AMBULANCE No. 10
Personal letters from the Front
by Leslie Buswell




EDITOR'S NOTE

(August, 1916)

Some months ago a few copies of these letters were printed, for 
private distribution, under the title of "With the American Ambulance 
Field Service in France." So keen was the interest that they stirred, 
and so many the requests for them which followed, that permission 
for their publication and sale in America was subsequently asked of 
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Paris. The French Government, 
which had conferred upon their author last October the Croix de 
Guerre for valor, has now given the necessary sanction and 
approval. The preface and introduction, written for the original 
edition, have been left here unaltered, as they explain the 
circumstances to which this book owes its existence. The title only, 
for brevity's sake, has been changed to "Ambulance No. 10."

FOREIGN AFFAIRS
Office of the Minister
Paris, August 11, 1916.




M. Berthelot, Ministre Plenipotentiaire, Chef de Cabinet du Ministre 
des Affaires Etrangeres, President du Conseil, after having read 
with interest Mr. Leslie Buswell's book, "With the American 
Ambulance Field Service in France," considers that the public sale 
in the United States of so excellent a record can only prove 
advantageous, and he desires to state that, in behalf of France, the 
censor finds nothing to suppress.

[signed] BERTHELOT




Preface

These letters, according to ordinary ethics in such matters, should 
not, perhaps, be published. They were merely intended as tributes 
of friendship and remembrance. Casually written  in pencil often 
 at moments between duties, with no thought of their being 
destined to any further purpose than that distance and absence 
might count a little less through the pictures they would give of a 
day's work far away.

Excepting that here and there in each letter a few details quite 
personal have been omitted, and of course the names of places 
sometimes changed, they are untouched. Their author has had no 
chance to revise them, nor, it must be confessed, has his consent 
to their printing been asked.1 Knowing him, there seemed little 
likelihood of his believing them worthy of special attention; not at 
least without a correspondence of persuasion, and much loss of 
time. Only the exigency of the hour and a conviction of their worth 
have led me to take this step. If they give to those who may now 
read as clear a vision as they have given me of the chivalrous work 
our young American volunteers are doing in France, they will have 
achieved something. If occasionally, some reader  grateful for this 
proof that our country is contributing so worthy a part to the heroism 
of to-day  should feel inspired to do what he is able toward the 
encouragement and continuation of this work, these letters will have 
served a high purpose. The knowledge that a possibility so worth 
while would ultimately outweigh with my friend any personal 
consideration is justification of the liberty taken  and of this book.

Perhaps for the time and effort the writer of these records so 
generously spent for friendship's sake in the midst of hard and 
hazardous days he may find recompense in the realization that, 
aside from the pleasure which their coming meant to one who 
looked for them, they may bring much benefit to "the Service" he so 
valiantly describes, and through that service, to thousands of men 
and women whose happiness death might otherwise have 
destroyed.

H. D. S.
GLOUCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS September 15th, 1915




Introduction

For many years before the war there existed at Neuilly-sur-Seine, a 
suburb of Paris, a semi-philanthropic institution supported by 
Americans and known as the American Hospital. At the outbreak of 
the war this institution instantly and naturally became the rallying-
point for Americans who loved France and wanted to help care for 
her wounded soldiers. Within a few weeks it was evident, however, 
that larger quarters must be found. A splendid new school building, 
which was rapidly nearing completion in the neighborhood, was 
rented; its large, well-lighted, and well-ventilated rooms were 
transformed into hospital wards, operating-rooms, dormitories, and 
offices; a multitude of doctors, surgeons, and nurses were brought 
over from the United States; and thus the American Ambulance 
Hospital in the Lycee Pasteur, with accommodations for more than 
six hundred wounded soldiers, came into being. Soon the 
generosity of another American friend of France made possible a 
second American Ambulance Hospital, and the venerable College 
of Juilly, located about thirty miles east of Paris, was steam-fitted, 
electric-lighted and plumbed, and made over into a hospital for 
about two hundred additional wounded, with distinguished American 
surgeons in charge.

