gave a merry, infectious laugh, though he flushed a trifle at the reference to his boyish appearance; for he, in common with many lads of his age, liked to be considered as approaching man's estate.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Manning," he said.

"Call me Chase, if you please."

"Very well, sir, I will."

Don drew up a stool, stayed a hurricane of questions which the ambulanciers shot toward him from every quarter of the room with a cheery, "All right, fellows—just a minute," and, desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the taciturn young man, began his explanations.

In terse sentences he related how he and his chum, George Glenn, had left Chicago with the intention of joining Mr. Hale, who belonged to the aviation corps, in Paris. On reaching New York, however, they found that a letter and remittance which the two expected had not arrived. Don took passage on a munition ship and had a thrilling adventure at sea. Afterward he met George Glenn and they journeyed to the war zone together. A series of surprising incidents followed, and did not end until they encountered Mr. Hale in a little French village.

"By George! 'Pon my word!—quite a story," commented Chase at its conclusion. His face actually lighted up with a smile. "And then, not satisfied with all that excitement, you had to join the Red Cross in order to get a bit more, eh?"

"No; it wasn't for the sake of the thrills, though they come pretty often in the day's work," laughed Don.

"What's become of your friend?"

"George? Why, he's preparing to enter the aviation service."

"Then he's sure to rise above you very quickly," drawled Chase.

"Ha, ha!" giggled Bodkins. "Did you hear that, boys? Chase Manning's first joke. Remember the day and date."

Don joined in the general laugh which followed, then remarked:

"And now, Chase——"

"Nothing doing, son. My history wouldn't interest even a cat," broke in Chase, quickly. His voice and manner underwent a sudden change; once again he appeared the same surly, discontented chap as before. "You may have this much information, however: I'm from that 'somewhere in America' known as Maine."

By this time many of the ambulanciers were eagerly examining the Paris newspapers—the first they had seen for some time—while others fairly peppered the aviator's son with questions concerning his trip. A journey to the French capital, after the hard grind of work and the dangers to which they were daily exposed, really marked an epoch in the lives of the drivers, and the next best thing to enjoying the pleasure themselves, according to the majority, was to listen to an account of the experiences of some one who had.

And, very naturally, Don Hale, bubbling over with buoyant spirits, had much to say.

While engaged in conversation they heard the sound of an explosion, startlingly loud, rising above the clatter of passing traffic and dull booming of artillery.

"Hello! There's a shell that landed almost near enough to say, 'How do you do?'" cried the chef.

Chase hastily sprang from his seat, with his mouth half open.

"Great Scott!" he blurted out, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "I never heard one of these confounded things burst so close to the old shack before."

"I know of a certain village which the Boches didn't present with a single shell for months and months," put in Dunstan, dryly, "and just when everybody began to consider it a lovely and peaceful place—a haven of refuge in time of danger—the German batteries, early one morning, suddenly started working overtime. No, Messieurs, it probably will never be rebuilt."

"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."

A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.

Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.

Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:

"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."

Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.

Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:

"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."

Dunstan replied:

"A grouch of the first class, Don."

Again: "Don't judge too soon."

"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"

And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.

"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."

"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."

Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.

Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.

At length John Weymouth raised his hand.

"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"

"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."

"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."

The latter shook his head.

"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."

"Dunstan, then?"

"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."

"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——"

"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."

"What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student.

"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.

Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.

"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself——"

"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."

"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.

"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"

Bang! Bang!

Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.

Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.

"Confound it!" he muttered.

"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."

"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château—one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which——"

"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."

"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."

"And what was that?" queried Wendell.

"The collection of paintings and objects of art."

"There it comes, boys!—the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"

His words were couched in a tone of accusation.

"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."

"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here—up toward the front!"

"That's the very place, my son."

"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"

"The Count de Morancourt had in his gallery some of the most valuable of all old masters—a Correggio, a Titian and a Botticelli, besides several examples of the Dutch school, such as Rembrandt and Franz Hals, for instance."

"Well, suppose he had—what of it?" demanded "Peewee," a trifle impatiently. "He isn't the first old gent that's been a bug on collecting pictures. Where does your story begin to become a story?"

"The French government made many efforts to acquire some of Count de Morancourt's treasures for the Louvre," answered Dunstan, "but he always refused to dispose of them."

"No story yet," growled "Peewee."

"Wait."

"That's what we're doing."

