CHAPTER XIII Wash

My boy, I want to commend you, for your aid when they bombed us last week. Haven’t had a chance to before. If all of the fellows had been as cool and as helpful as you and that little, red-headed Irishman we would have had less trouble straightening things out. I see he is running his own car now. Who is your helper?” So spoke Major Little, when he came out of the operating room to get a breath of fresh air, and said to Don.

“I guess I’ll get a colored chap, if I get any,” the boy replied. “A lot of new cars have come over and they want men. I can get along alone. Some of the fellows do.”

“Better to have company. Helps the morale. Gives a chance of aid if one fellow gets hit. Better all round. It is the policy of the service; but we can’t always get what we want.”

“Glad you didn’t have to move after all, Doctor.”

“No, but the expectation now is that the move will come farther north—against the British. Or it may be to the south. If so, some of you fellows will have to be transferred to that sector and it will give us a little rest here.”

“I guess you won’t be sorry, sir. You have worked hard.”

“Yes, pretty hard—right along. We of the Medical Department and of the Red Cross got into it before our fighters did. But the time has come now.”

“I’d like to see some of our boys get busy in a big way. I wish I could have joined the army.”

“Your work is fully as important—and daring—and useful. And, remember this, it is far more humane. You’ve no right to feel dissatisfied.”

“I’m not, Major—not a bit of it. You may count on me! Are there any more blessés to go down now?”

The Americans had begun to take part in the fighting. They had begun to do things in a small way, but this seemed to cause very little stir in France, except among those who had knowledge of the sterling character of the boys from the United States. The French commonly knew nothing actually. They saw nothing to make them think they were any more than a staunch-looking lot of fellows, many of whom needed a lot of drilling in modern warfare before they could hope to turn the tide of battle. There had been little evidence, so far, of this aid materializing, and even the most optimistic poilus had begun to doubt and to question. They had become a trifle fed up on American promises and they now wondered if the Yanks really meant to fight in a large way, or had come over only to skirmish and to bolster up the courage of the Allies by remaining in reserve.

True, the Americans had done a little commendable fighting, aided by the British and the French. Brigaded with the “Tommies” they had taken some hard knocks above Amiens. Brigaded with the French they had helped hold the Germans around Montdidier, but what could they do on a large scale that would really count? Were they actually going to be a factor in war?

Well, these questions were to be answered shortly, but would the result allay all doubt in the minds of all the anxious ones? The Americans were arriving upon the field of battle in rapidly increasing numbers. They had come across three thousand miles of water in spite of the German submarines. Was it like those vigorous inhabitants of the greatest country on earth, to hold back now in the great contest?

Spring had arrived. It was past the middle of April. The grass was newly green. The fruit trees were coming into blossom and the foliage was beginning to bud. The birds were singing everywhere, even amidst the desolate scenes of battle. Except where the shells and shrapnel of the opposing armies had torn the ground and battered the forests, there was the peacefulness over all and beauty of the new life of the season. Even now not far back from the fighting front of the Allies, some daring tillers of the soil were making ready to plant their crops.

But alternating with the days of balmy stillness came the rains—days and days when the whole face of nature was like a vast mop, soaked to fullness, dripping and cold. And when it rained it did nothing but rain. It had become almost an icy drizzle on the twentieth and the soldiers in the trenches, those bivouacking in the open and the homeless refugees who had fled before the German advance, were correspondingly miserable. It was, as in the winter months, a time for greatcoats, dry footwear, if such were possible, and the making of fires wherever fuel was to be had.

Don Richards was ready with every handy means to meet the intolerable weather conditions, and his new helper, Washington White, the blackest darky and one of the best natured that ever exposed a wide row of ivories. Washington fairly hugged himself because luck had thrown him in with a lad who had camped and roughed it through wild country and knew nearly every trick of out-of-door life, from vacation experiences with his Boy Scout troop, and from camping out with the Brighton biology class.

