Cornell University Library 
 D 640.R49 
 
 An ambulance driver in France; being expe 
 
 3 1924 Oil 532 623 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924011532623 
 
I I 
 
 I An Ambwknr]?! 
 I iruij^r it! 3xwxu I 
 
 PHILIP SIDNEY RICE 
 
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PHILIP SIDNEY RICE 
 
AN AMBULANCE DRIVER 
 
 -m— 
 
 FRANCE 
 
 BEING EXPERIENCES. MEMORIES AND IMPRESSIONS 
 OF THE WESTERN FRONT 
 
 PHILIP SIDNEY RICE 
 
 Introduction by 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL C. B. DOUGHERTY 
 
 PHOTOGRAPH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 Frontispiece in Color by 
 
 JAMES MAY RUTTER 
 
 Wilkes-Barre, Pa., 
 I 9 I 8 
 
T) [Si ':'\ 
 
 copteight 1918 
 Bt Philip Sidney Rice 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Extrait de I'Ordre No. 238 
 due 19 Septembre, 1917 
 Portant Citation d I'Ordre 
 de la Division. 
 
 69e Division d' Infanterie 
 Etat-Major-ler Bureau 
 
 Le General Monroe, Commandant le 69e Divi- 
 sion d' Infanterie, cite a I'Ordre de la Division, 
 les militaires dont les noms suivent; RICE, 
 PhiHp S., Condueteur a la Section Sanitaire 
 Americaine, 1, (20 Bscad. T. E. M.) : 
 
 "A tou jours doime I'exemple du plus grand 
 courage et de devouement dans les circon- 
 stances les plus penibles lors des evacuations 
 des blesses pendant les attaques d'Aout et Sep- 
 tembre, 1917, devant VERDUN. 
 
 Le General Commandant la 69^ A. T. 
 Signe : Monroe. 
 
 Extrait eertific conforme 
 A. G. le 29 Septembre 1917 
 Le Chepd Btate-Major. 
 EDMOND CHAPILLIN, 
 69^ Division D 'Infanterie 
 Etate Major. 
 
A citation in general orders, by the Com- 
 manding General of the 69th Division of 
 Infantry of the French Army, wliich declares 
 that Driver Philip S. Rice "has always set the 
 example of the greatest courage and devotion 
 in the most trying circumstances during the 
 evacuation of wounded in the attacks of August 
 and September, 1917, before Verdun," ought 
 to be sufficient introduction in itself to this 
 story of an American Ambulance Driver who 
 bore himself valiantly in those days of the 
 great tragedy at Verdun. And yet for the 
 story itself, and for the man who has written it, 
 something can be said by one of his friends in 
 appreciation of both the story and the man. 
 
 The literature that is coming out, and which 
 will come out, of the great war, will never 
 cease as long as history shall recite the efforts 
 of the German Spoiler to gain the mastery of 
 the world, and fill the world with hate and hun- 
 ger. Therefore, every bit of evidence that 
 shall touch even so lightly on every phase of 
 the conditions, and reveal even in the slightest 
 sense a picture of what happened, will have its 
 value. 
 
 Of Mr. Rice, I can say that as a youngster 
 the spirit of adventure was strong in him. He 
 tried his best to break into the War with Spain 
 in 1898, but his weight and heart action com- 
 pelled his rejection by the Surgeons. He later, 
 however, served with credit under my com- 
 mand, as an enlisted man, and as an officer of 
 
the Ninth Infantry, National Guard of Penn- 
 sylvania. 
 
 When the United States entered the conflict 
 on the side of the Entente Allies in the present 
 war, Mr. Bice knew that he could not gain a 
 place in the fighting forces, but he did not want 
 to miss the chance of in some measure giving 
 his personal services for the cause against the 
 Hun. He was accepted and became a member 
 of the American Ambulance Corps in France. 
 
 Herein is written the story of that service, 
 simply told, without vainglory or boasting, of 
 the soldier's work he did there — for it was as 
 a soldier he served. 
 
 Simply told, yes but weU told, for instance, 
 the recital of the story of that evening of July 
 13th, in the after dusk, when the guns had 
 silenced forever the voice of his comrade, Fred- 
 erick Norton, when they laid him to rest on the 
 side of the hiU in view of the enemy, and the 
 towers of the desecrated Cathedral of Rheims. 
 And that other time, when in front of Verdun, 
 the "slaughter house of the world," when 
 nerve-racked he had stopped his car on the 
 road, in the perfect heU upon earth, in the 
 midst of the shells and gas clouds, when he 
 said to himself: "If I do go and am hit, the 
 agony will be over in a few minutes, but, if I 
 turn back, the agony will be with me aU the 
 rest of my life," — so he put on his gas mask 
 and drove on. There was not one there to help 
 him decide in that moment. His brave resolu- 
 
tion was born of himself and within his own 
 soul. 
 
 The "Cross of War" is not given by France 
 for any but deserved action. The men of France 
 who commended and recommended Phil Rice 
 for the distinguished honor conferred upon him 
 knew that in every day of his service he 
 deserved what the French Government, through 
 General Monroe, Commanding the 69th Divi- 
 sion of Infantry, gave to him — the Croix de 
 Guerre. 
 
 It is something to have been a part of it, to 
 have visioned with your own eyes the scenes 
 and the places that now lay waste upon the 
 bosom of fair France; to have witnessed the 
 horrors of the deadly, gigantic monster War as 
 it is now being conducted "Over There". To 
 have heard singing in your ears the whirr of 
 the avions in the night air — to have seen with 
 your own eyes the tragic diorama of the hate- 
 ful and cruel side of war — and it is something 
 for your children's children in the years that 
 are yet to come to tell that in the Great War 
 their forebear bore an honorable part. 
 
 C. B. DOUGHERTY, 
 Major General National Guard of 
 Pennsylvania, Retired. 
 
FOREWORD. 
 
 To tell the truth, I hesitate to write of my 
 experiences because so many books have been 
 written about the war and the story of the 
 ambulaneier has been told before. 
 
 Many young Americans in sympathy with 
 the Allied cause, and particularly the cause 
 of France, and many Americans believing in 
 the upholding of the honor of their own coun- 
 try when others were holding back the flag, 
 went over as "crusaders" in advance of the 
 American Army. Many had gone over before 
 I went; some have come back and told their 
 story and told it well — and so, although I went 
 as a "crusader", I was not among the first to 
 cross. 
 
 But if my story interests a few of my friends 
 
 and kin I shall be satisfied with the telling 
 
 of it. 
 
 PHILIP SIDNEY RICE. 
 
I. 
 "CRUSADERS." 
 
11 
 
 It was a glorious afternoon in Spring, to be 
 exact, May nineteen, nineteen seventeen, at 
 about three bells, that the French liner "Chi- 
 cago ' ' moved out of her dock and started down 
 the North river on the voyage to Prance, 
 crowded for the most part with volunteers, 
 entering various branches of service in the 
 World "War. There were doctors, camion driv- 
 ers, aviators, ambulanciers — also a few civilians, 
 a half dozen members of the Comedie Francaise 
 returning to their native land and stage and 
 more than likely there were one or two spies. 
 It was without doubt the largest crowd of 
 "Crusaders" who had embarked for France 
 since the war began. 
 
 The dock was crowded, too, with relatives 
 and friends of those who were sailing; there 
 was waving of flags, cheering and shedding 
 of tears, and it was my observation that those 
 who were being left behind took the departure 
 harder than those who were leaving. But I 
 suppose that is true when one starts on any 
 long journey and I suppose it is especially true 
 when one starts on the last long journey to a 
 better world. 
 
 Those of us on the boat were not bound for 
 a better world, we were just bound by going 
 to help make the world a little better if we 
 could. But some whom I met on the voyage 
 have since passed on to a better world. 
 
12 
 
 I am sure that most of the men on board 
 were imbued with a spirit of seriousness. I 
 was serious about the journey myself. Prac- 
 tically since the war began, I had been moved 
 with a desire to get into it. I resented the 
 invasion of Belgium, as have all red-blooded 
 people, no matter what their nationality. I 
 resented the murder of Edith CaveU; I re- 
 sented the sinking of the Lusitania ; I resented 
 the atrocities committed, not against the people 
 of any race in particular, but against fellow 
 human beings; I resented the loud clamorings 
 of white-blooded pacifists and Prussian pro- 
 pagandists who would have kept us out of war 
 at any price, even at the price of honor. When 
 I finally reached the decision to take a small 
 part in the war and acted upon that decision 
 by enlisting as a volunteer ambulance driver, 
 I felt touched with a spirit of rest. 
 
 T did not know a single soul aboard when 
 the liner cast off and backed out into the river. 
 T knew quite a few before we reached Bor- 
 deaux. Ship board is the easiest place in the 
 world to make acquaintances, and being alone 
 I drifted about, perhaps, more than if I had 
 gone on board with a crowd of my own friends. 
 
 That morning in the Waldorf I had been 
 told by Fred Parrish that a young fellow 
 by the name of Meeker was going over for 
 aviation and I had been told to look him 
 up. A little later that same morning, while 
 walking down Fifth avenue, bound for Bren- 
 
13 
 
 tano's to purchase a French dictionary and 
 a volume of Bernard Shaw's plays (I 
 already had a Testament), I ran into my 
 literary friend, Mr. George Henry Payne. It 
 seemed perfectly natural to run into George 
 on Fifth avenue — he seemed perfectly at home 
 there. George is cosmopolitan — he is at home 
 anywhere. He had sometimes been in my "Lit- 
 tle Bed House on the Hill," which I caU my 
 summer home in Dallas, Pennsylvania. "Dark- 
 est Dallas," George called it. 
 
 Meeting George on Fifth avenue has a bear- 
 ing on my trip across. He informed me that a 
 
 friend of his, a Miss Katherine G , was 
 
 sailing on the same boat. George told me to 
 introduce myself to her and said he woiild 
 communicate with her and vouch for the meet- 
 ing. There was no time for a full description. 
 George merely informed me that she was 
 charming, though intellectual — ^that she had 
 translated the works of Brandies into English 
 and done a lot of heavy stuff Uke that. I con- 
 fess I was a little terrified at the prospect of 
 meeting Miss Katherine G . 
 
 The boat was soon headed down the river 
 and the crowd of friends and relatives on the 
 dock, faded from view, stiU waving farewell. 
 Before we passed the Statue of I/iberty I ran 
 into Meeker — ^fine, wholesome looking yoimg 
 chap — dressed in a light spring suit — a flower 
 in his buttonhole. I saw a lot of Meeker before 
 we reached the other side. He had spirit, and 
 
14 
 
 speaking of going as a "Crusader", he re- 
 marked: "I would rather be a 'went' than a 
 'sent'. At dinner I met a number of other 
 fellows, among them a young aviator just out 
 of Princeton. His name was Walcott. 
 
 I only kept a diary for a few days. I found 
 that everyone was keeping a diary. One day 
 on deck I heard a man reading a page of his 
 to an acquaintance and I heard him remark 
 ■with a show of pride that the other fellows in 
 his stateroom were keeping their diaries by 
 copying from his. I heard him read : ' ' Arose at 
 seven o'clock, took a bath at seven fifteen; had 
 breakfast at eight, on deck eight-thirty, sea is 
 choppy. ' ' And I thought to myself as I moved 
 about the deck: "What an inspiring docu- 
 ment to leave to one's descendants." So after 
 about four days, I stopped keeping a diary. In 
 one of the pages of the brief one that I kept 
 1 find the following : 
 
 "I wonder what the intellectual Miss G 
 
 looks like — ^whether she is prematurely old, 
 anaemic or possibly has a tuft of hair on her 
 chin. I have never read Brandeis but he sounds 
 
 heavy. I called on Miss G last evening 
 
 after dinner. Ports were masked — curtains 
 drawn, the decks were black except for spots 
 of fire indicating a cigarette here and there. 
 But in the darkness there was singing, and it 
 was good, too. The submarines have not ears — 
 only one eye like the witches in Macbeth. I 
 decided to call on Miss G and I approached 
 
15 
 
 her stateroom thinking of Brandeis, of high- 
 brow feminine youth prematurely blighted, of 
 a tuft of hair and anaemia. The stateroom door 
 was open and there were lights. The room was 
 littered with roses and clothes and things. 
 There was a feminine, human touch to that 
 
 stateroom, but Miss G was not within. 
 
 Perhaps she was on the deck somewhere among 
 those cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the 
 dark. I hastily tossed my card upon her pil- 
 low and returned to the deck. Miss G has 
 
 not returned my call — I have not seen her to 
 my knowledge." 
 
 Later that first evening on board I went up 
 into the smoking room and a cloud of blue 
 smoke hung low over the occupants who crowd- 
 ed the room. They did not look like members 
 of a peace commission — some were dressed in 
 khaki, some wore yellow driving coats, one 
 wore the xmiform of the American Ambulance. 
 Over at a corner table three French officers, in 
 their light blue uniforms, were seated with 
 ladies whom I afterward learned were their 
 wives. One of the officers wore the Croix de 
 Guerre, which filled me with admiration and 
 envy. At another table was a young French 
 girl surrounded by admiring men. She was 
 vivacious, possessed of a high color and beau- 
 tiful teeth — even if she did smoke cigarettes. 
 Her friends called her "Andree". At another 
 table a lively card game was going on — later 
 
16 
 
 T got to know the participants — ^Harris, Lam- 
 hert, Bixby, Branch, Foltz and others. 
 
 Down in the music room it was crowded, too. 
 8ome one was playing the piano and playing 
 well. Altogether it was a likely looking crowd 
 that I found on the boat. 
 
 Among my early acquaintances was a prom- 
 ising young poet whom I was told had already 
 kept his promise. He informed me that he 
 was just out of Harvard and lived at South 
 Orange, New Jersey, a combination which con- 
 vinced me that he must be of good family. We 
 discovered that we had some things in common 
 — we both liked Camel cigarettes and disliked 
 white-blooded pacifists. We were photo- 
 graphed together by a mutual friend. I have 
 always been willing to have my photograph 
 taken with a successful poet, providing he 
 wore good clothes and did not wear long hair. 
 T was glad to be photographed with Bob Hill- 
 yer. He wore a blue serge suit, a light blue neck- 
 tie and had rather sad eyes, though I thought 
 be was too young to have suffered much. The 
 well-to-do never suffer much at Harvard. He 
 had a slight cold and I prescribed for him out 
 of a medicine chest which had been presented 
 to me before sailing. The next day he told 
 me he felt much better. I did not tell him that 
 T discovered too late that I had given him the 
 wrong medicine — there must be something in 
 Christian Science. 
 