"Not long after the beginning of the war the count left the Château de Morancourt and also the land of his birth and set sail for America. Now comes the curious part of the story. With the government and the most famous art dealers of Europe on the qui vive to get hold of his old masters it would have been practically impossible for the count to sell them without the fact becoming immediately known."

"Quite true," assented Wendell.

"It has been proven, too, beyond all doubt, that no part of his collection accompanied the grand seigneur to America."

"What is all this leading to?" inquired Watts.

"Only this: that all the valuable paintings and bric-à-brac, without exception, have disappeared—vanished—gone!"

"Vanished!" echoed Don, his face lighting with interest. "A jolly nice mystery, I call it. There's where the story becomes a story, eh, 'Peewee'?"

"It sounds like one of those 'to-be-continued' yarns," grumbled "Peewee." He winked impressively at Bodkins. "Anyhow, what's the use of ado and chatter about a few old paintings? I'm on call to-night, boys—which means that I must be ready to take out my car at an instant's notice. Guess I'll hit the pillow."

He stretched himself and yawned.

"Why don't they get the old count to explain the matter?" inquired Weymouth.

"I understand he can't be found," answered Dunstan.

"Perhaps the stuff is all in Berlin."

"The Château de Morancourt was never in the hands of the Germans."

"It might have been stolen by some of that great retinue of servants you spoke about," suggested "Peewee."

"Not at all likely. They were sent away some time before the count himself left."

"Well, if official investigators can't solve the mystery I'm sure it's no use for us to puzzle our heads about it," put in Watts. "I always like a story which has some sort of an end, Dunstan. Your affair of the Château de Morancourt wouldn't be so bad but for that."

"I say, let's visit the place the very first chance we get," cried Don. "Those old castles always interested me immensely, and in this case that mystery'll add to the charm."

"Sure we will, Don."

"I reckon I'll go along, too," declared the taciturn Chase, somewhat to the surprise of the others—"that is, if we don't happen to get blown into bits beforehand."

"We'll be glad to have you," said Dunstan, cordially. The art student smiled. "Of course I don't mean blown into bits." He looked around. "Any one else?"

No enthusiastic response came to his ears, whereupon he broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

"I see my story has fallen rather flat," he chuckled. "But never mind, boys. Perhaps our visit to the Château de Morancourt may be the means of our being supplied with an interesting chapter or two on the history of that ancient structure."

"At least it will be a pleasant change," grunted Chase.

"I know how it'll all end, Dunstan," giggled "Peewee." "You'll bring back a pencil drawing, all shaded by hand and labeled with the title and the date of the date."

"All shaded by hand!—the date of the date!" scoffed Bodkins. "Take my advice, 'Peewee'—never speak unless you're spoken to; then the extent of your dreadful ignorance won't be so noticeable."

Dunstan joined in the merry laughter at the expense of the grinning "Peewee" which followed, then, seizing Don by the arm, he exclaimed:

"Come, boy, you look quite serious—upon what, may I ask, are your thoughts fixed so intently?"

"Upon the Château de Morancourt," laughed Don. "That's quite a story, Dunstan."

[CHAPTER III]

ON DUTY

Early on the following morning, while the light of the coming day was slowly spreading throughout the heavens and by degrees bringing into view the landscape which for long hours the deep shades of night had gathered to themselves, Don Hale and Dunstan Farrington clambered into ambulance number eight and took their places on the driver's seat.

"Another forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost ahead of us!" exclaimed Don.

"Yes; and I hope there won't be too much excitement!" said Dunstan. "I reckon Chase Manning would agree to that sentiment."

"There's a chap whose acquaintance I am certainly going to cultivate," laughed the aviator's son.

The boy waved his hand to a couple of mechanicians tinkering over an ambulance near by, threw in the clutch, and number eight, the center of a very strong smell of gasoline, slowly trundled over the cobbled paving, passed beneath the arching gateway and entered the street.

Even at that early hour soldiers billeted in the village were to be seen on every hand, and as the Red Cross car swung along in an easterly direction over the wide highway an occasional "Vive l'Amerique!" rose clearly above the hum of smoothly-working pistons and rumble of wheels.

Traveling at a rapid rate of speed, the ambulance soon reached a bend, and just beyond the road passed under the arch of an ancient porte, or gateway, which marked the limits of the town. Very picturesque and typical of other centuries it looked, looming up against the slowly-lightening sky.

Beyond the porte the ambulance passed a succession of hills and meadows. Everywhere the earth had been pitted, scarred and plowed up by high-explosive shells, and at frequent intervals there were huge yawning craters, meters in depth and width, some showing the earth freshly disturbed, others where it was hard and dry.