From the outset it was clear that the saving of soldiers' lives 
depended quite as much upon the quick transportation of the 
wounded as upon their surgical treatment, and in September, 1914, 
when the battle front surged close to Paris, a dozen automobiles 
given by Americans, hastily extemporized into ambulances, and 
driven by American volunteers, ran back and forth night and day 
between the western end of the Marne Valley and Paris. This was 
the beginning of the American Ambulance Field Service with which 
the following letters have to do. During the autumn and winter that 
followed many more cars were given and many more young 
Americans volunteered, and when the battle front retired from the 
vicinity of Paris, sections of motor ambulances were detached from 
the hospitals at Neuilly and Juilly and became more or less 
independent units attached to the several French armies, serving  
the dressing-stations and Army hospitals within the Army zone. To-
day more than a hundred such ambulances given and driven by 
American friends of France are carrying wounded French soldiers 
along the very fighting front in Belgium and France.1

In Belgium and Northern France, where the American Ambulance 
Field Service has had an important Section since the early months 
of the war, the valiant service rendered during the second battle of 
the Yser, and during the many bombardments from long-range guns 
in and about Dunkirk, has attracted official recognition from the 
highest officers in the Army. At the time of the prolonged battles in 
the vicinity of Ypres in May, General Putz wrote that the American 
Section had, by working five nights and days without interruption, 
assured the evacuation of the hospitals in Everdinghe, though 
under continual shell fire which covered all of the roads in the 
neighborhood and even the hospitals themselves. "I cannot praise 
too highly," he added, "the courage and devotion of which the men 
in your Section have given evidence, and I ask you to transmit to 
them my congratulations and my thanks for the great physical effort 
which they have so generously made and the signal services which 
they have rendered." 

In the section of Alsace which France has definitely recovered from 
Germany, the American Ambulance Field Service has now the only 
automobile ambulances and they are performing a service which no 
other automobile ambulances could perform. Because of the 
lightness and power of our little cars, and because we are willing to 
use them up in this service and replace them without restrictions, 
our ambulances are running over steep mountain passes in Alsace 
which the French auto-ambulances are unable to cross and over 
which wounded soldiers were formerly carried on mule-back. They 
have been able to reduce the duration of the journey of the 
wounded between the dressing-stations and the hospitals from four 
or five hours to less than one, at the same time substituting 
transport in a comfortable springed vehicle for the agony of 
transport in the mule-litters. Two of the men in this Section have 
already received the " Croix-de-Guerre" for special acts of valor.

We have another Section of ambulances attached to an American 
army field hospital of thirty tents, which is also a branch of the 
American Ambulance Hospital made available to the French Army 
by generous American friends. This movable hospital is equipped to 
care for one hundred and forty wounded, and the whole installation 
of ward tents, officers' and nurses' tents, operating-tents, mess-
tents, etc., can be mounted by our men or demounted and packed 
on motor-trucks ready for transportation in less than three hours. It 
is destined to be of great service in the devastated regions when the 
French Army begins its advance.

Finally, we have a Section of ambulances in Lorraine to which has 
been entrusted exclusively the service of carrying the wounded in 
the much-fought-over region around Bois-le-Pretre. This Section 
alone has carried on the average about seventy-five hundred 
wounded per month.

The men work continually within range of the German shells and are 
almost daily under German fire. The Section as a whole, and their 
leader, have received honorable mention in official dispatches and 
have been given the "Croix-de-Guerre."

The daily life and activities of the men of this section are sketched 
by one of its members in the following personal letters, which  
while written without any thought of publication  are now privately 
printed in order that those generous Americans on the other side of 
the Atlantic who are making this chivalrous work possible may more 
truly appreciate its value and efficiency. From this unconscious story 
one gets an impression of the devoted service which young 
Americans are rendering in France and of the way in which they are 
reducing the agony and saving the lives of wounded French 
soldiers. One sees, too, how deeply this service is appreciated, and 
how through it the old friendship which has existed between France 
and the United States since the very beginning of our national 
history is being quickened and rejuvenated.

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed,
But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the 
rest."

