CHAPTER XIV Shifted

The battle sector southeast of Amiens and around Mondidier became quiet during the latter part of April and early May, and, true to Major Little’s predictions, he and the force under him had not much to do. There was still some local fighting. It would not be modern warfare without. Each side sought almost constantly to harass the other and to impress its enemy with its power and readiness. Still, there were a few casualties, so that the dressing stations, and operating room in the evacuation hospital were not idle, and a few ambulances were making almost continuous trips up and down the well-traveled highway.

Not far back of the road from Paris to Amiens the newly-begun American graveyard, with its regular cross-headboards, had grown somewhat. Its mounds were often decorated with roses, field poppies and wild flowers laid on them by the tenderhearted natives, mostly children. It was such sights, together with those of the ruined homes and shell-torn cities within reach of the German guns, that made the beholder pause and wonder how it was that humankind could permit war and its horrors.

The so-called second German drive of 1918 had been launched along the river Lys against Ypres and toward the Channel ports in early April. But it had proved a failure. The firm stand of the British wore out and finally stopped the Huns. Then, more and more furious at these repeated checks, the German High Command, with Hindenburg and Ludendorff at the head, shifted their offensive toward the south. If the British lion could not be separated from his ally, the French eagle, and slain at once then perhaps a supreme effort would gain the road to Paris. The threatened destruction of that city would surely bring victory to Germany and thus enable the kaiser to impose “peace at any price” upon the Allies.

Therefore, on the last day of April began the strengthening of the German line from Noyon to Rheims and a consequent push around Noyon. But the Huns made no progress and once more gnashed their teeth in preparation for a desperate onslaught. It was planned that this should break through at the long coveted points nearest their first objective, the city of Paris.

Just as the storm broke along the Oise and the Marne rivers, there came a surprise to the British, French and Germans. To the Huns it was like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.

The Americans, under French direction, backed by French artillery, went over the top from hastily dug trenches, and made a counter-attack at Cantigny, which threw the enemy back nearly a mile. The Yanks, at the end of May, still held their positions, against the Huns most violent attacks.

Coming up the Paris-Amiens road on a bright morning—the first day of June—Don and Wash, carrying additional supplies for the dressing stations back of Cantigny, met a long line of yellow American lorries—no new thing now, but fraught with deep significance.

“The marines again, Wash—our marines—going south. I bet they’re ordered into the fight. You heard what the assistant to our commissioner said to Surgeon-Major Brown: ‘There’s likely to be some hard work stopping the Heinies on the road out there east of Paris’—the road” Don explained, the Major said “to a place they call Rheims. The Huns have got as far as the river Marne, and that’s where they were in 1914. But I’ll bet they don’t get much farther—not if our boys are going into it!”

“Is dey enny cullud sojahs in de fight?” asked Wash.

“I guess not right at this place, but I think there are, somewhere along the line. Someone told me so—a regiment or more of them.”

“Well, den, what dey wants tuh do is jes’ give ’em some razzors ’en say tu ’em: ‘Look-a-yer, yo’ niggahs, dese yer Germans ain’t no real white folks—dat is real qual’ty—dey is jes’ po’ whites ’en no ’count ’en dey hates niggahs. Now den, go in ’en carve ’em up!’ Sho, man, dey wouldn’t be no German army in ’bout fo’ minutes.”

“Why, that’s right, Wash! Great idea! I’m going to see General Pershing about that. Or, say, how would it do to tell those colored soldiers that every Heinie’s a brother to a ’possum, or that a great big flock of fat chickens is roosting low over in the German trenches! Wouldn’t they drop down on those Huns and scare ’em to death?”

“Aw, gwan, you’s kiddin’ me, yo’ is! Say, ain’t we gwine tuh stop somewhar’s ’en see dese marines go by an’ holler at ’em lak we done—?”

“No, indeed. We’ve got to go on and get back,” said Don. “Orders are to report near LaFerté, to a French officer. The evacuation hospitals down there are all French, I guess. And now all the army down there is French, too, I expect, so we’ll bring in their wounded mostly. But if our boys—”

“Does dese yer Frenchers all yell an’ hollah when dey’s hurt bad?” Wash asked. So far he had seen but two of them, both seriously wounded, and they had done a good deal of groaning and calling for water. But the question went unanswered, for just at the moment the ambulance was compelled to veer off nearly into the ditch in order to dodge a broken-down car and the ever passing lorries, the negro being bounced almost off his seat.

“Ah doan keer whar we goes tu from yere, jes’ so’s we git somewhar’s whar de sun shines lak hit do now fo’ a little while. Ah suttenly doan lak dis puddle bizness what we has mos’ de time sense Ah ben in dis yere France. Hit sure am some wet country. Now dis day ain’ so bad, so Ah’ll jes’ tap wood—” and he rapped himself on the head.

The round trip completed, Don and Wash at the base hospital, re-stocked their car for any emergency. They started out on a new road, coming up with the tail end of the marines in their big camions—passing them, one by one. The way led east, then south and east again, passing first through the town of Senlis, then around the little city of Meaux, then away on a splendid road toward Rheims. Before reaching the objective beyond the town of LaFerté, the road crossed the beautiful Marne, called a river, though Don regarded it merely a big creek, as it would be called in America.

Oh and ever on, rumbled the camions, the yellow lorries with the marines, and Don expected again to catch sight of Clem Stapley. However, it was not these fighting men that most interested him, for on this Rheims road the boy saw for the first time what he would probably never see again—refugees, fleeing from the German army.