The guns still boomed away, and spurting columns of smoke rising here and there told where the shells from the German batteries were falling.

"I hope the Boche won't be tossing any of their property along the Chemin de Mort as we pass," exclaimed Dunstan.

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if they did," declared Don.

Dunstan glanced at his young companion curiously.

"By George, Don, your nerves are like your helmet—made of steel," he said, admiringly. "Don't you ever get the quiver, the shiver and the shakes like the rest of us?"

"You bet I do," laughed Don. "Hello!—Hear that!—seemed to be right in the direction for which we're bound."

"Yes," said Dunstan, slowly—"not only seemed to be, but was."

Very shortly afterward the Red Cross car sped swiftly around a bend in the road and into one of the most dangerous stretches of the entire journey. This was the Chemin de Mort, or Road of Death, so named because of the fact that for a distance of over a kilometer it lay in full view of the German trenches and artillery and within easy range of shell-fire. Eleven ambulances belonging to the section had been almost put out of service along that kilometer of deadly danger by bursting shrapnel shells, and at certain times it required all the courage and nerve a driver possessed to stick to his car. Number eight, one of the eleven damaged cars, still showed the marks made by the leaden hail.

Probably no member of the unit ever arrived at the Chemin de Mort or raced across its sinister length without experiencing decidedly peculiar and uncomfortable sensations—sensations in which dread and awe formed a prominent part.

"Let 'er rip, Don!" cried Dunstan, anxiously.

"First speed it is," said Don.

Number eight bowled swiftly ahead, sometimes jolting and bumping over inequalities in the road, while the two on the front seat kept their eyes fixed on a bend beyond. Only a few moments were required to reach it, and when the car shot around into a safer zone both Don and Dunstan gave a little sigh of relief.

"I always find myself wondering if something tragic isn't going to happen along here one of these days," murmured Dunstan.

"It hasn't yet," said Don.

"I know; but——"

The art student paused and shrugged his shoulders.

"Hello! Here comes one of our cars!" cried Don.

His sharp eyes had just caught sight of a small object enveloped in a cloud of dust swinging into view in the distance.

On and on it raced at terrific speed; larger and larger became the vehicle and its accompanying cloud of flying particles. A shaft of the early morning sunlight, shooting across the landscape, tinted it with a rosy glow; sharp lights gleamed and flashed on the polished surfaces. Then, with a rush—a clatter—a whirl of wheels—it bore down a gentle incline immediately in front of them. Now the red cross, the emblem of mercy, on the ambulance's side could be clearly discerned, and Don and Dunstan had a confused and momentary impression of a grim-faced driver, tense and alert, bending over the steering wheel and a companion by his side. Then the road ahead was clear.

"An urgent case!" murmured Don.

"I thought some of those shells were landing near the post," said Dunstan.

Number eight now turned another bend and began ascending a hill, with woods on either side of the road. The highway at this point became rather narrow and winding, and was in the midst of a neighborhood almost as much dreaded as the Chemin de Mort. At night, with the road shrouded in deep black shadows and barely room for vehicles to pass and the likelihood that careless driving might at almost any moment cause a car to topple into a shell-hole, the combination was one calculated to test the skill of the most expert drivers.

The forest was filled with guns of many calibers. And before the war it must have been a very beautiful forest; for pines, cedars, hemlocks, oaks and horse chestnuts, ages old, were growing in great profusion. But the German batteries on the opposite hills had sent veritable hurricanes of screaming shells into its midst. The withering blasts had stripped countless trees of their foliage—so shattered and blasted others that forlorn, ugly-looking stumps alone remained.

Yet the French batteries had withstood the bombardment, and many a time the ambulanciers driving along that narrow road in the forest had been almost deafened by the terrific concussions of the guns.

And as cannon must have ammunition numerous supply posts were situated near the winding road. Cleverly hidden from the eyes of German airmen stretched row after row of shells suitable for every gun, and enormous quantities of boxes containing cartridges and hand-grenades.

As the Red Cross car climbed the hills and descended into the valleys, with the sun's rays ever strengthening and sending slender shafts of pearly light between the trees and spotting their boughs and branches, the two Americans caught occasional glimpses of figures in the depth of the forest—artillerymen, ready for the day's work.

Shells were bursting not far away; detonations came one after another. But the French batteries now remained silent.