A. P. A. September 6,1915.






AMBULANCE NO. 10

Personal Letters from the Front

AMERICAN AMBULANCE, June 17th. I came here  Pont-a-Mousson 
 last night after a seven hours' journey to Nancy from Paris. On 
the way I found much to interest me, as (if you will look on your 
map) you will see that the railway runs beside the River Marne, then 
the Meuse, and lastly the Moselle. An officer pointed out to me all 
the interesting places where the Germans advanced and then 
retreated in a hurry,  or practically a rout,  leaving everything 
behind even to their flags, which I believe are now in London. After 
passing these and nearing Nancy I saw what looked like a fleet of 
aeroplanes, and the officer explained to me that it was a flying 
Taube being shot at by the French. It looked like this:  I am told 
that they rarely hit one.

On arriving at Nancy I was met by Salisbury, our Section leader, and 
after a very good meal in the most beautiful little town you could 
hope to see (and where the Kaiser and ten thousand troops in dress 
parade were waiting on a hill close by to enter in state last October), 
we started by motor for Pont-a-Mousson. Some fifteen kilometres 
farther on, our lights were put out and we then entered the region 
under shell fire. It was a funny feeling listening to my conductor 
talking about how this shell and that shell hit here and there; and all 
along the route we passed torn-up trees, houses, and roads. At last 
we came to Pont-a-Mousson, a dear little village with about eight 
thousand inhabitants, and felt our way, so to speak, in the darkness 
and silence to the barracks which are now the Headquarters of the 
Ambulance. I found that there were about twenty cars and twenty-
two men here, the latter all enthusiastic about their work and the 
help the Section were giving the French. The day before I arrived a 
shell hit the house next door, and on first sight one would think it 
was the barracks itself which had been hit. These huge high-
explosive shells are sent into the town every two or three days, and 
everywhere one sees masses of brick and stone, all that remains of 
houses struck. The Germans have bombarded the town over one 
hundred and ten times.

After being introduced to the "boys," I went to my room which is 
some one hundred and sixty metres up the road  nearer the 
trenches, but safer for all that. Here I found I was to share the house 
with another man, Schroeder by name, a Hollander and a very nice 
fellow, who has already lost one brother and has had another 
wounded in the French army. My bedroom is a quite typical French 
peasant room, very comfortable, and I felt grateful to know that I 
was to have a bed and not straw to sleep on. I went to sleep there 
my first night in comparative quietness, only hearing now and then a 
crack of a musket which in peace time one would think was merely 
a back-fire of some motor. In the morning I woke at six and went to 
breakfast in our barracks, which is always served at seven o'clock. 
Walking out of my front door I came into the main street. To the left 
is the way to the town and the barracks  to the right the road goes 
straight on, an avenue of trees. My friend or housemate pointed out, 
about five hundred metres away, what looked like a fallen tree 
across the road. Imagine my feelings when he told me that they 
were the French trenches. To the right and left of this avenue are 
hills and on the left runs the River Moselle. On the ridge of hills on 
the right, one sees a brown line  these are the German trenches, 
and walking down the road to breakfast, one gets the knowledge 
that a first-class rifle shot could pick one off. After breakfast I was 
asked by one of the men, Roeder, if I would like to look about the 
place, and I jumped at the invitation. 