 I met another young fellow who was not a 
 
17 
 
 poet. He introduced himself to me and said 
 he had met me before somewhere. I could 
 not recall the incident, though his name was 
 familiar. On better acquaintance I got to call 
 hjm "Bridgey" for short. He suggested that 
 we take a walk around the deck, which was in 
 darkness except for the cigarettes glowing 
 here and there. Bridgey fell over a coil of 
 rope before we had covered the starboard side, 
 after which he inquired the number of his 
 stateroom and retired for the night. The next 
 morning he came to me and confided that he 
 was rooming in a cabin with a begoggled Chris- 
 tian who had taken him to task for his levity 
 of the night before. I inquired what form his 
 levity had taken, and he confessed "I tried to 
 feed grapes to him when he wanted to go to 
 sleep and then accidently smashed an electric 
 light globe while taking off my shoe." I tried 
 to comfort him with the thought that Chris- 
 tianity was not merely a matter of goggles. 
 
 There were two fellows on the boat whom I 
 was destined to know intimately later on after 
 reaching the front. They were from Provi- 
 dence, Rhode Island. One was tall and slender 
 and had red hair. His name I learned was 
 Harwood B. Day. He will always be known 
 affectionately to me as "Eed" Day. The other 
 was tall and slender and had dishevelled hair 
 from constant reading. His name I learned 
 was Frank Famham. To me he will alwavs 
 
18 
 
 just be "Parney". Day was returning to the 
 service after a visit in the States. 
 
 On a later page in my brief diary, from 
 which I have already quoted, I find the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 "Sapristi! I have just met Miss Katherine 
 G . She may be intellectual but she cer- 
 tainly is charming. She may have translated 
 Brandeis into English and done other heavy 
 stuff like that, but she is not prematurely old. 
 She is not anaemic and there is not a tuft of 
 hair on her chin. She is young, she has black 
 hair and black eyes and a kindly smile like a 
 practical Christian. She is feminine. Her 
 stateroom told the story — littered with flow- 
 ers, clothes and things. If the boat is hit I 
 shall certainly be one of several who will offer 
 her a life belt." There my diary ended. 
 
 The voyage was calm enough and without 
 many exciting incidents. One of the passen- 
 gers died. He was very old and feeble when 
 he came on board, bound for his home I believe, 
 in Greece. He was buried at sea early one 
 morning before those who had gone to bed had 
 risen. 
 
 Many passengers slept on deck while passing 
 through the war zone. The ship 's concert took 
 place a couple of nights before we landed. 
 Many passengers stayed on deck during the 
 ship's concert. Miss G and the two avia- 
 tors, Meeker and Walcott, took part in a one- 
 act play. I wrote the play originally but Miss 
 
19 
 
 Gr re-wrote it because she said it was too 
 
 "high-brow", which convinced me that she 
 was wonderfidly human though highly intel- 
 lectual. 
 
 Reaching Prance, we "crusaders" who had 
 become intimate on the long voyage, which 
 was all too short, went our various ways — 
 some to aviation fields — some to camion camps 
 — some to the American Field Headquarters 
 at 21 Rue Reynouard, Paris, France. Some I 
 have seen since — some I will never see again. 
 
 Coming out of an Eleventh Century Cathe- 
 dral in Bordeaux with a couple of friends, I 
 saw Andree pass by in an open carriage. She 
 was smiling happily, showing her white teeth 
 when she turned and waved to us as the car- 
 riage disappeared around the corner. 
 
 I last saw Meeker and Walcott in front of 
 the Cafe de la Paix in Paris. I wished them 
 luck in their undertaking for the cause. 
 Meeker and Walcott, aviators, have since 
 fallen on the field and I am sure the world is 
 bound to be just a little better for the magnifi- 
 cent, inspiring sacrifice that they have made. 
 
 In Paris I met Frederick Norton, of Goshen, 
 New York. 
 
20 
 
 II. 
 
 Friday, the twenty-second of June, I arose 
 upon a birthday anniversary. I had no inten- 
 tion of observing it, but I felt in a vaguely 
 definite way that something interesting was 
 to happen before the day was over and this 
 feeling was not long in growing from the 
 vague to the definite. 
 
 Prom the time of reaching Paris I was busily 
 engaged in various ways at the headquarters 
 of the American Field Service while impa- 
 tiently waiting my turn to go to the front. I 
 was more than impatient — at times I was fret- 
 ful. I even believe that upon cross examina- 
 tion the heads of the service would admit 
 that I was absolutely annoying. I supposed 
 that I would be assigned to a new ambu- 
 lance section soon to be organized, but on 
 this day that I have mentioned, I was 
 informed that I was to fill a vacancy in Sec- 
 tion Number One, the oldest American Field 
 Section serving vrith the Frency army. I was 
 in luck. Section One had been at the Battle 
 of the Marne, it had served in Belgium — ^it 
 had been at Verdun in nineteen-sixteen and 
 had gained a glorious record for itself at vari- 
 ous places along the Western Front. I was 
 to be prepared to leave Paris on Sunday morn- 
 ing, and to my delight I learned that Frederick 
 Norton was also to join the same Section. 
 While working together in the Paris headquar- 
 
21 
 
 ters we discovered that we had many mutual 
 friends and this naturally put us on a friendly 
 footing from the beginning. We found that 
 our ideas coincided about many things and 
 about people. I thought Norton had some 
 pretty good ideas and was an excellent judge 
 of people. Sometimes when we were talking 
 together he would say about someone: "How 
 do you size him up?" And I would teU him. 
 Usually our ideas coincided. Norton had been 
 8 traveler — he had been to Alaska — ^he had 
 been north with Peary — he had been to Japan 
 — he already knew something of France — he 
 had been a hunter — ^he had a pilot's license 
 to drive an aeroplane — ^he had done some 
 toboganning and skiing in Switzerland, 
 which are not sports for the timid. These 
 things I learned from him slowly, for he 
 was extremely modest and not given to talking 
 about his exploits. I was glad when I found 
 that we were to start for the battle front 
 together, and he was kind enough to say that 
 he was glad, too. 
 
 Saturday night and a short " Grood-night " 
 to Paris. A short "good-night" because cafes 
 close at nine o'clock, and besides I must be up 
 early the following morning. In company with 
 my delightful Pagan friend "Bridgey", I went 
 around to a little quiet out of the way cafe, 
 which was hardly known to Americans. The 
 little cafe was kept by an elderly lady whose 
 
22 
 
 husband had been killed in the war and by 
 her daughter whose husband had also been 
 killed in the war. This mother and daughter 
 were excellent cooks, but their place was plain 
 and free from artificial ostentation. There 
 was sawdust on the floor. Sitting in the little 
 back dining room we could see into the kitchen 
 and watch the meal being prepared. Across 
 the street in the "Chinese Umbrella" there was 
 more ostentation, style and atmosphere. The 
 "Chinese Umbrella" was patronized mostly by 
 j^mericans and the atmosphere was not Paris- 
 ian. 
 
 "Bridgey" had invited me there for a quiet, 
 exclusive farewell supper, and as we sat in 
 the back room of the cafe he regaled me with 
 an account of how he had tried for aviation 
 the day before. He was near-sighted and 
 wore spectacles, without which he could 
 sarcely see across the room. From a friend he 
 had procured a copy of the alphabet eye test 
 and had tried to commit it to memory; he re- 
 ported for examination with spectacles in his 
 pocket. He missed on the third letter, and 
 being brusquely informed that he had failed, 
 "Bridgey", who certainly had a sense of 
 humor, smilingly ad.iusted his spectacles and 
 bid adieu to the inspecting officer. 
 
 Supper finished, I said "Au voir" to madam 
 and her daughter, the two war widows, and 
 then went off to bed. 
 
23 
 
 "Bridgey" was on hand next morning to 
 see us start for the front. A few other 
 acquaintances were at the station, too. I have 
 not seen "Bridgey" since but I heard that he 
 was at Verdun during the big offensive. 
 
 Norton and I boarded the twelve o'clock 
 train, bound for the front. The train wa^ 
 crowded with French officers, grey-haired Gen- 
 erals, Colonels, officers of all ranks and of vari- 
 ous branches of the service. There were very 
 few civilians and not a half dozen women. 
 Twelve o'clock and Paris faded behind us as 
 we started for the battle front. 
 
m. 
 
 IN THE CHAMPAGNE 
 REGION. 
 
27 
 
 We left the train at Epernay, an important 
 city some twenty miles back from the battle 
 lines, but subject to air raids, as I observed 
 from demolished and dilapidated buildings in 
 various parts of the town, and as I was to learn 
 from personal experience before many days had 
 passed. 
 
 Here we were met by a member of Section 
 One, a young fellow by the name of Stout, well 
 named, of stocky build and robust appetite. 
 Norton and I had eaten lightly and suggested 
 that we repair to a cafe for luncheon before 
 proceeding on to where Section One had its 
 cantonment near the front. Stout said he 
 would join us for company's sake, but that 
 he had finished dinner just a short while 
 before. As we ate and talked a large plate of 
 pastry was placed upon the table and Stout was 
 prevailed upon to take one, and as we talked 
 Stout emptied the plate and we called for 
 more, which we divided with Stout. Luncheon 
 being finished and we had gainted the street, 
 I caught Norton's ear and said to him: "You 
 heard Stout say he had his sunday dinner?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You noticed the vanishing plate of sweets?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, it looks to me," I said, "as if Section 
 One is starving. ' ' 
 
 That was before we knew Stout of robust 
 appetite. But Stout had plenty of vim and 
 
28 
 
 vigor and was untiring, and later he won the 
 Croix de Guerre at Verdun. Stout and I quar- 
 reled at Verdiin, after which I had a genuine 
 affection for him. 
 
 We clambered into a motor truck, Stout 
 driving, and were on the second stage of our 
 journey to the front. We reached the town 
 of Louvois about six o'clock. Here Section 
 One had its cantonment. Loavois is a pic- 
 turesque village, far enough back from the 
 lines not to be entirely deserted by its civilian 
 population, mostly simple people living in sim- 
 ple homes just as their forbears had lived in 
 the same homes a hundred years and more 
 before. Here we began to breathe the atmos- 
 phere of the war — here, night and day, we saw 
 the movement of the troops to and from the 
 front — we saw the procession of camions car- 
 rying munitions and supplies — large cannons 
 being drawn by many horses — the little 
 machine guns — sometimes a fleet of armored 
 cars equipped with anti-aircraft guns. Over- 
 head we saw the large observation ballooons 
 and heard the whirr of aeroplanes. In the dis- 
 tance we could hear the firing at the front. 
 
 Supper was being served underneath a shed, 
 and it was a good supper, too. Section One 
 was not starving. "We were cordially received 
 by the members of the Section. "Red" Day 
 and "Farney" were in the gathering. "Red" 
 had served with the Section in Belgium. After 
 supper we strolled along the street and listened 
 
29 
 
 to Purdy, a bright young fellow, tell us all 
 about the war. 
 
 That night we were billited in the second 
 story of a dilapidated barn-like building from 
 which the windows were all gone, and lying 
 on my cot I could see the stars through the 
 roof. That night a rat ran across my face. At 
 last I was getting into the war. 
 
30 
 
 IV. 
 
 The following morning Norton and I, not 
 having been assigned to cars,*wrere set to work 
 changing a tire. Down on our hands and 
 knees we began to struggle — a few of the men 
 were standing about. Norton chuckled softly 
 and whispered to me: 
 
 "Have you ever changed a tire before?" 
 
 "No," I said; "have you?" 
 
 "No," chuckeled Norton, but we quickly fin- 
 ished the job and felt very proud of our first 
 effort. 
 
 A little later I was taken out for a trial ride 
 to prove whether or not I could reaUy drive a 
 Ford car. William Pearl, our volunteer mech- 
 anician, went with me on the run. Pearl had 
 been a Rhodes scholar and had joined the Sec- 
 tion some time before. A couple of months 
 after that trial drive he and I were destined 
 to have a thrilling and trying experience, in 
 which he was the principal actor. 
 
 The trial ride took us along a road for about 
 seven miles, where we came to the brow of a 
 hill. Here we stopped the car and walked out 
 into an open field and there I obtained my first 
 glimpse of the war, spread out before us in a 
 panorama. In the distance, to the left, I could 
 see the city of Rheims, the towers of its dese- 
 crated cathedral looming up distinctly. I 
 could see the shells falling and bursting in the 
 city. Pearl informed me, as we stood there. 
 
S5 
 
 < 
 
31 
 
 that an average of two thousand shells a day- 
 were being dropped on the city. In front of us 
 I could see the hills laid barren by shell fire 
 and scarred by the lines of trenches. Over- 
 head a German aeroplane had crossed the 
 French lines — the anti-aircraft guns had 
 opened fire — little puffs of cloud-like smoke 
 appeared in the sky underneath the plane as 
 it rose to higher altitudes. French planes 
 arose in pursuit and finally the German plane 
 disappeared from sight over its own lines. 
 Directly overhead a bird was singing in a tree 
 just as cheerfully as if there was not such 
 thing as trouble in the world. Looking back 
 in the opposite direction I could see women 
 and young girls working in the vineyards. 
 
 As we started to leave the spot Pearl pointed 
 to a town nearby on our left. 
 
 "That is the town of Ludes," he said. 
 "Notice where it is, because you will have to 
 go there when on duty." 
 
 I looked in the direction that he pointed, lit- 
 tle realizing that the town of Ludes would be 
 forever associated in my mind with the most 
 tragic incident of my service in France. 
 
 Then we turned and drove back to Louvois. 
 That was the full extent of my training for 
 front line work. I was informed that I had 
 qualified as an ambulance driver. 
 
32 
 
 V. 
 
 Having been duly declared a qualified 
 driver, I was assigned to a car which happened 
 to be number 13, but not being particularly 
 superstitious this did not make me nervous. 
 
 Then I was sent to post for duty out at the 
 town of Loides. Here we had our headquar- 
 ters in a little Swiss Chalet hidden behind a 
 clump of trees — though within sight and sound 
 of the war, it was peaceful enough — at least 
 for those on war duty. Everything is compar- 
 ative. Before many days had passed I was to 
 see that peacefid little chalet stained with 
 blood. The place was equipped with a tele- 
 phone bell, which would signal when a car 
 M-^as needed at a front line post. Those on duty 
 here answered the calls in rotation. 
 
 About noon of my first day on duty a call 
 pame in for two cars. One of the cars was to 
 carry wounded men back to the town of 
 Epernay, the other car was to go to the extreme 
 front line post. One of the calls was for Joe 
 Patterson of Pittsburgh, the other call was 
 for me. Out of politeness to a new man "Pat" 
 gave me the choice of "runs". 
 