“Wha—wha—what we gwine tuh du now, Mist’ Donal’? Ain’t a-gwine tuh stay yer; is we? In all dis slop o’ mud?”

“Just that!” Don replied. “No more mud here than everywhere else. I guess the whole world is one big puddle by the way things look, except perhaps the Desert of Sahara or the American bad lands. This is as good a spot to put up in for the night as anywhere that I know of—in this part of the earth, anyhow.”

“But wha’s de matter wif gwine on back tuh de hospital?”

“No place there. You know they’ve asked us to give up our quarters for a while to some new nurses just come over, and we’ve got to be polite to the ladies. The orders have been all along that if we were empty and night shut down on us on the road, to bunk anywhere and go on in the morning, with that much time gained. Every minute counts these days. Get the matches under the seat there, will you? And there’s a bottle of coal-oil wrapped in a rag by the tool box. Reach down that camp hatchet.”

“But, lawsee, Mist’ Donal’, we’d be somewhar’s en’ a roof en’ have lights en’ a wahm meal—-”

“Say, forget it! Haven’t we got the roof of the car? And haven’t we got a light,” pointing to the one lighted lamp of the car, “and as for a warm meal—oh, boy! I’ll make you think you’re at the Waldorf-Astoria when I get to frying this good old American bacon and these French eggs. You ought to be doing it, really, but the next time’ll be your turn. Now then, chase around for some wood!”

“B-r-r-r! Dis road’s awful dahk en’ de wood’ll be all wet’s a wet hen, en’ say, Mist’ Donal’, wid all dem sojers kickin’ de bucket back yondah en’ off dere in dem trenches en’ de amberlances chasin’ back en’ fo’th wid deaders—say, lawsee, Ah’s plum scairt ’bout projectin’ roun’ dis—”

“Aw, go on, you superstitious simp! The wood won’t be wet inside if it isn’t rotten. Don’t be a coward. Why, boy, you tell me you’re not going to be afraid of bullets and shells and bombs and gas. Aren’t they worse than people already dead? You make me tired. Go chase—!”

“But shells is jes’ shells en’ bullets is jes’ bullets en’ all dat, but dese yere deaders may be ghos’ses. Lawsee, man! Ef one o’ dem t’ings ’d rise up en’ grab yo’—ooh!”

“Say, you weren’t cut out for this kind of work, Wash. What are you going to do when we’ve got to haul some dead people, or when some poor chap dies on the way in? I’ve had three do that with me so far and it may happen right along. See here, if you want to stay with me you’ve got to be sensible and brave. There’s no such thing as ghosts and the only thing about a dead person is that it’s awful to think they’ve had to be killed. Are you going after—?”

“Yes, suh; yes, suh! Ah’ll git de wood, ef dere is any. Ah reckon Ah ain’t so much scairt as Ah let on! Ah reckon Ah ain’t.”

“You’d better not be scared at anything if you want to stay with this outfit. This is no coward’s job, Washington. And say, with that name of yours, now, you oughtn’t to be afraid of the whole German army, even if they were all dead. George Washington wasn’t afraid of anything. Is your first name George?”

“Ah reckon ’tis, but Ah doan’ know fo’ shuah. Mah mammy allus jes’ call me Wash er Washington. No, suh, dat man Ah’s name fo’ wasn’t no coward. Ah’ll git de wood, but Ah’ll take de hatchet.”

But Wash had become more reconciled to a camp in a soggy field by the time he had set his teeth into the bacon, several boxes of which, with other good things, filled a grub box in the car. Then, warmed by a fire that roared in spite of the drizzling rain and mist, and later rolled in a thick army blanket on the bottom of the ambulance, the darky’s snores soon gave evidence that ghosts were haunting him no longer.

The morning dawned with lifting mists and a breeze that was making a counterdrive to chase away the enemy clouds in order to let the peaceful sunlight through. Don, while lighting the fire, planning the breakfast and prodding Wash to get up and cook it, felt much better for the change.

“Hump yourself, you lazy snorefest you, and just look at the battle going on out here!”