We got into a Ford Ambulance (no one can realize the excellence of 
the Ford for this purpose until he has seen what they can do), and 
we started on a tour, or "petit promenade," as an officer told us we 
were doing. Pont-a-Mousson was in the hands of the Germans for 
five days and our Headquarters were the German Officers' 
Headquarters. The French partially blew up the bridge which 
crosses the Moselle at this most picturesque point, and for the last 
five days the Germans have been bombarding it, attempting in their 
turn to destroy it; many of the houses round it seem to have been 
hit, and the two places where shells have taken most effect are on 
the bridge the French have repaired with wood. The boys tell me it is 
a wonderful sight to see the water rising like a geyser when the 
shells hit in the river. To show how careless the few remaining 
peasants are, directly the Germans have "apparently" ceased firing, 
they get into boats to pick up the fish killed in hundreds by the 
concussion. We left the river (where we could be clearly seen by the 
Germans entrenched some thousand metres away), and I confess I 
sighed in relief  for it is difficult to accustom one's self immediately 
to the possibility of receiving a bullet in one's head or a shell in one's 
stomach. We then went through the town, everywhere being told 
stories of how, on such and such a day last week, five men were 
killed there and three wounded here, etc. All the houses are left 
open, and one can walk into any doorway that looks interesting and 
do a tour of inspection. We left Pont-a-Mousson and started up the 
hill to our first " place de secour"  X-----  you will see it on your 
map some three kilometres from Pont-a-Mousson. Roeder, as we 
sped on, carefully explained that I was never to drive along this 
particular road, but was to take a back way, as the Commandant 
had forbidden any one to use this route which was in full view of the 
German artillery and trenches. If he could have realized how I felt, 
he would have taken me by the back way that time too.

On the other side of the hill on our right extended the famous Bois-
le-Pretre; but it is no longer a wood  it is just a wilderness with a 
few brown stumps sticking up. "Would you like to go into the Bois?" I 
was asked. I felt I had been in as much danger as I was likely to get 
into, so I said yes, and we turned to the left and mounted a steep hill 
and entered it. Here the birds were singing and all was green and 
beautiful (it was a part where the artillery had not been) but one 
could see trench after trench deserted. Here was an officers' 
cemetery, a terribly sad sight, six hundred officers' graves. Close by 
were also the graves of eighteen hundred soldiers. The little 
cemetery was quite impressive on the side of this lovely green hill 
with the great trees all around and the little plain wood crosses at 
each grave. As we waited a broken-down horse appeared with a 
cart-load of what looked like old clothes  "Les Morts." I had never 
seen a dead body until that moment. It was a horrible awakening  
eight stiff, semidetached, armless, trunkless, headless bodies,  all 
men like ourselves with people loving them,  somewhere,  all 
gone this way,  because of  what? I don't know, do you? A 
grave had been dug two metres deep, large enough to hold sixteen, 
and then we were asked to group ourselves around the car to be 
taken "pour souvenir." I managed to do it. I stood there by those 
dead men and tried to look as if it were a natural thing to do. I felt 
like being sick. Then one by one they were lowered into the grave, 
and when they were all laid out the identification started to take 
place  the good boots were taken off  and if a coat was not too 
bloody or torn it was kept  "Surely we must be going," I said. "No, 
no! not before we have shown you the dead in the fosse there." 
"Good God," I cried, "I can't do that now"; and I didn't. 

We returned to Pont-a-Mousson for lunch at twelve o'clock and I felt 
a very different person  and wondered how I could have felt faint 
the week before on merely seeing the photographs of wounded in 
our Neuilly Hospital;  one becomes "habitue," they tell me. I was 
then officially handed over the car I am to drive, and I began looking 
over all the parts, as we have to do everything for ourselves here.


Saturday.

It hardly seems possible that we are so close to the German 
trenches  fair food  even hot water  wonderful moonlight 
nights, and a comfortable bed. Every other night we have to sleep in 
barracks to be on duty any moment, and so we sleep on straw and 
don't undress. Every fourth night we are on duty all night and go to 
X------ and stay there in the car taking wounded to the first, second, 
and third base hospitals.

Thursday was my baptism of fire, for we had a great artillery duel, 
and it was very interesting, though not at all quieting to hear the big 
guns fired and shells exploded over our heads. About six o'clock it 
stopped and we went in to dinner. Afterward another boy  Barclay 
 went for a walk with me, and we stopped to talk to two peasant 
girls who still remained in the town. "Come in and have some 
strawberries," they invited. And the way these girls offered us all the 
little luxuries their house could afford showed us how respected the 
American Ambulance is by the peasants as well as the officers. "Do 
you fence?" one of them asked. "Yes, a little," I answered, and foils 
were brought out and we started in. The girl fenced well, but I 
managed to remember a little of what I once knew, when suddenly I 
heard a man's voice say in French, "Well done, well done  give 
me the foils, my daughter, quick"; and I was introduced to a fine old 
soldier who had fought in the campaign of 1870. We saluted and 
started again, but here I soon realized the touch of a master, and 
although I got in a few hits I was easily beaten and felt a little 
downcast. "But my husband is a professor of fencing for forty 
years," observed Madame. I retired to bed, feeling that though 
beaten I might have many happy games in the evening at fencing 
with the "vieux maitre." Yesterday I took out my ambulance alone 
and carried eight wounded for the first time. I am now gradually 
slipping into my place and the sense of strangeness is passing off.