 It seemed to me much easier to get right 
 into the serious work rather than to have the 
 suspense of waiting, so I chose the run to the 
 front line post. I started off over the hills, 
 through the ancient town of Verzeney, famous 
 for its wines — through the winding streets. 
 
33 
 
 turning sharply at a corner — down a long 
 steep hill hidden from view of the enemy by 
 camouflage — past what was known as the 
 Esparance farm till finally I reached the post. 
 Here I stopped my car and waited. Here there 
 was a canal, the waters of which had been let 
 out and into the canal banks had been built 
 little dug-outs. In the one where I was to wait 
 and sleep until needed were two rough cots, a 
 shelf on which there were some rather dirty 
 eating utensils and a loaf of dry bread. 
 
 During the afternoon there was intermittent 
 firing but no great activity on either side of 
 the lines. Occasionally an aeroplane would fly 
 overhead. Once during the afternoon a Ger- 
 man plane flew over in an effort to attack an 
 observation balloon, but was successfully 
 driven off by the French. 
 
 The afternoon passed quickly enough with- 
 out having my services called for and at sup- 
 per time I had my first meal of trench fare with 
 French Poilus for company, a cup of hot soup, 
 a chunk of meat, a slice of bread and a cup of 
 coffee. The cook who served us was a big fel- 
 low with a black beard. He was killed a short 
 time after and his body lay all day in a near- 
 by dug-out. 
 
 After supper I clambered over the canal bank 
 and walked along the empty canal bed observ- 
 ing the marks of the war and picking up pieces 
 of German shells. Then there was a sudden 
 volley of shots from a French battery near at 
 
34 
 
 hand, the guns of which were so carefully con- 
 cealed that I had not observed it. I quickly 
 clambered back over on the "safe" side of 
 the canal bank and waited eventualities. 
 
 I began to feel restless and to wonder when 
 I would be called to get out into the battle of 
 the night. 
 
 In the meantime the firing had increased on 
 both sides of the lines. 
 
35 
 
 VI. 
 
 It was some time after nine o'clock and 
 growing dark when a French soldier came up 
 and handed me a slip of paper bearing a mes- 
 sage which had just come over the telephone. 
 The message conveyed instructions for me to 
 drive down the road a couple of miles to a 
 front line dressing station, where I would find 
 wounded who had just been carried in. I was 
 informed that the call was urgent. Though I 
 am not fearless by any means, I did not feel 
 frightened as I walked out to my ear and start- 
 ed the engine but I noticed that my heart was 
 beating rapidly. 
 
 A few French soldiers waved to me and 
 called "An voir" as I got in the seat and was 
 off down the road, first to the left, then to the 
 right, then straight ahead as fast as I dared 
 drive. The road took me directly in front of 
 the French batteries, and in the growing dark- 
 ness the flashes of fire from the guns and the 
 concussion in my face made it seem as if they 
 were firing directly at me, not over me. I drove 
 on till I reached the post to which I had been 
 sent, then backed my ambulance around near 
 the entrance to the dug-out and stopped. An 
 officer stepped up and shook hands with me 
 and in English said: "The American drives 
 fast." 
 
 He explained to me that the wounded were 
 being cared for and would soon be ready for 
 
36 
 
 the journey. A small group of silent stretcher 
 bearers were standing near the entrance to 
 the dug-out. The firing increased in intensity 
 — the battle of the night was on. The officer 
 remarked to me: "The Germans are very 
 angry." I handed the officer a cigarette and 
 lighted one myself. I have found that tabocco 
 is a great solace to one's nerves when under 
 fire. We continued our broken conversation. 
 "Do you come from New York?" he asked. 
 
 "Wilkes-Barre, near New York," I replied. 
 Every place east of Chicago is near New York 
 when over three thousand miles away. 
 
 "Do you like champagne," he inquired. It 
 was not an invitation, he was merely getting 
 my point of view. "We were standing within a 
 few miles of the richest champagne producing 
 vineyards in the world. Then I looked in the 
 direction of the dug-out, into the dimly lighted 
 entrance, and I saw stretcher bearers slowly 
 coming out bearing a wounded soldier and I 
 braced myself for the first shock of the horrors 
 of war. Gently the wounded soldier was lifted 
 into my ambulance, then two more wounded 
 were carried out. I closed and fastened the 
 back curtain of the ear, started the engine and 
 climbed into the seat. "Drive gently," said 
 the officer, shaking hands with me. "Thank 
 you, good-night," and I started on the return 
 trip, in the dark vpithout lights. As I drove 
 back to the town of Ludes, troops were moving 
 to the front under the cover of darkness and I 
 
37 
 
 was obliged to blow my whistle continually. 
 Now and then a large camion would loom up 
 suddenly in the darkness directly in front of 
 me — a little blacker than the darkness itself — 
 that is how I could see it. I would turn quickly 
 to avoid being hit. We always drove without 
 lights at the front. Half way up the long hill 
 leading to the town of Verzenay the water was 
 boiling in the radiator and the engine was hit- 
 ting on three cylinders — I wondered if I would 
 make the heavy grade; I wondered if a burst- 
 ing shell would sweep the road; I wondered 
 if I would get the wounded safely back; I 
 wondered about many things in those moments 
 on my first night drive in the dark. On through 
 the dark winding narrow streets of the town 
 of Verzeney, at one place driving with diffi- 
 culty through a flock of sheep, on in safety to 
 the town of Ludes to the building which served 
 as a field hospital. I felt a great sense of relief 
 when I drew up at the entrance safely back 
 with my wounded. 
 
 Then I drove back to the little Swiss chalet 
 to wait my next call. Before turning in for a 
 little sleep I stood in the entrance listening to 
 the continual firing along the front and watch- 
 ing the signal rockets, the star shells, and 
 the flashes of the guns. Then I went inside, 
 climbed over a sleeping companion, found a 
 vacant space on the floor, rolled up in my 
 blanket, put my coat under my head and went 
 to sleep. 
 
38 
 
 I had not been sleeping long when the tele- 
 phone bell rang. It was my turn out again. 
 This time I received instructions to drive over 
 into another direction to a chateau which 
 served as the headquarters of a French G-en- 
 eral. Chateau Romont it was called. There I 
 was to await further instructions. So I parked 
 my ear in the court yard and was led down 
 into the dark cellar of the chateau. As I en- 
 tered I could hear heavy breathing — evidently 
 some one was sleeping there. A light was 
 made and I was shown a rough cot where I 
 might sleep until needed. Again I curled up 
 in my blanket and was quickly asleep. I had 
 only been asleep for a few minutes when some 
 one touched me on the shoulder and awakened 
 me. This time I was to drive over to the shell 
 wrecked town of Sillery. It was then about 
 four in the morning, the dawn was grey and 
 then a streak of red in the east over the line 
 of German trenches. The firing had subsided 
 to some extent. Into the shell wrecked town 
 of Sillery I drove and I could see in the grow- 
 ing light that many houses had been leveled 
 to the ground and there were none at all that 
 did not bear the marks of battle. I drove into 
 a court yard, inside the gate of which there 
 was a large shell hole. Stretcher bearers were 
 waiting for me — there was no delay this time. 
 Two men were lifted into the car. They were 
 suffering very great agony but I could see no 
 marks of blood. I understood at once — they 
 
39 
 
 were victims of poison gas. This time there 
 was no need to drive slowly back again to the 
 town of Ludes to the hospital. It was broad 
 daylight when I reached there. A sleepy 
 stretcher bearer came out carrying a lantern, 
 which was not needed. The two men were 
 lifted out of the car and lowered to the ground. 
 They were writhing in agony — one of them 
 rolled off his stretcher into the gutter and died 
 at my feet. That was my first night on duty 
 at the front — that was my baptism of fire. 
 
40 
 
 vn. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney, for whom I believe I was 
 more or less hopefully named, gained immortal 
 fame by giving his last drop of water to a 
 dying comrade on the field of battle. I desire 
 to mention that I gave my last cigarette to a 
 perfectly live stretcher bearer while under 
 shell fire. For twenty-four hours I had been 
 stationed at the dug-out in the canal bank on 
 front of the Esperance farm; the place where 
 I had been the first time 1 went to post. Sev- 
 eral times since I had gone there and now felt 
 quite at home in those surroundings. 
 
 During the last twenty-four hours shells 
 had been coming in with fair regularity. The 
 Germans were endeavoring to drive out a bat- 
 tery which evidently had given them some an- 
 noyance. In a comparatively short period I 
 counted more than a hundred shells, shrieking 
 over my head, striking and bursting a hundred 
 yards in front of me, throwing the earth in 
 every directions, the rocks and pieces of shell 
 spattering around close to where I stood. Sev- 
 eral trees were cut down by the bombardment 
 and they fell like so many twigs. 
 
 I had been alone during those twenty-four 
 hours and had begun to realize that waiting for 
 a "run" was quite as trying as the "run" it- 
 self, particularly as I could observe that when 
 I did start I would be obliged to pass uncom- 
 fortably close to the corner when the shells 
 
41 
 
 were hitting. Toward the end of the afternoon 
 some wounded came straggling in. After 
 twenty-four hours under whistling shells I was 
 glad to start back to Ludes and for a cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 I spent the early evening at the little Swiss 
 chalet. About nine o'clock I received a call to 
 carry two wounded officers back to the town 
 of Bpernay. It was a beautiful, cool, moon- 
 light evening and I enjoyed the prospect of the 
 peaceful drive away from the sound of the war, 
 not realizing that I was actually running 
 toward the most spectacular scene that I had 
 thus far witnessed. I drove across the Marne 
 into the town of Epernay at about eleven 
 o'clock and took one of the wounded officers 
 to the principal hospital there. The other 
 officer I was instructed to take on to another 
 hospital, located at the top of a hill on the out- 
 skirts of the town. Epernay is an old town and 
 the streets are norrow, winding, and quite as 
 confusing as Boston, particularly when driving 
 at night without lights. 
 
 As I pulled up the hill out on an open 
 road in sight of the hospital, I saw a flash of 
 light in the sky, followed by a sharp report — 
 then there was a shower of lights much like 
 rockets followed by a series of reports. As 
 I stopped the car in the hospital grounds and 
 was assisting stretcher bearers to lift out the 
 wounded officer, I could hear the droning of 
 several aeroplanes overhead but could not see 
 
42 
 
 them. Hospital aids, half dressed in white 
 trousers and in bare feet, were crowded in the 
 doorway. Everyone understood what was hap- 
 pening. The Germans had come over in num- 
 bers for one of their periodical raids. 
 
 Incendiary bombs were now dropping down in 
 the heart of the town where I had just passed. 
 Church bells were ringing as a warning for all 
 civilians to take to their caves — a warning 
 which seemed quite superfluous. There was a 
 terrific explosion, followed by a burst of flames 
 which lighted up the sky. A building had been 
 set on fire. Standing beside my car, I took ofiE 
 my fatigue cap and substituted my steel hel- 
 met, which I always carried with me when not 
 actually wearing it. Steel helmets have saved 
 many lives. The bombardment became more 
 furious as time went on — bombs were dropping 
 on various parts of the city. Several powerful 
 searchlights began to sweep the heavens and 
 two broad shafts of light crossed, and in the 
 cross they held in view a German plane. It 
 was flying low and not far overhead from 
 where I stood. The two searchlights followed 
 the movement of the plane and held it in the 
 cross while the anti-aircraft guns opened fire. 
 I could see the shells bursting underneath the 
 plane but none hit and quickly the plane flew 
 out of range and disappeared from sight. But 
 the raiders continued the bombardment. 
 
 Having waited for some time for the firing to 
 cease I decided to start back for post at Ludes. 
 
43 
 
 Unless there was every good reason for 
 not doing so, we were expected to return to 
 post as soon as we had finished the errand 
 which had taken us away. To drive back it 
 was necessary for me to return through the 
 heart of the town where the bombs had fallen 
 and were stiU falling. So far as possible I kept 
 on the "shady" side of the street out of the 
 moonlight, pausing at every corner for a 
 moment. Sometimes there would be a deafen- 
 ing crash near by. I would stop — ^put my head 
 down on my arms over my face, then would 
 drive quickly on into the next street. I passed 
 the postoffice just after it was hit — pieces of 
 shutters, doors and glass were littered about 
 the street and I feared for punctured tires. I 
 drove on a short distance, turned around and 
 went back, pausing in front of the demolished 
 building, but could hear no sound. The street 
 was absolutely deserted. As I continued my 
 drive over the deserted streets the only sign of 
 humanity I would see was an occasional soldier 
 with his gun standing in the comparative shel- 
 ter of a doorway. 
 
 Before leaving the town I stopped for a 
 moment at the hospital where I had first been 
 and an officer who could speak a little English 
 asked me to stay all night in the "cave". "It 
 is a bad night to be out," he said. The invita- 
 tion was alluring, I admit, but I decided to 
 push on to the town of Ludes. 
 
 To get out of the town I must re-cross the 
 
44 
 
 bridge over the Marne, close to the railroad 
 station, and I had been informed that the raid- 
 ers were making a particular effort to hit the 
 station. As I shot out across the bridge in the 
 broad moonlight, in full view from above, I 
 could see some freight cars burning. I wished 
 that some friend were sitting along side of me, 
 but I often wished that on these lonely nerve- 
 racking night drives. 
 
 When I drew out into the open country I felt 
 no temptation to turn on my lights for I had 
 heard of a staff car just a short while before 
 driving over the same road. The driver had 
 turned on his lights. The target was seen 
 from an aeroplane — a bomb was dropped with 
 accuracy, demolishing the car and killing all 
 the occupants. 
 
 Reaching Ludes some time in the middle of 
 the night, I stepped over the form of Curtis, 
 who, curled up in his blankets was asleep on 
 the floor. He awoke and sleeply inquired: 
 "Whose there?" I told him. "Anything 
 going on?" he inquired still sleepily. 
 
 "Seem to be raising hell down at Epernay," 
 I told him quietly, so as not to awaken anyone 
 who might be sleeping. 
 
 "That so," muttered Curtis, and with no 
 more show of interest went back to sleep. 
 
 The next day I learned that many houses 
 had been destroyed. Five wounded soldiers 
 had been killed in the hospital where I had 
 been invited to spend the night. 
 
45 
 
 vm. 
 
 Frederick Norton and I were new men in an 
 old Section. "We were new men in an old 
 crowd, consequently when we joined the Sec- 
 tion we made no effort to break into any old 
 established circles. When off duty together, he 
 and I were accustomed to taking long walks 
 across the fields and to the towns behind the 
 lines and on these walks I learned something 
 of his travels, and I learned to know what I 
 already believed — ^that he was a man of excep- 
 tional character, quiet, unassuming, modest; a 
 gentleman in the best sense of the word; a 
 delightful companion, an ideal soldier. On one 
 of our walks we talked some of spending "Per- 
 mission" together on the coast of Brittany. 
 
