My Home in the Field of Honor Part 24

They thought that was the best idea, and fell back, cantering behind my caravan with which I had now caught up.

On we trotted-up hill and down dale for several hours, my poor wounded boy still writhing on his bed of agony.

Towards four o'clock we had reached a long smooth stretch where we could see right and left for several miles over the plains. Presently, on a crossroad that ran perpendicular to ours, I spied a motor wagon. It was soon followed by another and then another, and pressing forward we reached the crossing in time to see Harrods' Stores, Whitley's, Swan & Edgar, and an interminable number of English Army supply motors coming straight towards us.

Knowing that it would be impossible to pa.s.s before the whole long line had gone by, I crossed over and now saw that the Scots Grays would soon find friends. I called Leon and pulling out a card, told him to pedal back and dig out a bottle of champagne I had hidden in our hay cart, and to present it to our soldier friends as a bracer and a souvenir. And then we pushed ahead.

Two minutes later, to my utter surprise, a heavy motor horn tooted on the road behind me and looking back, I saw a private car emerge from behind one of the English motors, and whirl down in our direction. It was a four-seater affair with but two occupants, a chauffeur and a woman wearing a streaming white veil.

"Quick!" I shrieked, grabbing the reins and pulling our cart full into the middle of the road. "They've got to take me and the boy to Melun!"

Seeing his deliverance so near, my old friend obeyed at once.

The motor, stupefied by our actions, slowed down.

"Get out of the way!" yelled the chauffeur. "Are you crazy! Out or I'll run you down!"

"Never! Look here. I don't care where you're bound for, but you've got to make room for me and a dying man in your machine. It's Melun--or nothing!"

"Wounded! Heaven, the Germans! We're caught! Go on, quick, quick, I say!" shrieked the woman.

The chauffeur made a movement as though to skid past us.

"No, you don't," I said, once again producing my trusty Browning.

The woman hid her face in her hands.

"Now then, either you can make room for us or I'll blow off your tires and you'll have to get down and walk like all the rest of us!"

My gray-headed driver was jubilant.

"That's right, Madame, you've hit it!" he encouraged.

There just wasn't any choice. The chauffeur got down and began piling the gasoline cans behind on the back seat to one side. Then, each of us grabbing a corner of the mattress, we hoisted the sufferer onto the machine, covering him with a sheet. Try as we would, though, we could not get him to bend his knees, and in consequence all during the trip the poor chauffeur received constant kicks from the agonized soul we were rushing towards surgical aid.

"Now then," I said, turning to my old driver. "Thank you for your cart, and bon voyage to Coulommiers. George, tell my people to meet me in Melun."

And hatless, coatless, with but one golden louis in my pocket (I had confided my bag to Julie when the wounded man had arrived at Jouy), I started on our record-breaking trip to Melun.

VII

It was an exciting trip, that race for life and death--for every moment I knew my wounded boy was growing weaker, and every convulsive kick meant the disappearance of so much life blood. During the numerous adventures which befell us between the time we left Jouy-le-Chatel and our encountering the motor, my hypodermic needle had received such violent treatment that it refused service. So when we turned into Mormont at top speed, I was obliged to ask my driver to slow down and inquire for a doctor. We were directed by a couple of gaping women on the borders of the little city, who didn't quite understand our mission.

However, they must have been soon enlightened, for as we crossed the public square the British Red Cross ambulances were pouring in and lining up in battle array. Behind them came a steady stream of ammunition wagons, both horse and motor trucks, and from Mormont to Melun the line was unbroken.

The doctor was absent, but his wife willingly filled his place and with new hope dawning we backed out of the yard and sped southward.

What was the landscape we pa.s.sed through I really couldn't say. I had a dreamy sensation of having run down a refugee's dog, and hearing its owner wishing us in warmer climes--as well as the feeling that my blood-stained ap.r.o.n and the agitated white sheet beside me created much curiosity among the drivers and occupants of the A. S. C. motors that took up all one side of the road.

One by one the mile posts whizzed past and finally we came into Melun.

"Where's the nearest hospital?" I enquired of a group of soldiers loitering outside a barracks.

"Give it up! All evacuated!"

Our driver needed no more--and so we pushed on into the town, while I pantomimed to those behind that I had a wounded man in my arms.

In front of the city hall stood a noisy gathering, and in reply to our questions, a middle-aged man jumped on to the step.

"Go ahead--I'll guide you. All the seven hospitals in Melun were transferred to Orleans this morning. The mixed hospital is all that is left."

After what seemed an interminable time we finally pulled up a long hill and after much parleying I succeeded in turning over my patient to the medical authorities.

Through the half open door of the little stuffy office where I was conducted I could see a white-ap.r.o.ned doctor and a nurse properly bandaging my boy. When my _compagnons de route_ had departed, I walked out into the ward and straight up to the bedside.

"Is there any hope?"

"Not one chance in a million! Would to heaven we had the right to spare them such suffering! Morphine is no longer helpful in his case!"

It was a shock to hear this. The lad, who a couple of hours before was unknown to me, suddenly became very dear. I turned about to hide my emotion, but was startled out of it by the double line of white beds on which were writhing men and boys in the most awful agony, yet not a sound broke from their lips. In the middle of the room a second doctor, a slight man with a pointed beard, stood washing his hands and then began drawing on a pair of long rubber gloves. He crossed over to a basin and, after sterilizing his instruments, looked around for an aid.

"Can I do anything for you, doctor?"

Not in the least surprised by my audacity he asked, "Are you a nurse?"

"No."

"Have you ever seen an operation."

"Yes."

I lied.

"Have you a good temperament?"

"Yes."

"Then come over here and hold this basin." I obeyed, and then Doctor Jean Masbrennier began a series of operations which will remain graven in my memory forever.

As he worked he talked--and informed me that the Red Cross Society had been hastily evacuated in the morning, doctors and all. Only those who were unable to be moved had been left behind, and only two civilian doctors were left to attend them. But one nurse remained to do all the bandaging. That was why I had been rung into service. It took but little time to find a mutual acquaintance in the person of Elizabeth Gauthier, and the doctor had long been familiar with H.'s work.

It would be useless to describe the horrors that I witnessed, or try to do justice to the heroic way those first glorious wounded of this lengthy war accepted their fate. I cannot, however, resist mentioning the endurance of a big black Senegalais, who won the admiration of both doctors and neighbors by refusing morphine or cocaine, and insisting on having the seven bullets that were lodged in his neck and throat withdrawn thus--never uttering a murmur!

When it was over, and we finally laid him back on his pillow, the tears were rolling down his cheeks and he squeezed my hand in his big black paw and then gently drew it to his lips.

How many wounded were there? I did not count. All I remember was that I promised to come the next day and write letters to wives, mothers and sweethearts of at least a dozen men and boys.