June 19th.

To continue from where I left off  I am now on duty at the Bureau 
 our Headquarters here. Last night as I was finishing my dinner I 
was told to go to F------ to fetch a contagious case and take it to the 
train.


Sunday.

I was suddenly interrupted by being called to fetch the wounded 
from X------ and I am just back.

My roommate offered to come with me to get the contagious case 
(which proved fortunately to be only measles), and we started off on 
what I thought then one of the most amazing trips of my life. Turning 
suddenly to the left from the main road, I drove our little Ford three 
kilometres along the road, which was in full view of the Germans 
and which had been the death place of many passers-by, then 
turning left again we drove slowly to a village so full of soldiers that it 
seemed impossible so many could even find shelter  a quick turn 
to the right  up  up  up  first speed  along a very narrow 
road with just room for the car. On both sides were stuck up cut tree 
branches to make the Germans think there was no road. Up we 
went through another tiny hill village full of artillery, and on every 
side, underground dugouts where they all live  trees blown down 
 branches stuck here and there to look like trees, and at last we 
reached the top. The water in the radiator was boiling, so we 
stopped, walked a bit in the most beautiful woods, and picked 
flowers and wild strawberries to the tune of birds and distant 
cannon. In this wood are heavy naval guns, but from where and 
how they were ever taken there is a puzzle. On we went through 
more woods until we were stopped by a sentry, who directed us still 
further, and then I saw what was the most dreamlike spectacle I 
ever beheld.

The thick woods teemed with soldiers, and dotted through the 
forests were little huts, very low, where they live  thousands of 
them  pathways starting every twenty yards to some new wood 
village. We heard music, and on reaching our destination were 
invited to inspect these quaint habitations. We walked down a path 
past hut after hut, and then suddenly the wood opened out and we 
came to a kind of amphitheatre, and my friend and I were 
conducted to "fauteuils," so to speak, and we listened (after much 
handshaking and "vive l'Amerique," "vive lAngleterre," and 
"camarades," etc.) to a band of three, banjo, violin, and dulcimer (as 
I write a shell has just exploded near by. I jumped to see where  
about two hundred yards away and the smoke is slowly clearing).

We soon left our friends and took our contagious case to the 
station. After passing through wonderful valleys, hills, woods, and 
plains we returned home pretty tired  wondering how such 
atrocities could be taking place in such a perfect country. We go 
regularly to X------to get our "blesses," and for two out of the six 
kilometres we are exposed to German view and the whole of the 
way, of course, to shell fire. On my first arrival at this little mountain 
village I was horrified to see two people lying dead in the road in 
huge pools of blood. Six German "150's" had been suddenly 
launched into the village which is full of soldiers, and killed six 
soldiers and wounded some thirty. Three of the six shots had landed 
actually in the road itself. Two of our ambulances were in the street 
at the time and only chance spared them. I asked where the shells 
had struck, and my stretcher-bearer looked around for a moment 
and then pointed under my own car, and there was a hole some 
nine inches deep and two feet wide. It made me feel rather rotten, I 
must say. Only five minutes before and it might happen again at any 
moment. I took down three "couches," as the lying-down ones are 
called, and had to pass in front of a battery of "75's" which fired as I 
passed and gave me a shaky knee feeling, I can tell you. Then 
backward and forward for two hours carrying more wounded, and to 
add to the excitement it rained so hard that I was thankful I had 
bought myself two uniforms and could change. To-day is Sunday, 
and after a rather uncomfortable night in my clothes and a snatchy 
sleep, I have a day off.