 I remember when I went to post for the first 
 time Norton stepped up to me and shook hands, 
 wishing me luck and an interesting trip. That 
 established a custom between us. After that 
 we always shook hands when either one or the 
 other of us started for post. 
 
 When we had been in the Section for a short 
 while we were invited to join three of the older 
 fellows and transfer our cots to a tent under- 
 neath the trees just outside the grounds of a 
 very beautiful chateau, owned, I believe, by M. 
 Chandon, of Moet & Chandon. We naturally 
 accepted the invitation with pleasure and then 
 we each became more or less one of the old 
 crowd. Formalities ceased from that time. 
 
The chateau had been converted into a hos- 
 pital and at night a lighted red cross over the 
 large iron gates showed the entrance to ap- 
 proaching cars. 
 
 We had some pleasant evenings under the 
 trees when off duty, even though we could 
 hear the distant firing of the guns. We sang 
 some, a guitar and mandolin also furnished 
 music. We listened to Ned Townsend reminiss 
 about his experiences in Belgimn in the early 
 part of the war. Frank Farnham and "Red" 
 Day occasionally sang a duet without much 
 persuasion. With difficulty "Farney" was 
 prevailed on to yodel. On one occasion Ned 
 Townsend danced the dance of the seven veils 
 by moonlight. Sometimes we would hear the 
 whirr of an aeroplane overhead. The light in 
 our tent would be extinguished by the first man 
 who could reach it and silence would reign — so 
 in spite of the war there were many pleasant 
 moments. A spirit of comradeship grew up 
 between us all. Under such conditions, sharing 
 the same dangers, the same hardships, the same 
 pleasures, we grew to know each other better 
 in a short space of time than would have been 
 possible in years in the ordinary peaceful walks 
 of life. 
 
 Ned Townsend, the oldest man in point of 
 service, remarked that the best of fellowship 
 had always prevailed in Section One — that it 
 had always been more like a club in that re- 
 spect than a military organization. He also 
 
47 
 
 mentioned causally that Section One had most 
 always been lucky — very few casualties had 
 marked its long, arduous and dangerous career 
 at the front. 
 
 On the afternoon of July 12th I saw Fred- 
 erick Norton starting for the front, and, fol- 
 lowing our custom, I went over to his car, 
 shook hands with him and wished him "good 
 luck." I told him the next time we were off 
 duty together we must take a walk over the 
 neighboring hills to inspect a windmill which 
 had been erected about the time Columbus dis- 
 covered America. Then he was off to the 
 town of Ludes — to the little Swiss chalet hid- 
 den behind the trees. 
 
 That night was a bright moonlight night — 
 an ideal night for avions. Early in the even- 
 ing those of us at Louvois were having music 
 under the trees. A few convalescent soldiers 
 from the chateau hospital were sitting about in 
 the grass, listening. As the moon came up and 
 shone through the trees I recall "Red" Day 
 remarking : ' ' The avions will be over to-night, ' ' 
 and a short while after that we heard the un- 
 mistakable crash of an avion bomb down the 
 road in the direction of Epernay. 
 
 It must have been pretty close to eleven 
 'clock that Frederick Norton was standing in 
 the back window of the little Swiss chalet at 
 I/udes, from which place he could get a glimpse 
 of the battle lines through the boughs of the 
 trees. He was waiting for his call to go to the 
 
48 
 
 front. His call was soon to come. He no doubt 
 heard the whirr of the approaching aeroplane 
 overhead — he may have heard the deafening 
 crash of the bomb as it struck the ground, 
 making a crater in the earth and riddling the 
 walls of the peaceful chalet. But then the 
 sound of the war was forever silenced. A piece 
 of the shell had cut his throat — another had 
 pierced his heart. He pitched forward, then 
 fell backward on the floor. He had answered 
 his final call. 
 
 The following night I walked beside my 
 friend Frederick Norton for the last time. He 
 was not laid to rest until after dusk because 
 his burial place was on the side of a hill in 
 view of the enemy — in view of the towers of 
 the desecrated cathedral at Rheims — as fine a 
 place as any for a volunteer who had earned 
 an honorable rest. 
 
 There were French officers of high rank in 
 the gathering to pay homage to the Volunteer 
 American — a priest, a protestant chaplain, his 
 friends in Section One — a squad of soldiers 
 under arms. As we stood there in the growing 
 dusk a German aeroplane flew overhead and 
 swept the road nearby with its rapid fire gun. 
 All looked up but no one moved. The benedic- 
 tion being said, we walked slowly away. 
 
49 
 
 IX. 
 
 July foTirteenth, ninteen-seventeen, was 
 "Bastile Day," the great French national holi- 
 day, and the troops were greatly heartened by 
 the fact that at last America was coming over to 
 help them win the war. French and American 
 troops were to parade together in Paris — the 
 fighters at the front were to have a special 
 dinner, with a cup of champagne and a cigar. 
 A few of the men in our Section who had short 
 leave of absence coming due, were going into 
 Paris for a couple of days. 
 
 Personally, I was glad that I was going out 
 to the front on duty. I felt the need of active, 
 strenuous work. During the forenoon several 
 shells came shrieking over the little Swiss 
 chalet, striking in a. field a short distance back. 
 A little while later I saw a dead soldier being 
 carried into the town by his comrades. One 
 shell struck in a field outside the town where 
 a young girl was working in the vineyard and 
 she was obliged to desert her work and run for 
 shelter. I wondered if the Germans had ob- 
 served the movement of our ambulances in and 
 out of the grounds of the chalet or whether 
 they were merely observing the French holi- 
 day. Some one remarked that following a cus- 
 tom of three years' standing, they would do 
 what they could to disturb the holiday dinner 
 of the French soldiers. About noon a couple 
 of shells struck in the town of Ludes but did 
 
50 
 
 no great amount of damage. A few civilians 
 were still living in Ludes and in the kitchen of 
 a little French woman we ate our meals when 
 not out on a run. We supplied the food and 
 she cooked for us. I remember during my first 
 luncheon in that kitchen seeing her send her 
 little daughters off to school with gas masks 
 flung across their shoulders. 
 
 "Bastile Day" was a fairly busy afternoon 
 and that night there was no time to rest. Some- 
 times it was a call to go out to the Esperance 
 farm — sometimes a call to run into the town 
 of Sillery — sometimes to report at the Chateau 
 Romont back of Sillery to await further orders. 
 
 That night I had no sleep at all, though I 
 made several efforts. Early in the evening I 
 found myself at the Chateau Romont, and when 
 T was going to retire for a little rest I was not 
 shown down into the dark cellar where I slept 
 for a short while the first night I had been 
 there. I was invited into a large back room in 
 the chateau which had once evidently been a 
 handsome billiard room. On the walls were 
 deer antlers and a boar's head. The billiard 
 table had been pushed over in a corner of the 
 room out of the way and in its place was a 
 table at which officers sat poring over maps 
 and reports. A telephone was on the table and 
 on the walls were large maps. I stretched out 
 on a bare rough "crib" to rest. One of the 
 officers called an orderly and said something 
 to him which I did not hear. The orderly went 
 
51 
 
 into another room and returned with an arm- 
 ful of rugs. He placed them in the crib and 
 once more I stretched out on this most com- 
 fortable couch. But just then the telephone 
 rang. I got up, pulled on my boots, put on my 
 ccat, and as I started out the officer at the table 
 smiled sympathetically at me. 
 
 Midnight in the little Swiss chalet. I had 
 returned from a run and had lain down to 
 sleep just outside the room where two nights 
 before Frederick Norton had fallen. Again 
 there was a call. Sometime after one o'clock, 
 at the dug-out in the canal bank in front of 
 the Bsperance farm, I again lay down, only to 
 be called a few minutes later. I drove down 
 the road to a post I had not visited before, and 
 while the wounded were being placed in the car 
 I was instructed to shut off my motor for fear 
 the Germans might hear and open fire. The 
 ear being filled with three wounded on stretch- 
 ers inside, and one less seriously wounded on 
 the front seat with me, I started off for Ludes. 
 ^Vlong the road I struck a small shell hole 
 which gave the car a severe jolt and the 
 wounded inside cried out : ' ' Oh comrade ! com- 
 rade!" In the morning I discovered that the 
 jolt had cracked the front spring of the ear 
 but the wounded had forgiven me for my poor 
 driving. 
 
 At Ludes the hospital was filled and I must 
 push on back to the town of Epernay to one 
 of the hospitals there. As I drove into the 
 
52 
 
 town at daylight I saw a strange sight. Strag- 
 gling into the town were old men, women and 
 children, all looking worn and bedraggled. 
 Some carried blankets, some were pushing 
 wheelbarrows or puUing little carts in which 
 were piled up household belongings. Some of 
 the women were carrying babies in their arms. 
 
 The night before a warning had gone out 
 that an air raid was expected and these civil- 
 ians living under the shadow of the war had 
 taken to the "eaves" on the outskirts of the 
 city for protection. 
 
 I reached the principal hospital in the town 
 and, as frequently happened, was sent to 
 another hospital further on. When I arrived 
 there I was feeling tired, bedraggled, hungry 
 and out of sorts myself after the all night 
 strain. But if I felt like complaining I prompt- 
 ly changed my mind and decided to be cheer- 
 ful. 
 
 Stopping my car, I went around to the back 
 and raised the curtain. One of the wounded, 
 a young feUow, looked up at me with the pleas- 
 antest expression in the world and said: "Hello 
 hoy Americaine ! Good morning!" 
 
53 
 
 Toward the end of July we received orders 
 that we were to move from the Champagne 
 section but we did not know just where we 
 were to be sent. Early one morning, the order 
 to move having come, we had loaded our cars 
 with tents, supplies, automobile parts, all the 
 paraphernalia of an ambulance section, and 
 our personal belongings, and had formed in line 
 on the main thoroughfare of the picturesque 
 town of Louvois. Stevenson drove up to the 
 head of the procession, blew his whistle once 
 and every engine was started; blew his whistle 
 twice and we were oif down the road in the 
 direction of Bpernay. The villagers of Lou- 
 vois were on the street to wave us "Au voir." 
 There were old men, women and girls. The 
 young men were all at the front. 
 
 Outside the town of Epernay we drew up 
 alongside the road and waited further instruc- 
 tions. Some thought we were going to Bel- 
 gium, others said we were going down into the 
 Verdun section. Our French Lieutenant, Rey- 
 mond, had gone on ahead in his car for orders. 
 Presently he returned and we learned that we 
 were to drive in the direction of Verdun. 
 
 Stevenson, at the head of the procession, 
 blew his whistle and once more aU cars were 
 started — soon we were rolling along the road. 
 
 At noon we reached Chalon, where we had 
 luncheon in a cafe crowded with French 
 
54 
 
 officers. By late afternoon we reached the out- 
 skirts of the town of Vietry, and as we drove 
 into the town we saw a squad of German pris- 
 oners, under guard, marching along the road. 
 If they noticed that we were Americans, they 
 showed no emotion even if they felt any. At 
 Vietry we were to spend the night. We were 
 shown to a large barn in which to sleep. Some 
 Russian troops had occupied the barn a short 
 while before and the straw littered about 
 looked rather risky. As it promised to be a 
 clear night some of us decided to sleep out in 
 the open field under the trees. The cows were 
 less to be feared than the straw in the barn or 
 even the avions above. 
 
 Having parked our cars several of us strolled 
 to the banks of the historic river Marne and 
 were quickly splashing around in the refresh- 
 ing though muddy water. Then over to a cafe 
 in the city for supper. The supper developed 
 into a banquet. It was the first time in a great 
 while that the entire Section and its French 
 attaches had all sat together at one time and 
 every one off duty. Singing commenced before 
 the meal was half over, and if not all har- 
 monious it was at least hearty. The darkness 
 came on but no lights were lighted in the room 
 on account of danger from the avions, but the 
 hilarity did not die out in the growing gloom. 
 
 Roy Stoekwell was obliged to sing several 
 verses of a war song which was called ' ' Around 
 
J ttrii, 
 
 
55 
 
 Her Limb She Wore a Purple Eibbon", in 
 which every one joined in the chorus, singing : 
 
 "Far away, far away, 
 She wore it for her lover 
 Who was far, far away." 
 
 "Winnie" Wertz, the French cook, sang a 
 pastoral song of peaceful life on the farm after 
 the war was over. One or two men tried to 
 make speeches but received scant encourage- 
 ment. The singing continued till late in the 
 evening, when we wended our way back to 
 the open field for a night of peaceful sleep 
 .under the trees. As we walked through the 
 city on the way a quartette was lustily sing- 
 ing: 
 
 "Far away, far away, 
 She wore it for her lover. 
 Who was far, far away. ' ' 
 
 No doubt the French inhabitants awoke to 
 shrug a shoulder and patiently mutter: "Oh, 
 those terrible Americans. ' ' 
 
 The next morning we were on our way to 
 Bar le Due, a picturesque city nestled between 
 high hUls. At the top of one of these hills, as 
 we started the steep descent into the city, we 
 passed a large convent almost totally destroyed 
 by avion bombs. Bar le Due is always subject 
 to air raids and shows many marks of the war 
 on its principal streets. Again we stopped for 
 the night and here I slept on the sidewalk with 
 
56 
 
 my head against a sentry box so that no one 
 would fall over me. 
 
 On to the town of Evres through a country, 
 as we advanced, showing more and more plain- 
 ly the desolation and waste of the war. 
 Through towns deserted of all civilians, over 
 roads dry in the midsummer sun and unspeak- 
 ably dusty from the continual travel toward 
 the front. One afternoon in Evres, Curtis and 
 I dropped into the home of an elderly French 
 peasant woman for a lunch of delicious cottage 
 cheese and a jug of fresh milk. The peasant 
 woman had a sad story to tell. Her husband 
 was dead; her son's home in the village had 
 been destroyed; he had been taken prisoner 
 and his wife had fallen victim to the advance 
 of Prussian kultur. 
 
 At Evres we waited to move on to Verdun 
 and there we learned of the great offensive 
 that was soon to take place and we watched 
 the preparations for it on a vast scale. "We 
 were deeply impressed. 
 
XI. 
 
 VERDUN. 
 