It was a sight never to be forgotten—one to wring pity out of the most stony-hearted, to sober the most waggish, to sadden the gentler-minded as hardly even death, or the suffering of the wounded could do. Driven from their homes, fearing the wrath of the invader, expecting only to return and find all their property destroyed, except the little they could carry away, given over to pillage, or the flames. They trudged along, embittered by injustice, powerless to protest, stolid or weeping, but all of one mind. They sought only a place of safety from the Huns. They were mostly afoot; many old men, the younger and middle-aged women and the stronger boys and girls were the beasts of burden, carrying or drawing great loads in makeshift carts, or light wagons, the more fortunate having horse or cow, or perhaps donkey or dog, harnessed to help. On these loads rode the smaller children and the very aged.

Even the soldiers, singing and laughing as they went on to battle, some of them to death or lifelong suffering, and as gay as if nothing but a picnic lay before them, ceased their music and raillery, when they saw the first of these refugees.

The French medical officer at the evacuation hospital near LaFerté spoke enough English to make himself understood by the American Red Cross ambulance drivers, half a dozen of whom had reported to duty before Don arrived on the scene. These fellows greeted him exuberantly and all stood in a row ready to receive orders.

“One of ze dressed staisheon ess more veree far up ze road at zee feets of one hill, m’sieu’. Eet is maybe one kilo from zee enemy at ze Château-Thierry. Go where eet is and carry all ze wound’ you can to bring heem par-ici. Then we operate and dispose, m’sieurs. Allons!”

The ambulances raced away in a string, Don leading. Then began again the experiences of near approach to the battle line, hearing the almost constant rattle of small arms and the hardly less continuous roar of larger guns, seeing the shattered buildings and trees and shell-holes in the most unexpected places. The military police were on duty along the roads. Military messengers were hurrying back and forth. Brancardiers were crossing and re-crossing the fields, with their stretchers empty or laden. Field artillery was moving forward to position. Troops were going in to engage the enemy, or coming out to rest and others waiting in reserve. Ammunition carriers lugged forward their heavy loads. Food for the men in battle was being prepared in hastily set-up kitchens. Sometimes a shell exploded and punctuated the tremendous activity.

“Now then, Wash, mind your eye. We’ve got to get in where, any minute, we may run into a big bang and go up a mile high, or maybe get buried alive or dead under about a ton of earth. Here’s where it is you’ve been saying you’d like to get—right in among the fighters. So be prepared for the worst!”

“Ah ain’t ezakly ready fo’ no sech carryin’s on ez dis,” the darky remarked, rolling his ivory eye-balls until Don thought the pupils would go out of sight and stay there. “How—how long we gotta stay yere an’ what’s de mattah wiv me jes’ droppin’ off ’bout dis place ’en waitin’ twill yu-all gits back from in yondah? Kaint see how Ah’s gwine be much use nohow.”

“You stay right on this car!” ordered Don. “What did you come for? When you get hit, then it’s time to talk about quitting. From your color I didn’t believe you had a single streak of yellow in you.”

Wash stared hard at Don for a moment. A big, whizzing shell, with a noise like that made by a nail when thrown through the air, passed over, not very far away, and exploded with a horrible rending sound, but the negro only shook himself and then grinned. Presently he replied to his companion:

“An’ Ah ain’t yaller, neither! No, sah! En’ yu-all ain’t gwine tuh have no call tuh say Ah is yaller. No, sah! Ah’s gwine tuh stay on dis job ontil de yearth jes’ fade away an’ kingdom come, Ah is. Scairt? Is Ah? Yu jes’ watch me! An’ ef Ah’s gotta git hit, why Ah jes’ gits hit an’ Ah reckon Ah kin stan’ it ez well ez a yuther o’ them niggahs a-fightin’, or any white man, either! Yes, sah!”

And that was all there was to it. Wash meant what he said. Not another whimper did Don hear from him, no matter what their duties were, nor how fast the shells flew. The darky was on the job to prove that he was all one solid color, figuratively as well as literally, even if his name was White. And it became certain that there was no pallor in his liver to indicate his name.

The boys’ first trip close to the battle lines near Château-Thierry resulted in their return with three Frenchmen, one dying and beyond possible help, and two others wounded. Don and Wash had reached the crest of a hill on the road running southwest into LaFerté when they came upon a Red Cross ambulance which had been disabled. Don pulled up a moment to ask if he could briefly give aid, thinking to tow the other car in, if necessary. It was not the custom for a car loaded with blessés to spend any time on the road, if it could be avoided.

A weazen little man, with a foreign face, replied to the boy, in good English:

“Can you lend us a heavy wrench? We have only one and a light one. We need two to take off a bolt.”

Don produced the desired tool from his box and turned to hand it to the little fellow. At the same instant the voice of someone on the other side of the crippled car called quite loud and in French, presumably a command to the little man. The latter made answer as if in protest. Then he handed the wrench back to Don.

“We can obtain another. We should not keep you. Thanks.”

“No, use it,” Don insisted. “I must give my wounded some water and see if they are comfortable. It will not take you long.”

The little man ran quickly to his car and dived beneath it. Don, influenced partly by curiosity and partly by instinct, walked past the front end and on to the other side of the disabled car. A man there, whose voice he had heard—glared at him for a moment, then turned away, rounding the rear end of the car and keeping his back to Don. This fellow was tall, thin, with a narrow face and contracted eyes. He was dressed in khaki, with the white band and Red Cross on his arm.

The boy stood pondering but a moment. He knew where he had seen this man before and under what circumstances. Evidently Don also was recognized. Without a word the youth retraced his steps. He knew very well from what exact spot he could draw his rifle and he knew also that Wash knew how to handle a gun and that he would glory in doing so where any kind of heroics were to be pulled off.