Salisbury, our Section leader, asked me to go with him to Toul, and I 
went for what proved to be a wonderful drive through sleeping 
villages and semi-tilled land and woods and valleys. Toul is one of 
the most fortified towns in France, and as we approached we saw 
trench after trench and wire entanglements, etc. The Germans, 
however, will never advance so far, I think. We stopped at the 
aeroplane sheds where we picked up a Captain (Australian) and 
with him entered Toul, a quiet sleeping town with a lovely church. 

Returning we were taken over the sheds and saw a large quantity of 
biplanes and monoplanes. I am now waiting to be taken up into the 
trenches, but the bombardment I spoke of earlier has continued so 
heavily that I doubt if we shall get up to them after all. The whole 
Section here does real work night and day amidst great hardships 
and no small danger, and the French appreciation is very apparent. 
German prisoners say that the Germans intend utterly demolishing 
Pont-a-Mousson if they have to retire any more, but it would take 
about two hundred and fifty thousand shells to do it and I doubt if it 
is worth their while. If any one can imagine the feeling of a peaceful 
man who suddenly hears a gun fired and a shell whistling overhead, 
followed by the explosion, and then vice versa by the enemy, he will 
perhaps sympathize with the disagreeable sensation I experienced 
when I first heard it happen. However, for five days it has gone on 
constantly and soon I shall become accustomed.


Monday.

This very long letter will probably end in being so dull that it will not 
be worth reading, but when everything is fresh to me it is easy to 
describe. After three or six weeks I shall probably write that I have 
no news, for one day is doubtless a repetition of the other, therefore 
while my impressions are new I must scribble them down. I did not 
get to the trenches last night, as the bombardment became so bad 
it would have been foolish to take so great a risk sight-seeing. If we 
had had to go to get wounded, it would have been different. I stood 
in the road opposite the little house I live in and watched the 
Germans bombard X------. It was rather like a stage scene or a 
colored picture show.

X------ is a little valley town with the conventional church steeple 
about two and one half kilometres as the crow flies from Pont-a-
Mousson.

Shrapnel, curiously enough, is not considered very dangerous and 
the soldiers here treat it with contempt. The Germans use it to keep 
people from going on to the streets to put out fires which may have 
been started by their "210's" or "150" high explosives. Late 
yesterday afternoon they set fire to a haystack, and the smoke 
made them think that the village was on fire, so they sent about 100 
shrapnel one after the other over it, and it was most interesting to 
see the flash in the sky, then a white cotton-wool effect  and finally 
the sound of explosion. The French behind A------immediately 
opened fire and the music began. It lasted about an hour, but as 
none of our men were wounded we did not have to go up there. 
After dinner three of us went for a little walk along the Moselle. One 
can see the Germans about a thousand metres away on the hills, 
and as you walk along the banks of the river they can see you 
distinctly, but they don't bother to fire, which is kind of them! We sat 
down and watched two soldiers fishing, and I took a photo of them, 
as I thought it so amusing for people to fish under the direct and 
easy rifle shot of the Boches. We then went and talked to a lot of 
soldiers about to return to the trenches. They are all nice" to us, and 
it would make an American proud if he could see how the American 
boys here are respected and loved. One officer was very indignant 
because those "dirty Boches" had actually thrown five shells into his 
trench yesterday! As he wandered off muttering, "I will show them! 
les cochons  les cochons  cochons," rather sleepily, I thought 
 I couldn't help remembering the Dormouse in "Alice in 
Wonderland." It appeared that at the particular line of trenches 
where he was they had agreed only to fire at each other with rifles! 
In several places here the trenches are only fifteen or twenty metres 
apart and the French and Germans are on quite good terms. They 
exchange tobacco for wine and paper for cigarettes and then return 
and shoot at each other quite merrily. About Christmas or February, 
I am told, by soldiers who were then here, they used to walk into 
each other's trenches and exchange stories, etc., but now they 
have become "mechant."