"Hit it up again, Don," advised Dunstan, as the car approached a high hill. "If there is any one spot the Boche seem to have the exact range of it's right along here."

"Gideon Watts knows all about that," rejoined the youthful driver, grimly. "Narrow shake he had, eh?—car almost put out of commission and Gideon sent shooting into the road!"

"That day's work was responsible for Gideon getting the Croix de Guerre," said Dunstan. "He stuck to his post with 'arrivés' dropping all about him like hail. I can't imagine Chase Manning doing that, Don."

Farrington began to chuckle softly, though a strained look appeared in his eyes as he glanced up at the sky.

"Don't know enough about him yet to offer any opinion," returned Don.

Then a silence between the two ensued—a silence which continued while the ambulance was chug-chugging its way up the steep incline. Very soon the summit was reached and the dangerous hill and a crossroad near the top left behind.

Don remarked, reflectively:

"I've been thinking about that trip to the Château de Morancourt, Dunstan."

"I haven't," said the other, very frankly. "My mind, just now, was on high-explosive shells."

Don laughed.

"The same here up to a minute or so ago," he confessed. "But honestly, Dunny, somehow, my curiosity has been excited a whole lot by your story about the château."

"I'm glad to hear it," chuckled the art student.

The road in places was deeply rutted and worn by the passage of countless vehicles, but the driver, skilled in the art of avoiding the bad portions, took his car down a gentle slope at quite a lively pace. At length number eight once more began making an ascent, and it was not very long before the summit of the hill was reached. Turning sharply off on a little spur lying at right angles to the main road, the ambulanciers suddenly came in sight of two cars parked close together.

"Here we are at the outpost!" cried Dunstan, quite gaily. "Hello, fellows! What's been going on?"

The door of an abri, or underground shelter near the cars opened, revealing a glare of electric light inside. Four young Americans hastily emerged, and there was a lively series of salutations. Right behind the boys came three French army surgeons dressed in white.

"Ferd Blane and Jim Roland had a couple of blessés,"[2] called one of the Red Cross drivers. "Meet them?"

"You bet—tooting it along at the dickens of a pace, too."

"What happened?"

"A marmite[3] dropped into the door of a dugout in the first-line trenches."

"Hard luck for some poor poilus!" murmured Don.

With a bit of clever maneuvering he brought his car alongside of the other two, then both he and Dunstan sprang to the ground.

"The Boches have been presenting us with some pretty heavy salutes this morning." The same young chap as before, speaking very cheerfully, imparted the information. "And if you don't believe it"—he smiled—"I can make you acquainted with the sight of several new and jolly big shell-holes."

"I told Don that something was happening in this direction, Ravenstock," replied Dunstan. "The worst for a long time, eh?"

"Well, rather. Enough, too, to make the abri look pretty good to us—n'est-ce pas, Messieurs Rice, Batten and Vincent?"

The Americans appealed to agreed, though all seemed to regard the matter as of little importance. Constant association with danger and thrills had long before accustomed them to the strain.

In another moment Don and Dunstan were following the others into the shelter.

[CHAPTER IV]

UNDERGROUND

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.

The ambulanciers who, during their forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost, always remained fully dressed, were content to get what rest they could on the stretchers. Pictures clipped from newspapers and magazines adorned the walls, and Dunstan had also contributed his talent toward making the place pleasant and cheerful by hanging several of his paintings in conspicuous positions.

The drivers stationed at the outpost questioned Don Hale as eagerly concerning his experiences in Paris as the boys at the Hotel de la Palette had done. Any news was welcome to the ambulanciers, who were compelled to pass so much of their time away from the general haunts of men.

"Why in thunder didn't you bring us a stack of prints?" demanded Ravenstock.

"Look in the car," laughed Don.

"Good old scout!" cried the driver, making a rush outside.

In a moment or two, returning with a bundle of Parisian dailies, he was immediately besieged by the others and left in possession of a single copy. Thereupon all, including the three French surgeons, Docteurs Benoist, Savoye and Vianey, deciding that it would be more pleasant outside, left the shelter and made themselves comfortable by the entrance.

The sun, rising higher in the heavens, sent shafts of light over the ground and spotted the boughs and tree trunks with its radiance. Birds flitting among the branches kept up a constant and noisy chattering.

Dunstan, true to his artistic impulses, began making a sketch of Docteur Benoist, and after more than a half hour of studious application, paused long enough to hold it up for inspection.

"Capital—capital!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, who possessed some knowledge of English. "What certainty of touch!—worthy of Sargent himself, Monsieur Farrington."