59 
 
 When we moved up on the morning of Aug- 
 ust first to take our small part in the big 
 offensive, we established ova: cantonment in 
 the town of Houdainville, within about three 
 miles of the city of Verdun. The town of Hou- 
 dainville was conspicuously a war town, being 
 deserted by all civilians — crowded with troops 
 and subject to intermittent shelling. The houses 
 Were aU Old and many bore the marks of battle. 
 Some of our men were billeted together in the 
 second story of a building which was infested 
 with rats. The quarters were so small that it 
 was necessary to crowd the cots uncomfortably 
 close together. Others of us pitched a tent in 
 a barnyard. It was muddy, unsavory and very 
 different from the place at Louvois, where we 
 had our tent pitched under the trees outside 
 the chateau of M. Chandon. We realized that 
 we were now to see the war at its worst and 
 we felt reconciled to added hardships by the 
 fact that our Section had been assigned to 
 the very serious work ahead. 
 
 That there was very serious work ahead, 
 indeed, had been brought home to us while 
 having seen for days and nights the continual 
 stream of troops, heavy guns, supplies and 
 munitions moving toward the front. We had 
 been told that preparations for this offensive 
 had been going on for months. 
 
 Had I been so inclined, which I was not, 
 there was little time to complain of our sur- 
 roundings — ^barely time to note them before I 
 
60 
 
 was sent out to post duty. Now we were to 
 be on post duty for twenty-four hours and then 
 off duty for twenty-four hours, in which to 
 work on our cars and rest. This schedule was 
 was based on all of the cars in the Section 
 being able to run, but there were times when 
 all cars could not run. 
 
 I was sent out to a post at Cassairne Mar- 
 ceau, at the top of a hiU about three miles in 
 front of Verdun, near which spot marked the 
 extreme advance of the Crown Prince in his 
 attack of 1916. Near here the French had 
 stood and said: "They shall not pass." They 
 never did and I am sure they never will. 
 
 Looking back from Cassairne Marceau I 
 could see the ancient fortified city of Verdun, 
 crowned by its cathedral on a hill. Close at 
 hand were the remains of barracks built short- 
 ly before the war. All about was desolation, 
 shell holes, pieces of exploded shells. In front 
 of the post was a graveyard and during my 
 many times at that post there was not a day 
 that I did not see the dead being laid to rest. 
 There were many times that I saw those who 
 bad passed the time for decent burial. Here 
 the war was seen in its most hideous aspect. 
 Sometimes a wagon would come rumbling up 
 to the post with dead piled up like so much 
 eordwood. 
 
 My first call to go from here to a front line 
 post came before sunset. The post was near 
 Port Vaux. An officer rode with me to observe 
 
61 
 
 whether the road could be covered by a car. 
 It was a road that no sane person would un- 
 dertake in peace times under any considera- 
 tion. Down a ravine between two hills, in a 
 country laid absolutely barren by continual 
 shell fire, the sides of the hills were pock- 
 marked with shell holes and where at one time, 
 three years before, there had been a beautiful 
 forest, there was not now a tree stump, a bush 
 or a patch of grass. We drove along the road 
 A'ery slowly indeed, for there was danger of 
 breaking springs and axles passing, as we 
 drove close to the artillery as they were firing. 
 I was later glad for the opportunity of see- 
 ing that road before sunset, for I sometimes 
 covered it afterward in the darkness without 
 lights. 
 
 We reached the "Post de Secour", picked 
 up three wounded artillerymen and returned 
 with added caution to Cassairne Marceau. It 
 was very trying when we wanted to drive fast, 
 in order to get back as quickly as possible to 
 a place of comparative safety, that we were 
 obliged to drive most slowly to save our 
 Wounded and our cars. 
 
 Sometime around eleven o'clock that night I 
 lay down on a stretcher in the dug-out at Cas- 
 sairne Marceau to snatch a little sleep while 
 waiting for my next call. At that time I was 
 still in good condition and had not yet suf- 
 fered from great fatigue or undue nervous 
 strain and consequently could sleep at any 
 
62 
 
 time and in any place that the opportunity 
 offered. Later on I was to become so fatigued 
 and my nerves were so shaken from the con- 
 tinual strain that I could not sleep at all. The 
 dug-out served as a dressing station and was 
 was equipped for operations — surgeons were 
 in attendance there. The place had the odor 
 of a hospital, with the added unpleasant damp 
 odor of the underground. Not a pleasant 
 place in which to sleep but we slept there many 
 times. 
 
 I was just dozing off when I heard voices, 
 footsteps and a moaning which was very 
 distressing and I was sufficiently conscious to 
 realize that some one badly wounded was be- 
 ing carried in. But I must rest — I must sleep 
 while the opportunity offered, so I dozed fit- 
 fully, never being quite unconscious of the 
 fact that close by me an operation was being 
 performed. Finally I was fuUy awakened by 
 some one touching my foot. I sat up — the 
 operation had been completed and I was to 
 take the desperately wounded man back to a 
 hospital in Verdun. 
 
 It was well past midnight when the man 
 was lifted into the car and I started on my 
 dark ride, driving slowly. I had not yet been 
 inside the walled city of Verdun. I did not 
 know just where the hospital was. I had sim- 
 ply been informed that by crossing a certain 
 bridge, entering a certain gate, and turning 
 down a certain street, I would find it. I car- 
 
63 
 
 ried few wounded who moaned in greater 
 agony that did this soldier as I drove on back 
 to Verdun. I found the bridge and crossed it. 
 T passed through the gate inside the city walls 
 and I drove slowly through the dark, silent, 
 apparently deserted city. I came to a square 
 and in the darkness took the wrong street. I 
 was doing the best I could and I hoped the 
 wounded soldier would live tiQ I reached the 
 hospital. I wished I had some one to talk to — 
 I wished I had some one to help me find the 
 way. Finally I saw a sentinel on duty and he 
 directed me down the right street and before 
 long I came to the house which was serving as 
 a hospital. 
 
 That was my first entrance into the ancient 
 fortified city of Verdun. "When I saw the in- 
 side of my car at daylight I was glad that I had 
 met with the sentinel when I did, for I think 
 there could have been but little time to lose. 
 
64 
 
 XII. 
 
 We had not been many days at Houdainville 
 when we received orders to move up to Bev- 
 eaux, just a short distance outside the walled 
 city of Verdun. The big attack had not yet 
 taken place but was expected at any time. In 
 the meanwhile the artillery activity was daily 
 increasing. 
 
 At Beveaux was a large hospital which 
 was almost vacant when we moved up there 
 and pitched our tents. It had been made 
 ready for the big attack and would probably 
 accommodate fifteen hundred wounded. The 
 preparations for the offensive were most im- 
 pressive and tended to make us thoughtful. 
 Though we were now closer to the front, our 
 cantonment being on high open ground, was 
 a welcome change to all of us. Those of us 
 who in HoudainviUe had our tent in that 
 muddy, unsavory barnyard, were glad to get 
 out. Those in the Section who had been sleep- 
 ing in the crowded, rat-ridden house, were more 
 than glad of the change. That we were close 
 to the war, in fact actually under it, even when 
 off duty, was impressed upon us at supper time 
 that first evening at Beveaux, when several 
 shells struck within the hospital grounds and 
 some hit the large stables adjoining, killing 
 bourses and wounding men. We all ran for 
 shelter and supper was delayed for some time. 
 
65 
 
 The hospital was shelled on several occasions 
 after that. 
 
 During our stay at Beveaus we usually re- 
 tired at night with most of oiir clothes on, 
 partly on account of the avions and partly 
 because our work was so arduous that we were 
 likely to be called in the night, even when 
 supposedly off duty. On retiring we always 
 had our steel helmets and gas masks within 
 reach. Frequently at night when the avions 
 came over we were obliged to get out of bed 
 and run for the nearby trenches. A canvas 
 tent affords absolutely no protection against 
 shell fire. 
 
 "We expected to be at Beveaux for but a very 
 short time before being sent back for a rest, 
 but the days went on, the long nights went on 
 and the weeks rolled around before we were 
 relieved. 
 
66 
 
 XIU. 
 
 Twenty-four hours on duty — twenty-four 
 hours off duty — that was the schedule in the 
 Verdun sector — based on all the cars being 
 able to run, but there was not a day or a night 
 that cars were not put out of commission, 
 which meant that the work of those who were 
 running was increased. Theoretically speak- 
 ing that was the schedule — practically speak- 
 ing there was no schedule. Sometimes we were 
 on duty thirty hours at a stretch, perhaps in 
 that time we could snatch a little sleep be- 
 tween "runs" — Sometimes there was no sleep 
 at all. The days were bad, the nights were 
 worse, and day or night, either on or off duty, 
 we were always under fire. Most every time 
 a man came back from post he had an experi- 
 ence to tell — it seemed that on our "runs" 
 we escaped by a matter of seconds ; shells were 
 always hitting just behind us, in front uls and 
 around us. We saw bloodshed all the time. 
 The 23rd Psalm speaks of "The valley of the 
 shadow of death." That described the deso- 
 late land about where we were. Verdun will 
 go down in history as the slaughter house of 
 the world. This was real warfare. 
 
 "We were working hard all the time but we 
 were buoyed up by the fact that soon, most 
 any day, the big attack would take place and 
 then we would be sent back for a rest. The 
 attack was to have taken place on Augst first 
 
67 
 
 but was postponed from day to day so that 
 more guns might be moved into position, so 
 that more supplies, munitions and men might 
 be moved up. Every night on the road we saw 
 that endless procession of supply trucks, muni- 
 tions, guns and men. 
 
 We were covering many posts — ^we were 
 getting very tired even before the attack took 
 place. One night the General commanding a 
 division at Fort Haudremont asked for more 
 ears to be stationed there and he was informed 
 there were no more cars to spare. 
 
 He asked "Why?" and was informed that 
 all of our cars were out. 
 
 He asked "Where?" and he was informed 
 of the various posts that we were covering. 
 He expressed great surprise. He thought we 
 were merely serving his division. We were 
 serving an entire Army Corps. 
 
 Fort Haudremount was a bad spot and it was 
 a bad road to travel to reach there, but bad 
 as it was there were other posts which most 
 of us came to dread more. I first saw Fort 
 Houdremont in broad daylight. Before that 
 our cars had only gone there at night, because 
 the road was so exposed. That I first went 
 there in daylight was not because of bravery 
 on my part or because of a desire to establish 
 a precedent. It was just the result of an acci- 
 dent. 
 
 I had turned in to sleep one night or to sleep 
 what part of the night as might be possible. A 
 
68 
 
 couple of my friends had also lain down to 
 sleep. As we lay in the darkness under the 
 shelter of the tent we could hear the firing of 
 the artillery all along the front. Then a sud- 
 den gust of cool wind blew the flaps of the 
 tent and we heard the patter of rain above 
 our heads. A thunder storm was coming on. 
 The sound of the thunder was mingled with 
 the noise of the artillery. Our tent was occa- 
 sionally lighted by flashes of lightning and I 
 could see my companions lying awake on their 
 cots. The rain came down in torrents, the 
 lightning flashes became more frequent, the 
 thunder became louder and the roar of the 
 artillery became less distinct, until when the 
 storm had reached its height the pouring rain 
 and the sound of the thunder drowned out the 
 sound of the artillery. And as we lay there one 
 of my friends spoke up in the darkness and said 
 quietly: "Phil, it sounds as if God in Heaven is 
 still omnipotent. ' ' And I said : ' ' Yes, I am glad 
 that God in Heaven is still omnipotent in spite of 
 the fact that the tent is leaking right over my 
 face. ' ' Then I pulled the blankets over my head 
 and dozed off to sleep — ^but not for long. 
 
 I was soon awakened and told it was my turn 
 out. It was still raining hard and I could still 
 hear the thunder and see the flashes of lighting 
 as I bundled up and went out to my car and 
 started out to find Fort Houdremont. I had 
 never been there. I merely had a general 
 direction as to where it was. It was a bad 
 
69 
 
 night for a ten mile ride to a post I had never 
 been to. It was not quite midnight when I 
 started. The roads were slippery and crowded 
 with traffic and progress was slow. About 
 four miles out traffic was blocked for over half 
 an hour, part of which time I dozed sitting at 
 the wheel. Then once more motors began to 
 whirr, trucks were groaning, horses were pull- 
 ing and tugging, officers on horseback were 
 shouting orders. 
 
 The procession moved on, getting nearer the 
 battle, and along the road we could see the 
 flashes of fire from the artillery and the ex- 
 ploding shells as they struck. On through the 
 town of Bras, desolate shell wrecked place, 
 then on about a half a mile beyond. There I 
 saw a chance to make time and gain ground 
 by pulling out of the procession, driving ahead 
 and crowding into an opening further on. A 
 large motor truck loomed up in front me. I 
 turned sharply to the right to escape being hit 
 and ran into a ditch. I was hopelessly stalled. 
 
 One of our cars, driven by Holt, came direct- 
 ly back of me. He stopped to see if he could 
 give me help. I told him it was impossible for 
 us to pull the car out. He saw that for him- 
 self and as he drove on he shouted "Good- 
 night" to me and I called back "Good-night" 
 to him. 
 
 He could not have gotten far when I saw a 
 shell burst directly down the road that he had 
 gone. I wondered how close a call he had. 
 
70 
 
 Next day he told me he jumped out of his ear 
 and was crouching in a ditch when the shell 
 struck. 
 
 I stood alongside of my car in the rain and 
 mud, shells coming in along the road as the 
 procession of the night moved past me. Every 
 one had his work to do and must move on. 
 Once four Poilus paused long enough to see 
 whether they could help push my car out of 
 the ditch, but it was useless and they went on. 
 
 There was nothing to do but to wait for day- 
 light and it was a long wait. During the night 
 two horses were killed beside my ear. 
 
 The dawn came on slowly, the rain stopped, 
 the firing became less intense. The procession 
 of the night had disappeared 1 knew not where. 
 An empty ammunition wagon came clattering 
 up the road, the driver cracking his whip and 
 urging the four horses into greater speed. 
 When the sun finally appeared I found my- 
 self alone in view of the enemy. Alone, ex- 
 cepting for the two dead horses lying on the 
 road beside my car. Then I went for help. 
 
 I walked backed to the town of Bras and if it 
 looked forlorn at night it looked even more so 
 in the daylight. Places where some houses had 
 once stood were now merely marked by debris 
 tumbled into the cellars — dead horses were 
 lying about. A French ambulance gave me a 
 lift back to Verdun and there I found one of 
 our ears which took me back to our canton- 
 ment where I reported my difficulties. Steven- 
 
71 
 
 son called to Hanna, who was off duty, and in 
 his car we three drove back over the road to 
 where I had abandoned my ambulance. 
 
 I really was skeptical about finding anything 
 more than a pile of wreckage, but the car was 
 still there and so were the two dead horses. 
 Before we proceeded to pull my car out with 
 the aid of Hanna 's car, I tenderly lifted an un- 
 exploded shell from under the rear wheel, car- 
 ried it over to the other side of the road and 
 laid it down. 
 