That had the effect of hastily arousing Wash. Not even the promise of a crap game is dearer to one of his kind than a scrap of this sort.

“Whar-whar’s de fight? Ah doan’ heah no shootin’!”

“See those Hun clouds?” enthused Don. “Well, that west wind comes straight from good old America and it’s making the boches hustle.”

“Lawsee! Ah reckon you-all’s done got ’em! Wha-whar’s dat bacon en’ dem aigs. Yo’ jes’ watch me git up one breakfas’ dat’ll fetch roun’ yo’ senses! Golly! Heah dat?”

They both heard. A rumbling noise coming rapidly nearer along the road. Wash thought it might be the Germans, but Don assured him that was impossible. The Americans were on the job now. There was further evidence of this at hand, for out of the dispelling mists came a yellow touring car closely followed by a gigantic khaki-colored lorry, or camion. Right back of that another and another, and more, and still more until the road was filled, farther than the eye could see, with the steadily moving line. Each big vehicle was filled with soldiers.

Don had seen a crest on the leading touring car. He knew this bunch of men, for it had been whispered from mouth to mouth at the Red Cross base hospital that the marines were on their way from westward training camps.

“Our engineers up there with General Carney showed the Huns what kind of stuff the Americans are made of,” one official had said. “Trust the marines for driving that down the Germans throats—when they get at it!”

That was it: when they got at it. But when were they to get at it? Was French official red tape in the way, or was it that the British and French generals feared to trust the untried Americans too far? Must a desperate need arise to make an actual test of the Americans?

The boys stood by their car, waving their hats at the men in passing, and many a wave of arms they got back. Many a good-natured jibe was exchanged between the lorries and the ambulance.

“Hurrah! Go to it, you blood drinkers!” shouted Don.

“That’s the stuff, buddy! It’s sauerkraut in Berlin for us before we’re done!”

“We’re goin’ to give Fritzy fits!” roared another marine.

“How do you like cruising on land?” asked Don of another carload.

“Can’t see much difference between this country now and the good, old ocean!” was the rejoinder.

“One’s as wet as the other!”

“An’ ye can’t drink either of ’em!” shouted a third.

“Oh, look at the coon!” called a private in another camion.

“Say, nig, lost, ain’t yu? I reckon yu ol’ mammy’s jes’ cryin’ huh eyes out fo’ huh little Alabama coon!”

“Huh! Ah reckon yu-all frum down Souf, too; eh, soljah man?” yelled Wash.

“I am that! Georgia! But everything goes just the same over here!”

“Say, a darky! Wonder these Frog-eaters haven’t got him in a cage! rarity over here!” The fourth camion contingent were impressed.

“Well, I bet our Red Cross friend there has to eat his share of hog fat and hoe cake!”

This went on for a good three-quarters of an hour until the last lorry had passed. Then the lads turned to a hasty breakfast.

“They’re the marines, Wash; the Fifth and Sixth Regiments. You know they have a slogan in the Navy: ‘a marine never retreats’.”

“In de Navy. What dem sojahs doin’ in de Navy?”

“They’re the soldiers attached to battle-ships. They fight on land when needed, and I guess they’re going to be needed here!”

“Did yu-all know enny of ’em pussonel, Mist’ Donal’? Ah seed yo’ lookin’ lak yo’ was gwine ter call a feller in one o’ de las’ cars be name, en’ he look at yo’ so’t o’ queeah, too.”

“Yes, I happen to know one of them, Wash. You are some observer. He’s a chap from my home town. His name’s Clement Stapley. He joined the marines before I left home. But I hardly think he knew me, Wash.”

“Yes, Ah t’ink he done knowed yo’, frum de look awn his face. But mebbe he wa’n’t quite shuah. Why’n’t yu-all holler at him en’ pass de time o’ day an’ yell how he is?”

“Oh, well, you see, we were not such very good friends, and I was afraid he might still feel sore at me. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see him again. Well, come on; we’ve got to be going. There’s a lot of work ahead.”