"Sargent! Who's Sargent?" demanded Vincent.

"Great Cæsar, man! Do you mean to stand there and tell me you've never heard of Sargent?" cried Dunstan.

"I'm not standing; I'm sitting," corrected Vincent, with a chuckle.

"Oh, well!" The art student shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "One can't expect too much from the man in the street."

"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."

"Wrong again," laughed the other. "I'm not in the street."

A short time later Ferd Blane and Jim Roland returned from their trip to the field hospital, and they too gave Don Hale a hearty greeting. In answer to his inquiry concerning the blessés Roland spoke up in a tone of conscious pride:

"The medicine chef said that our quick run may have been the means of saving a life. That's the kind of thing which makes a chap feel satisfied to stick to the job no matter how fast the shells are falling."

"You bet!" agreed Don, heartily.

As they talked the sullen, angry roar of the guns came over the air, and every little while, rising sharply above it, the éclat, or explosion, of a shell landing somewhere among the trees.

At length the surgeons and ambulanciers sought shady spots close to the abri, for the day was growing hot, and only an occasional breath of air stirred the leaves and grasses.

Between twelve and two a curious lull came in the cannonading, an almost daily occurrence, which every one attributed to the fact that even the grim business of war must wait on appetite. The batteries of both sides started up briskly again, but the long hours of the afternoon wore on and drew to a close without the brancardiers bringing in any blessés.

A beautiful sunset sky tinged the tree tops with an echo of its brilliant colors, and as the daylight gradually faded, the moon in the east, shining resplendently, gained in strength until at length the forest became a fairylike place—a place of ghostly, silvery lights and grayish shadows.

Owing to the clearness of the night no traffic was moving close to the front; so the German batteries threw but few shells in the direction of the road.

"I guess I'll get a little rest," declared Rice, as midnight approached.

"So shall I," said Jim Roland. "I'm going to take mine in the car."

"Have a care, mon ami," advised Docteur Vianey.

"That's the trouble; we have too many already," chuckled the ambulancier.

Don and Dunstan, electing to follow Roland's example, a short time later climbed into number eight and made themselves comfortable on the brancards, or stretchers, using a rolled up blanket as a pillow. And while they lay there waiting—still waiting for the call of duty, the whistle of the "arrivés," as the shells which came from the German guns were called, and the "departs"—those hurled by the French batteries—frequently sounded over the air.

But the night passed without any especial incident.

The next day was almost a repetition of the first, and when Don and Dunstan, at the expiration of their forty-eight hour stretch, returned to headquarters they had made only one trip to the field hospital. Each knew, however, that it was only a question of time when the nature of their occupation would necessarily carry them into a great deal more excitement and danger than they cared about.

[CHAPTER V]

UNDER FIRE

It frequently happened that the ambulanciers had been obliged to take their meals in the midst of shell-pitted fields, or perhaps in some little village street. On such occasions planks thrown across a couple of saw-horses served as a table.

At the Hotel de la Palette, however, things were very different. There, in the dining-room of the hostelry, they sat in comfort at the same tables before which, in former times, peasants and care-free patrons had once enjoyed repasts. The room, too, was very attractive, for the visiting artists had recorded with paint and brush their impressions of the charming scenery around. One of these pictures, executed on the panel of a door, was signed by an English landscape artist who later became a celebrated Royal Academician.

The rolling field kitchen, in charge of a French army cook, stood in one corner of the courtyard, and the members of the section took turns in acting as "chow," as the waiter was humorously called.

Don and Dunstan found that during their absence Chase Manning had been doing evacuation work—that is, conveying the wounded from the field hospital to a base hospital further away from the front. They learned, too, that he would be en repos[5] for the day.

"That's fine!" cried Don, as all sat around the breakfast table. "Why not let's pay the Château de Morancourt a visit this afternoon?"

"I'm with you," replied Chase.

"So am I," agreed Dunstan, heartily.

One of the drivers, "Tiny" Mason, began to laugh heartily. He had gained the appellation of "Tiny," so Bodkins explained to the uninformed, because his stature displaced only five feet three inches of atmosphere.

"I suppose you chaps are going to find out all about that missing stuff, eh?" he chuckled.

"If we do I'll let you know," laughed the art student.

Producing a pocket map, he showed his companions the location of the structure.

"Hello! It isn't very far from the Chemin de Mort," exclaimed Don, in surprise.

"Quite correct, my boy," said Dunstan.