 Then on to Haudremont — Stevenson riding 
 with me and Hanna following in his car. 
 Reaching there, we walked up the side of a 
 steep hill to the dressing station and inquired 
 for any wounded that might be there. I was 
 caked with mud from head to foot. A French 
 Officer smiled at my appearance. I saluted 
 and he extended his hand. The French of- 
 ficers were usually quite as polite to us as if 
 we were officers ourselves. 
 
 We found some wounded who would other- 
 wise have been kept there until darkness had 
 set in. After that our Section covered the 
 "run" to Fort Houdremont in daylight with 
 regularity and in spite of the fact that the road 
 was exposed to view, most of us found the 
 daylight run much less nerve racking than in 
 the night. 
 
 "Do the Boche fire on ambulances"? I have 
 sometimes been asked. 
 
 "Certainly!" I have answered. 
 
72 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The days and nights went on, but still the at- 
 tack did not take place, but the artillery duels 
 were growing in intensity every night. 
 
 If there was any belief that preparations for 
 the attack were not known, this belief was dis- 
 pelled when the Germans erected a sign over 
 their trenches reading — 
 
 "WE WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU ON 
 THE FIFTEENTH"— But the fifteenth pass- 
 ed by and — the attack did not take place. We 
 were getting very tired — we were becoming 
 conscious that we had nerves — the driving be- 
 came more hazardous and terrifying with the 
 increased activity of the artillery. 
 
 Early on the evening of August seventeenth, 
 I was off duty and was standing talking to 
 some of the fellows, enjoying an after supper 
 pipe and watching the anti-aircraft guns pop- 
 ping at a German aeroplane when Stevenson 
 walked up. He said a telephone message had 
 just came in informing him that Stockwell had 
 broken the front spring of his car out at Port 
 Houdremont. I was to take a new spring out 
 and Pearl was to go along to help make the re- 
 pairs. 
 
 William Pearl was our volunteer mechani- 
 cian and had been with the Section for some 
 time. Before that he had been a Rhodes 
 Scholar. After the war he would practice 
 law. 
 
73 
 
 Pearl and I started off and we had not gone 
 far when it began to rain — it frequently 
 rained at Verdun. We stopped to slip our rub- 
 ber ponchos over our heads. Perhaps that brief 
 delay was the cause of what happened shortly 
 after. A matter of seconds sometimes changes 
 destiny when at the front. I recall that on 
 one occasion I slowed down my car for a few 
 seconds, just long enough to light a cigarette, 
 and as I paused a shell struck on the road, not 
 far in front of me. I am sure but for the 
 lighting of that cigarette, the shell would have 
 scored a direct hit. Yet some people say that 
 cigarettes are an unmixed evil. 
 
 But of rubber ponchos, having slipped them 
 on, we drove forward in the rain along the 
 bank of the Meuse past the city of Verdun, up 
 a long hill along which were formed the troops, 
 the munition trucks, the cannon, the camion 
 waiting to move toward the front under dark- 
 ness, and when the procession once started to 
 move, we knew from experience that progress 
 would be slow along the road. So we drove as 
 rapidly as possible — as we drove, we got into 
 conversation and Pearl told me that in all his 
 experience Section One had never known any- 
 thing worse than what we had been going 
 through at Verdun. I had heard Ned Town- 
 send say the same thing, and Townsend had 
 been at the front most of the time since the 
 war started. 
 
74 
 
 As we began to descend the long hill, we 
 could see shells striking near the road and 
 when we reached the bottom of the hill, we 
 came to a large camion ditched and deserted 
 on one side of the road and on the other side 
 of the road a large shell hole. It was now 
 dusk and I stopped my car to see whether I 
 could pass without running into the hole. 
 Then we heard the terrific shriek to which our 
 ears had become accustomed — and then the 
 crash. Pearl had stepped partly from the 
 seat and had crouched down — I had put my 
 head down and covered my face with my arms. 
 The pieces of shell and rocks spattered around 
 the car and hit it in several places. Each 
 fraction of a second I expected to feel a sting- 
 ing sensation but I quickly came to a realiza- 
 tion that I was not scratched. I raised my 
 head and asked — "Are you all right Pearl"? 
 Then I saw a magnificient display of cahn 
 courage. As he stood up, Pearl replied, as 
 quietly as if he had discovered something 
 wrong with the front tire. "I think my arm 
 is gone." 
 
 It was not gone but badly shattered. With 
 nerves calm and head cool, though he was 
 bleeding badly, he got up on the seat beside 
 me. The nearest dressing . station was at 
 Haudremont and we drove on. I am not sure 
 but I thnik a shell must have struck behind us 
 at that moment because I later discovered a 
 
75 
 
 hole in the rear curtain of the car and the rear 
 hub cap was cut as if by a steel chisel. 
 
 At Haudremont we left the car at the cross 
 roads and started to climb the steep muddy 
 embankment to reach the dressing post. Pearl 
 was losing blood and getting weak, but still 
 calm. I am sure he was more calm than I was. 
 "While his wound was being dressed I tele- 
 phoned and reported the accident to Steven- 
 son. I reported that I would remain at Hau- 
 dremont with Pearl until he could be moved. 
 There was some question as to whether he 
 might be obliged to stay all night, but it was 
 finally decided to move him back to the hos- 
 pital at Beveaux without waiting until morn- 
 ing. It was now pitch dark and the roads 
 were crowded with traffic coming toward the 
 front. Progress was extremely slow on the 
 way back. We would perhaps drive a quarter 
 of a mile and then be held up for a quarter of 
 an hour. Shells were arriving and shells were 
 departing. It was a bad night, but aU nights 
 were hideously bad in front of Verdun. When- 
 ever we stopped, I would open the little front 
 window of the car and ask Pearl how he felt 
 and always would come back the reply "All 
 right." Once we were held up for an unus- 
 ually long time and I walked ahead to see 
 what was holding up the traffic. It was a 
 large gun that had become ditched and men 
 and horses and trucks were pulling and groan- 
 
76 
 
 ing and straining. Finally we were on our 
 way and without further bad delays we reach- 
 ed the hospital at Beveaux. It had taken us 
 two hours to cover less than ten miles. 
 
 I saw Pearl carried from his stretcher and 
 tucked in bed and then I could not refrain 
 from telling him what I felt — "Pearl you have 
 got about the finest, coolest nerve of any man 
 I have ever seen." 
 
77 
 
 XV. 
 
 Still the attack did not take place and still 
 we were staying on and getting very tired. 
 
 On the morning and afternoon of the 
 twentieth, I made several trips to Haudremont. 
 Late in the afternoon we heard that the long 
 delayed and much heralded attack would 
 start that night. As I was returning to Haudre- 
 mont about five o'clock, Stevenson instructed 
 me to wait there until midnight for wounded 
 and then to return and go oflE duty. 
 
 At dusk, began the most terrific artillery 
 firing that I have ever heard. There was not 
 a second's cessation in the firing — it was as 
 continual and rapid as the roUing of a snare 
 drum. Standing on the hiU. in front of the 
 Post de Seeours at Haudremont in front of the 
 French guns the shells were slipping through 
 the air, that is the way they sounded, as if they 
 were being shot along greased planes. I not 
 only heard the departing shells, I actually saw 
 them — black spots flying through space. At 
 first I was skeptical. I thought perhaps my 
 vision had become impaired or perhaps it was 
 the effect of deranged nerves, but I asked 
 White if he could see what I did and he said 
 he could. Night came on and soon the men in 
 the trenches would go "over the top" for the 
 final rush. If it was a terrible strain for us, 
 the waiting must have been a most terrible 
 strain for them. There was several other cars 
 
78 
 
 besides mine at Haudremont as night came on, 
 but I would be the last to leave. Stretcher 
 bearers their faces set and worn came in bear- 
 ing wounded. 
 
 Patterson's car was loaded and he started 
 back over the bombarded road for Beveaux. 
 Hanna's ear was loaded and he started back. 
 White's car was loaded and he started back. 
 Stout's car was loaded and at the foot of the 
 hill his ear broke down and under shrapnel 
 fire, the wounded were transferred to another 
 car. Kirtsburg's car was loaded and he started 
 back. Then I was the only one left. I sat 
 down beside a stretcher bearer and we smoked 
 in silence. The waiting seemed unbearable, 
 listening to the ceaseless thunder of the guns. 
 T fully realized when I did start, just what I 
 must pass through to get back to the hospital 
 at Beveaux, nearly ten miles away. I wonder- 
 ed how much longer I must wait. I began to 
 realize for the first time how men were glad to 
 be slightly wounded in order to get out of that 
 nerve wrecking Hell. Pieces of shell were 
 spattering around where we sat so we went 
 inside underground. A soldier who had been 
 brought in just a little while before was rav- 
 ing and fighting — he had gone insane. Gen- 
 darmes threw him to the floor. 
 
 Ten o'clock an operation was being per- 
 formed and as we stood close to the operating 
 table, my friend the stretcher bearer brought 
 me a cup of tea. I thought at the moment the 
 

 
 -'•> .§ -■'*' 
 
 <^ K < 
 
 * . »^ .\ ^, V * . ; k„ , * ^ .-i.. 
 
 z 
 
79 
 
 strain of waiting to go into the Hell outside 
 was the worst experience I had ever known. 
 But at last the time came — my ambulance was 
 loaded and I started back — ^not by the way of 
 Bras, because gas was coming in and settling 
 in the lowlands, but up a steep long Mil which 
 at least would be comparatively free from 
 gas — every inch of the way passing artillery 
 pounding incessantly, so that I could not dis- 
 tinguish the difference between the sound of 
 arriving and of departing shells. The flashes 
 of fire in my face were so blinding that I was 
 obliged time and again to pause and get my 
 bearings, to avoid running off the road. Three 
 times while pulling up that long hill, the engine 
 of my car stalled and I would climb over 
 the wounded soldier sitting by my side and get 
 the engine started again. I felt fatigued almost 
 to the breaking point. I felt sure that if I 
 reached Beveaux I woxild be physically unable 
 to drive again that night. I thought of the 
 weary, drawn faces of those stretcher bearers 
 back at Haudremont, silently going out and 
 silently returning with their burdens. I thought 
 of my own face. This was not vanity — ^it was 
 simply that my face seemed to pinch at the 
 cheek bones. 
 
 On I went until my car jerking and limping 
 on three cylinders drew up on the grounds at 
 the Beveaux hospital. But after the ear had 
 stopped, it still seemed to be moving. Others 
 told me they had experienced the same sensa- 
 
80 
 
 tion, when they had almost reached the point 
 of exhaustion. 
 
 I walked over to our dining tent — stumbled 
 over a guy rope and went inside. I had ab- 
 solute confidence in the forethought of Steven- 
 son. I struck a match, found some cold meat, 
 a piece of bread and a cup of pinard then I 
 tumbled into my cot. 
 
 All along the front I could hear the inces- 
 sant pounding of the guns, like the rolling of a 
 snare drum, and then I fell asleep. 
 
81 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Tlie attack had taken place — thousands had 
 been killed and wounded on both sides of the 
 lines, but the PVench had taken many Germany- 
 prisoners. They had advanced their lines — 
 they had gained important hills. The Ger- 
 mans had been driven back. The attack had 
 been a success. 
 
 But still no relief came for us, we must stay 
 on, "just three or four days longer," through 
 the counter-attack of the Germans. "We stayed 
 on through the counter attack. Events were 
 happening fast to us. A couple of our men had 
 taken sick — ^had broken down under the strain 
 and were sent in to Paris. Gamble had broken 
 his arm cranking his car and he was sent into 
 Paris. Oiler developed appendicitis and was 
 sent to a hospital a little further back from 
 the lines for an operation. The hospital where 
 he went was shelled and some of the occupants 
 killed. Oiler had staid on much longer than 
 most men would in his condition. Holt was 
 gassed — ^Buhl was gassed — Patterson was 
 gassed but they stayed on. Drivers were all hav- 
 ing narrow escapes. 
 
 Young Tapley had just loaded his car 
 with wounded when a big shell came shriek- 
 ing in. Tapley threw himself on his face 
 as the shell struck and exploded close to 
 hjs car. The sides of the car were blown out 
 and all the wounded were instantly killed. 
 
82 
 
 White was lying on his face close to him. An- 
 other car was squarely hit and completely de- 
 molished. Fortunately no one was in it at the 
 moment. Cram while driving at night, wear- 
 ing a gas mask, drove over a twenty foot em- 
 bankment — he rolled out of the car on a dead 
 horse — he fell into a trench on a dead man. A 
 Gendarme on horseback shot in the breast by 
 shrapnel, toppled from his horse directly in 
 front of Purdy's ear. There was not a single 
 ear in the Section which was not hit at least 
 once. "Red" Day who had succeeded Pearl 
 as mechanician was kept working night and 
 morning and his untiring toil helped to save 
 the Section and keep it rolling. 
 
 We had been relieved from the run to Hau- 
 dremont and were now centering our efforts 
 on the posts as far as Fort Douaumont and that 
 was worse because the roads were exposed to 
 view most of the way. The country was laid 
 absolutely barren and along the way, men 
 burrowed holes in the ground and lived like 
 rats — and with them. In the day time we 
 might drive along those roads without scarcely 
 seeing a human being, and yet thousands of 
 human beings were all about us. As we drove 
 along, rats would scurry across the roads. 
 Once I saw a dead rat in the middle of the road 
 and it made me pessimistic. Dead horses were 
 lying about which long since should have been 
 covered over had time permitted. Sometimes 
 wounded horses were staggering about the 
 
83 
 
 road, suffering pitifully and impeding traffic. 
 On one of these occasions, our French Lieuten- 
 ant Eeymond drove out and with a revolver 
 shot several of the wounded horses and then 
 had them cleared from the road. Under fire 
 Reymond was calm, he was magnificent. Back 
 at Louvois I had liked Reymond, but at Verdun 
 J admired him. 
 
 Along the roads I sometimes saw big shell 
 holes, enormous craters which made me very 
 thoughtful. We were under fire day and night, 
 whether on or off duty. Overhead, we daily 
 watched the air duels of the avions. Sometimes 
 a German plane would come across, flying 
 straight, swift and low to attack an observa- 
 tion balloon and as it opened fire, we would 
 see the man in the observation basket leap out 
 into space we would see his body shoot straight 
 down through the air, then his parachute 
 would open up and perhaps he would land in 
 safety. On one occasion I saw a French plane 
 collapse in the air and come swirling down like 
 a dead leaf down, down, crashing to the 
 ground, and I drove on not feeling a single sen- 
 sation. I was dead tired and had passed the 
 stage of feeling a thrill even of horror. 
 