I am feeling pretty sick to-day and rather dread to-night, as I have 
all-night duty at X-----. I am not at all well. It is the hard food we are 
having, I suppose. Anyhow, I find myself nice and thin again, so 
your shocking example of gaining weight last spring is now of no 
influence. "Doc" comes to-morrow and I will give him this letter to 
post, as it would never get through unless posted in Paris. I have 
just returned from Belleville where I took three couches and two 
assis. One of the couches was raving and he yelled and shrieked 
the whole seventeen kilometres. It was horrible. When I arrived at 
Belleville, where they are put on a train and sent to a Base Hospital, 
I found that in his agony he had torn off his clothes and broken the 
hangers of the stretcher, so it was a wonder he did not completely 
fall on the two men below. 

I do not know what could be worse than having a poor peaceful 
peasant who,  forced to fight and after perhaps months of 
agonizing trench life  badly wounded, shrieks with pain and misery 
as you try to avoid the many bad bumps in the road. We expect a 
big attack to-day and we have evacuated all the X-----hospitals.

It looks, too, as if they were preparing for many wounded.

Any kind of news will be greatly appreciated. If you do not hear very 
regularly from me, remember it will be because work is too heavy.


Thursday.

"Doc" has not yet arrived (he was expected Tuesday), so I am afraid 
you won't have heard from me this week, as he will miss the mail. I 
am sitting at the window of my bedroom with the sun streaming 
through on the table and can imagine myself at "Beauport," or the 
bungalow  but every three or four minutes, boom! and then bang! 
 boom!  the Germans firing on Montauville and the French 
replying. As I sit here I can see the smoke rising from the village, 
and I wonder if either of our ambulances which are on duty there 
have been hurt. "Doc" may come to-night, and if he does so I shall 
make him come to X----- to-morrow, as it is my day's duty there and 
he will have some excitement. On my right I can see, about a 
thousand metres away, the German trenches. It is strange to sit at a 
window and be in such a position, and yet be writing a letter as 
though we were all together again in Gloucester. I have been very 
sick, but to-day I am better again and am very grateful for my 
recovery. 

Yesterday I discovered that the main backspring of my car was 
broken and I had to replace it. Imagine me on my back all day, 
working like a madman to get the job done in time for duty last night. 
I managed it all right, however, and so feel myself quite a mechanic. 
My old bus has a horrid habit of running forward when I crank it. I 
think I have more dread of cranking my car than of a German 
"obus." Last night I went into the Square to see the civilians leave. 
There are not a great many left, but the women are a nuisance  
morally  and so the Governor is turning them out as quickly as he 
can. Alas, that they could not have done their part better! It was a 
sad sight  many, many tears  and some hysterics! 

The Governor, a splendid old Colonel, came up and talked with us 
(there were four of us), and was eager to hear when America was to 
join the Allies. He quite spoils us all, and anything we want he sees 
we have if it is possible. Last night it was amusing to see his 
indignation when he learned that we were paid, as ordinary "poilus" 
(a familiar term of endearment referring to the unshaven men in the 
trenches), a sou a day (we don't draw the pay!). He gallantly 
declared that we should all rank as sub-lieutenants and should be 
compensated as such, for he added, "You brave boys do as much 
as any soldier at the front and take as much risk." I like the French 
gallantry and sincerity. One meets it everywhere. The officers all 
salute us and the poilus all cheer, smile, and "vive l'Amerique," etc., 
and I feel that the work of the Section is real. I have rarely met a 
happier lot of fellows and all so good-natured and generous. You 
never hear a hard word. 

All work for the good cause, and as efficiency is unity we try to be 
efficient. I wish you could see this dear old garrison town with its 
poplars and bridge and church and the lazy Moselle slowly creeping 
along to quieter and happier places. Here and there are fallen 
houses  and often gaps in the walls  and torn-up trees. The 
house next to us has been hit and looks like this  with piles of 
stone and brick all over the road. I always try to talk with the soldiers 
(my French is improving, but still rotten) and I find they have 
become fatalists. Some of the regiments here have been filled up 
several times and I hear that thirty-five thousand French have been 
killed in the Bois-le-Pretre. Every day great shells or hand grenades 
fall into the trenches and many a poor peasant or higher caste of 
Frenchman is called away. I took three wounded to the hospital this 
morning from X------after they had only been in the trenches twenty 
minutes, having come straight from the Home Base. They talked so 
hopelessly about their chance of life.