 At night the avions were always overhead, 
 dropping bombs — sometimes a munition plant 
 would be hit and explosion after explosion 
 would light the sky for several hours. Still 
 we stayed on — the relief did not come. 
 
84 
 
 And while we were voluntarily and willing- 
 ly, yes even very cheerfully, under fire for the 
 cause, it was most shocking to read in the 
 papers that open treason went unpunished 
 back in the United States. One may easily 
 imagine our deep emotion there in front of 
 the guns hearing of the damnable utter- 
 ances of La FoUette and to learn that while 
 there was some talk of expelling him from the 
 Senate there was no certainty of even that, I 
 am sure everyone felt as I did that he should 
 have a fair trial and being found guilty — 
 promptly shot. It is the only way to deal with 
 a traitor in time of war. 
 
 That is the way I felt about the matter while 
 under fire, and I have not changed my mind 
 since. 
 
 Our troops over there are entitled to the as- 
 surance that it is not safe for anyone at home 
 to stab them in the back. 
 
85 
 
 XVII. 
 
 On the morning of September first, after 
 we had been at Verdun for a month under fire, 
 as we were eating breakfast, three Englishmen 
 walked in to our dining tent. They were mem- 
 bers of Section One, English Ambulance Corps. 
 They informed us that their Section had been 
 sent up to relieve us. "We were elated. We in- 
 vited them to sit down for breakfast with us. 
 A little later it turned out they had been mis- 
 informed. They had merely been sent up to 
 assist us. "We were dejected. "We were to stay 
 on, "just three or four days longer." 
 
 The French were going to foUow up their 
 success of August twentieth with another at- 
 tack which would take place "most any day" 
 and then we would be sent back for rest. The 
 centre of this attack was to take place in front 
 of Fort Douaumont, and, if anything, it would 
 be harder on us than when we were at Haudre- 
 mont on the twentieth. 
 
 The attack took place on the seventh of Sep- 
 tember and while some ground was gained, the 
 success was not as decisive as had been the 
 previous attack. 
 
 But the relief did not come for us, we were 
 to stay on, "Just two or three days longer", 
 through the counter-attack of the Germans. 
 
 Personally I was playing out very rapidly. 
 I was losing the ability to relax and recuper- 
 ate when off duty. I was losing the ability to 
 
86 
 
 sleep — I was reaching the stage of premoni- 
 tions. I hoped that I might last out until re- 
 lief came. I wanted to finish decently. I was 
 afraid of myself — I was afraid I might turn 
 coward — I was afraid I might turn quitter. 
 
 Then came a drive that I shall always re- 
 member. It was during the counter-attack of 
 the Germans. I shall always remember it, for 
 one reason, because I was almost tempted to 
 turn coward and quit. 
 
 The wounded were coming in fast at Douau- 
 mont both French and German and all of our 
 care were on duty — at least aU that were able 
 to run. It was just about noon when I started, 
 and the sun was shining cheerfully enough 
 overhead but it was perfect Hell on earth. A 
 short distance out I passed one of the English 
 cars coming in and the driver shouted to me 
 to have my gas mask ready. I confess I had a 
 feeling of fear. I had seen the victims of 
 poison gas and I had a greater dread of that 
 than I had of shells, if such a thing were pos- 
 sible, and besides a couple of nights before 
 during a period that I had been on constant 
 duty for thirty hours in which time I punc- 
 tured six tires. I had gotten a slight touch 
 of gas and had felt rather ragged ever since. 
 About four miles out, I passed one of our cars 
 and the driver called to me something about 
 big shells and gas. I stopped to call back for 
 more particulars, but he was too far back to 
 hear me. I was wavering but I drove on. A 
 
87 
 
 little further and I could see the shells coining 
 in. I could see the gas clouds. I stopped my 
 car — I got out and then I had the hardest argu- 
 ment I have ever had with myself. First I 
 argued : " It is absolutely suicide to go on, I am 
 absolutely justified in turning back and report- 
 ing that the road is impassable". Then I 
 argued v(rith myself, "But if I do go on and am 
 hit, the agony will be over with in a few min- 
 utes, but if I turn back, the agony will be with 
 me the rest of my life". So I put on my gas 
 mask and drove on. 
 
 Approaching the brow of the hill, I saw 
 three of our cars drawn up along side the road. 
 I stopped my car directly behind them and 
 walked ahead. The engine of one of the cars 
 was stiU running, but the cars were all deserted. 
 At that minute a shell struck just over the 
 brow of the hill. The stop had undoubtedly 
 saved me. I ran down an embankment into a 
 deserted dug-out and there I cruoched, swelt- 
 ering in my gas mask. A few minutes later I 
 ran out, jumped into my ambulance, passing 
 the three deserted cars and drove on, tremb- 
 ling so that I could scarcely keep my feet on 
 the right pedals. I reached the post at Douau- 
 mont and there was our French Lieutenant 
 Eeymond in his steel helmet, calm and undis- 
 turbed, directing and assisting in the loading 
 of the ambulances. He quietly and good-nat- 
 uredly took me to task because my boots were 
 
not properly laced. I gave him a cigarette and 
 lighted one myself. Then I went inside the 
 post where tea was being ladled out. This 
 steadied me a bit. I went out. The place was 
 littered with wounded, mostly Germans, 
 Lieutenant Eeymond assisted me in lifting 
 wounded Germans in the car. 
 
 Then I drove back and went off duty. Some 
 time in the middle of the night I had a terrible 
 nightmare and went through the whole exper- 
 ience over again and in it I dreamed that I had 
 an urgent call to go back to the same post. I 
 woke up, but the dream had been so vivid that 
 I really thought I had received a call. I pulled 
 on my boots and partly dressed, started for my 
 ear. Stevenson and "Red" Day who were out 
 there informed me there had been no call and 
 sent me back to bed. Stevenson gave me veri- 
 nol to make me sleep. Later, I found that 
 "Red" Day deliberately fixed my car so it 
 would not run in the event of my receiving any 
 more imaginary calls in the night. 
 
 It was on the day following that as I was 
 sitting on the end of my cot about to lie down, 
 That a shell struck outside and a piece of the 
 shell about the size of an inkwell ripped a hole 
 in the tent and struck on my pillow. I picked 
 it up while it was still hot, walked out and 
 showed it to Lieutenant Reymond and we 
 laughed together over the incident. Lieutenant 
 Reymond 's laugh was fairly hearty. 
 
 On the fifteenth of September, after forty- 
 
89 
 
 five days and forty five nights under shell fire 
 day and night, we received orders to go on 
 repose. A little while later Stevenson packed 
 me in his staff ear and started me on my way to 
 Paris to see a doctor. 
 
 I was not elated — I was utterly dejected. I 
 had wanted to finish strong and I had all but 
 finished in the discard. "Take a month off or 
 as long as you need, but I want you to come 
 back," was Steve's kind and cheering parting, 
 as the car pulled down the road. 
 
 The men in the Section had aU been wonder- 
 ful. Lieut. Beymond had been magnificient, 
 but I am sure, but for the brainy, watchful, 
 sympathetic leadership of "William York Stev- 
 enson, the Section would never have held to- 
 gether those long days and nights, in that see- 
 thing, shrieking, blood-stained Hell in front of 
 Verdun — "The valley of the shadow of 
 Death". 
 
90 
 
 xvm. 
 
 On leaving the Section, I was feeling too 
 tired and dejected to experience any deep re- 
 grets that I wotdd not be with my friends for 
 the celebration which had been planned upon 
 reaching Bar le Due, Also I was feeling a lit- 
 tle depressed in starting off for Paris abso- 
 lutely flat broke — penniless — not a franc in 
 my pocket. As a matter of fact I had been in 
 that financial condition (if such a condition 
 can be called financial) for nearly two months, 
 because a cablegram which I had sent to the 
 United States the latter part of July had not 
 reached its destination. "Whether it had been 
 lost in the ocean or had been confiscated and 
 hypothecated for what it was worth by the 
 enemy, I shall never know. Enough to say that 
 T was broke. 
 
 During those long weary days and nights 
 and weeks, I had not possessed the price of a 
 cigarette and during that time I had grown to 
 have the firmest convictions that anyone who 
 is opposed to sending tobacco to the Allies, is 
 either most happily ignorant of the nerve rack- 
 ing strain of war or is out and out pro-German. 
 
 Yet I was not allowed to suffer too much 
 for my friends in the Section evidently be- 
 lieving that I was honest, were very kind to 
 me, so I managed to have a smoke with a fair 
 degree of regularity. I borrowed two francs 
 from Stockwell with which I bought a pipe in 
 
91 
 
 which I smoked Ned Townsend's Bull Durham 
 or even the terrible French tobacco when I 
 thought that Ned Townsend might feel that I 
 was imposing on him too much. I was rather 
 clumsy at rolling cigarettes but Frank Farn- 
 ham was very helpful in that respect. He be- 
 came so accustomed to performing this kind 
 service for me that all I had to do was to look 
 at him and say, "Farney" and out would 
 come his bag of tobacco. 
 
 A few days before leaving the Section, I had 
 written in to Paris to despatch a second cable- 
 gram to the United States and I hoped upon 
 reaching Paris I would find the essential reply 
 waiting for me at the banking house of Mor- 
 gan-Harjes 
 
 Just as I was about to get into the Staff car 
 to start for Paris, it was "Farney" who came 
 up to me and handed me twenty francs to see 
 me through the journey. 
 
 It was midnight when I reached Paris and I 
 was completely tired out. I engaged a taxi- 
 cab and told the chauffeur to drive to Henry's 
 Number Eleven, Rue Volney. Henry's Hotel 
 had been the semi-official headquarters of 
 Section One in Paris practically since the war 
 started. Here at least I could make myself 
 known. 
 
 To be sure, I had some very good letters to 
 people in Paris but I certainly was not going 
 to use them to establish credit, and I did not 
 feel up to social eaUs. 
 
92 
 
 Before the war, Henry's had been something 
 of a rendevouz for rich sporting men, those 
 who followed the races and the like. Since 
 the war, it was still patronized by those who 
 had gone there before and also by aviators, 
 ambulanciers, army officers, French, English 
 and American. Henry had a transient business 
 and he also held a clientele. When I had been 
 there in June, I had seen certain well dressed, 
 well groomed young and midle aged men drift- 
 ing in at certain hours. I saw these same faces 
 there again in September and also saw them 
 again in December. I wondered what their oc- 
 cupations might be, either real or ostensable. 
 Most any day between five and six, Henry 
 could be seen shaking dice with his clientele. 
 
 Henry was a little short trim fellow with a 
 florid face, grey mustache and usually dressed 
 immaculately in a frock coat. He wore glasses 
 when he took inventory of the cash register. 
 "When he took inventory of people, he usually 
 squinted his eyes into little slits, so that peo- 
 ple who were being inventoried would scarce- 
 ly realize that they were being noticed. Among 
 foreigners and Parisians, Henry was one of the 
 characters of the city. I say "was", because 
 Henry has since passed on to another world. 
 When I reached there the hotel was closed but 
 a ring on the bell brought the concierge to the 
 door in his pajamas and bath robe. I was 
 shown to a room with a bed in it, white pillows. 
 
93 
 
 clean sheets — no dirt or lice or rats or anything 
 disagreeable — and it was very quiet. 
 
 I was not long in getting to bed and not 
 much longer in getting to sleep, but in my sleep 
 I was once more back at Verdun. I could hear 
 the aeroplanes whirring overhead — I could 
 hear the bursting shells — ^I could see the dead 
 horses on the crowded roads I could see the 
 rats and filth, the desolation of the front. Not 
 a very peaceful sleep and when I awoke I felt 
 somewhat confused as 1 looked over toward 
 the windows and saw the heavy curtains 
 drawn together. A clock was ticking on the 
 mantle. It was nearly nine o'clock. Beside the 
 bed I observed a telephone and without raising 
 my head from the soft comfortable clean white 
 pillow, I reached for it. I might be broke but 
 at least I was going to have one good meal to 
 fortify me for the day. The office answered 
 the call, "Grape Fruit" I said, "soft boiled 
 eggs, toast with butter on it, coffee — and a 
 pack of cigarettes. Pell Mells". I wanted to 
 order a less expensive brand of cigarettes, but 
 I was afraid it might hurt my credit. Then I 
 closed my eyes and dozed peacefully. 
 
 A little later in the morning, I met Henry. 
 "We sat down on the sofa at the foot of the 
 stairs, and I told him Ned Townsend, Steven- 
 son and other old men in the Section had sent 
 him their best regards. Then I told him I was 
 broke but added quickly that I expected a 
 cablegram any day — perhaps to-day. Henry 
 
94 
 
 was very nice and polite about it and told me 
 not to worry. 
 
 When I went out of the hotel, I intended to 
 go over to the offices of Morgan-Harjes and 
 learn whether a reply had come to my second 
 cablegram, but I really did not feel strong 
 enough to stand any unfavorable news. A 
 hack driver coming along Bue Volney cracked 
 his whip and I almost fell on the pavement. 
 My nerves seemed to be temporarily shattered. 
 I still had a few francs left that "Farney" 
 had given me, so I called a taxi-cab and drove 
 to 21 Rue Reynouard the headquarters of the 
 American Field .Service. Dr. Lines looked me 
 over and informed me that my heart was in 
 bad condition and that I needed a complete 
 rest. He suggested sending me out to a con- 
 valescent hospital in the country but I did not 
 feel well enough to go to a hospital — I did not 
 want to see the inside of a hospital and — ^be- 
 sides I was waiting for a cablegram from the 
 States. Later in the day I pulled myself to- 
 gether and went down Boulevard Hausseman 
 to the offices of Morgan-Harjes. About that 
 place I remembered having written to my 
 partner in the banking business, that while 
 their furniture is not as handsome as ours, 
 they seemed to have more customers. 
 
 At Morgan-Harjes there was no news for me. 
 
 I went back to Henry's and retired for the 
 afternoon. I arose for supper which I had in 
 
95 
 
 the cafe — and signed for it — a short walk as 
 far as the Cafe de la Paix, back to Henry's 
 and to bed, back to sleep, back to Verdun — 
 back to the shrieking shells, the whirr of the 
 aeroplanes, the rats, and the crowded, blood- 
 stained roads. 
 
 Waking the next morning, I reached for the 
 telephone, breakfasted in bed and dozed until 
 noon, then walked over to Morgan-Harjes. 
 
 No news 
 
 After a fashion I have learned to study ex- 
 pression in faces and on the days immediately 
 following, when I got out of bed and went to 
 Morgan-Harjes, I could tell by the expression 
 of the clerk's face before he spoke to me that 
 there was no news. I also noticed by the ex- 
 pression on Henry's face that I should begin 
 to worry. He was not wearing his glasses but 
 he was squinting his eyes. 
 
 I spent most of my time in bed. I needed 
 the rest. The crowds, the boulevards, the 
 early evening cafe life, the movies, the Follies 
 — had no allurement for me. I think it was on 
 the fifth day that I ran into my poet friend 
 young Bob HiUyer of Harvard and South 
 Orange, New Jersey. He too had been out to the 
 front with an Ambulance Section and was now 
 on his way back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
 where he was going to accept a professorship 
 in the University which had made that town 
 fairly famous. 
 
96 
 
 I was very glad to see Bob Hillyer again in 
 spite of the fact that he told me I looked per- 
 fectly terrible and should really return to the 
 States and not think of returning to the front. 
 He asked me to take dinner with himself and 
 a friend of his. I protested, mildly suggesting 
 that they take dinner with me at Henry's, but 
 the stronger will prevailed and the three of us 
 had dinner together at a little quiet out-door 
 cafe underneath the awnings. 
 
 They walked back to Henry's with me, 
 where my pride and hospitality got the better 
 of my judgment. 
 
 Wouldn't they come in and have a little 
 cordial before going along? 
 
 Certaintly ! — 
 
 "We went inside — the cordials were ordered 
 — I laid down three francs. 
 
 "Pour francs, fifty, Mr. Rice," said George, 
 who had gotten to know me by name from hav- 
 ing served me my breakfast in bed. 
 
 I picked up the three francs, put them in my 
 pocket and said, "Please put it on my bill 
 George". It is really terrible to be apparently 
 well-to-do and not have any money to do it 
 with. 
 
 Hillyer and his friend said "Good-night," 
 and I promptly went to bed. It was a little 
 past midnight I think and I had been fast 
 asleep for some time, again back at Verdun 
 with the bursting shells and scurrying and 
 
97 
 
 scurrilous rats, when I suddenly became con- 
 scious of the fact that a firm hand was resting 
 on each one of my shoulders. I awoke with 
 a start and there stood Ned Townsend smiling 
 broadly. 
 
 "Get up" he said, don't you know it is your 
 turn out to post". At the foot of the bed stood 
 "Red" Day. They had just reached Paris and 
 informed me they had come on from the front 
 to cheer me up a bit. "Farney" was with 
 them too. 
 
 Why say I was glad to see them all? They 
 sat on the side of the bed and told me about 
 the banquet at Bar le Due and Ned told me 
 that "Red" and "Farney" were slated for the 
 Croix de Guerre which was very good news. 
 
 Townsend had received the Oroix de Guerre 
 a long time before. 
 
 "We had late breakfast together and they 
 paid for it and then I went around to Morgan- 
 Harjes. I read the expression on the clerk's 
 face as I stepped up to the window. "When I 
 left, I discovered there was a spring to my 
 step which had been absent on the previous 
 days. 
 
 I walked rapidly back to Henry's and into 
 the hotel. Henry was in the hall way at the 
 foot of the stairs. As he saw me, I observed 
 the expression on his face — ^he was not wear- 
 ing his glasses but his eyes were squinted into 
 little sKts. I knew what was coming as he 
 
98 
 
 said lie woiild like to speak to me. I cheerfully 
 replied: "It is all right, the cablegram has 
 come." 
 
 "When I saw Ned Townsend, "Red" Day and 
 "Farney", I told them they were to have sup- 
 per at a certain quiet little cafe of mine, op- 
 posite the "Chinese Umbrella". 
 
XIX. 
 
 AILLIANVILLE. 
 
101 
 
 Thougli my leave had not expired, I decided 
 to return to the front with Townsend, "Red" 
 Day and "Farney". The section had moved 
 down into Lorraine, in the foot hills of the 
 Vosges, the land of Joan of Arc. We found 
 our section in the town of AiUianville. There 
 a barn had been converted into a dining room 
 and up in the loft some of the men had placed 
 their cots, while others were billeted in the 
 homes of the towns people — plain but won- 
 derfully kind hearted peasant folks whose 
 dress was in keeping with the surroundings 
 and who splashed around the muddy streets 
 in their wooden sabots and the streets were 
 often muddy for it rained a great deal of the 
 time. But in spite of frequent rains it was 
 none the less delightful here. It was a most 
 pleasant contrast to the desolation in front of 
 Verdun — to see unmolested forests, the foliage 
 turning to autumn colors — to see cows grazing 
 in the fields — sometimes a dog on a frolic, 
 barking at their heels — to see peasant women 
 sitting in the fields with their knitting and 
 keeping a watchful eye on the cattle — and the 
 war not so very many miles away. 
 
 Ned Townsend and I lost no time in finding 
 quarters in the home of a peasant. The house 
 which could not have been built more recent- 
 ly than the seventeenth century, had two 
 rooms and a garret. One room with open fire 
 place served as a kitchen, living room and 
 bedroom all combined. A bed was built in the 
 
102 
 
 wall and during the day was hidden by cur- 
 tains. Here slept the patron Tourgant and his 
 wife. Townsend and I took the other room 
 which had two beds in it. One of the window 
 panes was gone, but this was none the less lux- 
 ury. Our work was light and we enjoyed the 
 life to the fullest extent. We could retire at 
 night with a sense of security that we were not 
 likely to be disturbed before morning. The 
 house stood under the shadow of an ancient 
 church and if we did lie awake, we could hear 
 the clock in the steeple chiming off the quar- 
 ter hours. It was sometimes pleasant to 
 awaken in the middle of the night to hear the 
 clock striking the hour and then to fall asleep 
 again with the thought that there were some 
 hours left for undisturbed rest. 
 
 It was usually Madam Tourgant with wrink- 
 led face, bronzed like a gipsy, who called us 
 in the morning and set a cup of hot coffee by 
 our beds. Sometimes when we came in late, 
 chilled and wet with the rain. Monsieur Tour- 
 gant would get out of bed, pull on a few 
 clothes, kick the dying embers of the faggots 
 on the hearth into life and heat a cup of coffee 
 for us. And so if there was some work to do, 
 there was time for rest and relaxation. 
 
 In this country, it had once been the sport 
 of Kings to hunt the wild boer. Now the Kings 
 were otherwise engaged, but it was stiU the 
 sport of peasants and poilus. Kings do not 
 control all the sport there is — especially now. 
 
103 
 
 One night we went out on a wild boer hunt, 
 skirting the edge of a thick forest, not far from 
 Aillianville down in the direction of the an- 
 cient town of Grand. Midnight, oiu* hunt being 
 unsuccessful, we sat down on the ground 
 in the moonlight and enjoyed the feast which 
 we had brought with us. We did not have an- 
 other opportunity to go boer hunting because 
 of the rains which caused Ned Townsend or 
 was it "Red" Day to complain that the ground 
 was too wet to sit on. 
 
 But if we had been unsuccessful on our hunt, 
 our patron M. Tourgant fared better, bringing 
 one iu a couple of days later and the following 
 night we were invited to sit around the open 
 fire place while Madam Tourgant put slices of 
 it to sizzling over the faggots on the open fire 
 place. She prepared other things for the sup- 
 per too. Some French soldiers that we knew 
 were there with us and I am sure most any 
 King would have relinquished his crown for a 
 night, to have sat under those old blackened 
 rafters and enjoyed the sport of ordinary mor- 
 tals. 
 
 Sometimes in Allianville we would drop into 
 the little "Cheval Blanc Cafe" to write letters 
 or sit up at the open log fire place with Madam 
 Julie and her husband the patron and while 
 drying our feet which were usually wet, read 
 the romances of Alexander Dumas and the 
 like, some times the butcher maidens from the 
 neighboring town of Grand would come driv- 
 
104 
 
 ing along with, their butcher wagon and from 
 them we would procure a slice of ham or 
 bacon which Madam Julie would cook for us 
 with an omelette. Sometimes in the early even- 
 ing, we played dominoes in the "Cheval 
 Blanc" for stakes, which were not ruinous. In 
 the early evening Madam Julie's niece Marie 
 might drop in to help her with the dishes. 
 
 Marie was a cripple girl, but she was none 
 the less the queen of all Aillianville. Her 
 father owned his own comfortable little home 
 and was the possessor of more cows than any- 
 one in the town. Marie's cheeks were bronzed 
 from the sun while watching her father's cows. 
 Her teeth shone white when she smiled. She 
 had a noble brow and a regal face. Given the 
 opportunity of two or three years in a fashion- 
 able finishing school, provided she did not be- 
 come too highly educated, Marie could have 
 been transplanted to Madison Avenue or Rit- 
 tenhouse Square and scored a decided hit. I 
 have it from one who lives not far from Madi- 
 son Avenue and confirmed by one who lives 
 not far from Bittenhouse Square. Marie will, 
 probably marry a poilu returning from the 
 war with one arm and a Croix de Guerre and 
 live happily ever after in the peaceful town 
 of Aillianville. 
 
 Sometimes sitting by the log fire in the 
 "Cheval Blanc," we would hear the clank 
 of wooden sabots on the stone pavement out- 
 side, the door would open and old Jacques, the 
 
105 
 
 blacksmitli of rugged voice and jet black beard 
 would bluster in for his bottle of wine. 
 
 We lived with the peasants and loved them. 
 They were kind polite, chivalrous — they were 
 real. 
 
 On occasion, there was music in the evening 
 in the "Lion d'or Cafe" further down the 
 street. One night, toward the end of October, 
 we held a dance in the "Lion d'or." A guitar 
 and a mandolin furnished the music. The vil- 
 liagers came around in their wooden sabots. 
 French soldiers in their blue uniforms were 
 there. Back in the shadow of a corner, a group 
 of officers sat enjoying the scene, no doubt 
 wishing they might take an active part. In 
 the course of the evening, a young fellow was 
 lifted on a table and sang "Madelon" a song 
 popular with the French just now. 
 
 It was pretty close to midnight when a mes- 
 sage came in that one of our cars had broken 
 down along the road about ten miles out. A 
 relief party was organized and the dance came 
 to an end. 
 
 It had been snowing in the late afternoon and 
 evening. "When we went out of the Lion d'or 
 the moon was breaking through the clouds and 
 the streets, tile roofs of the houses and the 
 church steeples were white with snow. 
 
 Not one of us who was not a little sad a few 
 days later on receiving orders to move from the 
 town of Aillianville to the ancient town of 
 Beaufromont, built on the side of a steep hill. 
 
106 
 
 We were glad that the villagers also expressed 
 sorrow at the parting. Some of those plain 
 peasant women were kind enough to weep a 
 little as they smiling waved "Au voir" to us. 
 
 Our old patron, the boer hunter Tourgant, 
 was so anxious to bid us a fitting farewell when 
 we started in the early morning that he stayed 
 up most of the night. "When we moved out of 
 the town he was asleep in the blacksmith shop 
 of old Jacques of rugged voice and jet black 
 beard. 
 
 As we drew up in line outside the village, 
 someone commemorated the departure in verse : 
 
 Farewell, my Aillianville, in fair Lorraine, 
 Town where sun shines through the rain, 
 The "Cheval Blanc," the "Lion D'or, 
 "Au voir," farewell forever more. 
 I was with you when woods were brown. 
 When boars were hunted on the downs, 
 When log fire crackled on the hearth 
 And in the evening there was mirth 
 And music in the town I love so well. 
 Oh, Aillianville, au voir, farewell. 
 
 During our stay in Aillianville, Section One, 
 American Field Service Volunteers, was taken 
 over by the American army and there ceased to 
 be any volunteer ambulance service. My work 
 was done, but the Section being short of men 
 I agreed to stay on indefinitely until new men 
 came on. 
 
 One day, to be exact. Thanksgiving morning. 
 
107 
 
 outside the town of Neufchateau, on the road 
 to Nancy, I saw some French troops drawn up 
 on review. A band was playing at their head. 
 By a strange coincidence I had heard that same 
 band playing once before back in HoudaiavUle 
 as those same troops were advancing for the 
 big offensive in front of Verdun. 
 
 On this Thanksgiving morning, the review 
 being over, the men stacked arms and walked 
 about the field. One of the soldiers walked 
 over to where I was talking with some friends. 
 He wore a steel helmet, but underneath the 
 visor I could see a scar across his forehead and 
 there was a scar on his cheek. He asked me if 
 I remembered him and I was obliged to confess 
 that I did not. He then informed me that on 
 September second, in front of Douaumont, 
 when he had received these two scars, I had 
 carried him back. No wonder I had not recog- 
 nized him. 
 
 A few days later I said farewell to Beaufro- 
 mont, to Lorraine, to my friends in Section One 
 and to France. 
 
 My work as a volimteer ambulance driver 
 was ended. 
 
108 
 
 So now my story is told and as I close the 
 pages of the book I pause to think and wonder 
 if ever again I shall see France. I wonder if 
 again I shall walk along the quays of the River 
 Seine or up the sloping tree-lined Champs 
 Elyssee, or wander with friends around to the 
 Cafe de la Paix, or if again I shall pass through 
 the desolate villages at the front and hear the 
 shrieking shells, the aeroplanes overhead sing- 
 ing in the night "Guerre, Guerre, Guerre," 
 their monotonous song of death. I wonder if 
 again I shall see those noble, weary people of 
 our Sister Country fighting bravely against the 
 Iron Hand ; whether I shall go back to see our 
 own flag being carried on to final victory; and 
 I like to hope that America at last shall ride 
 into the field full armed, the Savior of Prance, 
 as was once the Maid of Orleans. 
 
 I wonder if I shall resist or follow that invisi- 
 ble finger beckoning to me — ^whether I shall lis- 
 ten to that voice whispering and saying to me, 
 "Come back?" 
 
 I wonder if again I shall see the towers of 
 Rheims Cathedral or stand upon the hill beside 
 the resting place of Norton? 
 
 I wonder if again some day I shall walk into 
 the peaceful town of Aillianville and sit down 
 by the crackling fire and visit my friend Tour- 
 gant, the boar hunter, and his wife ; whether I 
 shall some evening step in the ' ' Cheval Blanc ' 
 and to Madam Julie and the patron, say, as I 
 
109 
 
 have said before: "Bon soir, Madam, Bon soir. 
 Monsieur;" whether sometime I shall sit with 
 Marie and her husband, who will wear the 
 Croix de Guerre upon his breast, and with them 
 talk about the war. I wonder if I shall again 
 go in the "Lion d'or," and, in memory, hear 
 the music as I did before, and if perhaps I shall 
 see again my friends of Section One in France ? 
 
 I wonder if I shall answer that voice which 
 whispers to me as I walk along the crowded 
 streets, which whispers as I lie awake at night, 
 which whispers in my sleep and says to me — 
 
 "Come back." 
 
 FINIS.