An old chap asked me yesterday if I would like a German rifle. "Well, 
rather," said I. He promised he would bring it to me at seven o'clock, 
unless an "obus" hit him. He did not come, poor fellow, but perhaps 
he forgot his promise. I hope so.


PONT-A-MOUSSON, June 25th.

You will not have received any mail from me this week, and I am 
very sorry if I have caused you any anxiety. "Doc" said he would be 
here last Tuesday, and to our surprise he has not even arrived yet. I 
am a little anxious about him and so tried to send him a wire to ask if 
he is well. As yet I have received no answer. The three letters I have 
written could never possibly reach you from here, as we are only 
allowed to write little open letters or postals, so I shall wait until he 
comes before I send them. The last few days have been quiet, but 
for me full of interest and hard work. I am better, but my illness of 
the three days has pulled me down a lot and the food is not good 
enough to allow me to pick up strength quickly.

I have had many long talks with soldiers and they tell me most 
interesting stories. One told me that he got on such friendly terms 
with the Germans in a trench ten metres away that he asked them 
all to put their heads above the trench so as to take their photos, 
and I have been promised a copy. Also that they promised to tell 
each other when they meant to attack or blow up a trench. The 
mining of the trenches is the most horrible method of warfare 
existing, I think. There seems so little chance  in fact, none. The 
worst implement of destruction for the trench-livers is the new kind 
of projectile called a "torpille," a sort of torpedo. It is fired from about 
four hundred metres and is noiseless, very large and terribly 
destructive. Nearly all of the poor fellows we take to the hospital 
have been "saute" by a mine or hit by a torpille. The French have 
developed a projectile of the same sort, and neither side has had 
them more than six weeks. It has a kind of tail to its head (see 
sketch) and is shot from a sort of small gun. Of course they shoot 
big shells of say "210" or "280" into the trenches, and so marvelous 
is the accuracy of firing that they explode often on the floor of the 
trench.

A shell, however, one can hear coming. The whistle is very plain, 
and you have perhaps one second or two to hide. The torpille gives 
no warning, is just as large, and, therefore, very deadly.

Yesterday I visited the trenches. I left here at four o'clock in the 
morning and started up the hill through a little village, rather like 
what the French call me, "Booseville," which has been much 
bombarded, and then climbed up past disused trenches until we 
came to a sentry who directed us up to the company where a friend 
had promised to meet me. At last I found him and we started for the 
"premier ligne." I felt a little nervous and anxious, as I did not care to 
get killed sight-seeing. My friend pointed out some bushes to me, 
and I had not noticed what he said, when on passing within a foot of 
another bush I found myself looking into the muzzle of a "75" gun. 

For some distance every inch seemed full of great guns and little 
guns, all so cleverly hidden that it would seem impossible to know 
they were there. At last we came to a hill and were told by a sentry 
that we could not pass that way (for some reason or other  
perhaps the position of a battery had just been changed), and we 
had either to go straight back or right across a field three hundred 
yards wide in full view of the Germans, three hundred and fifty 
metres away. Said my friend, "Oh, I think they are eating now; let's 
risk it. They never fire while food is about." So somewhat against 
human nature I assented, and we slowly trudged across the open. I 
confess I was relieved when we reached the shady wood. Still 
mounting up, we passed hundreds and hundreds of blue-coated 
soldiers returning from their night vigil in the trenches, and then the 
noise and chatter of men and birds seemed to die away and I could 
hear little else but the crack of some twig one of us walked on, or 
the occasional bang of a rifle. This deadly silence  it was really 
quite awe-inspiring  continued as we passed silent groups of 
soldiers sipping coffee, tea, or soup. Then we took three or four 
steps down and henceforth walked in trenches,  winding, curving, 
zigzag we went, no trench being more than five metres straight.

The soldiers silently smiled, one heard whispered "Americains." I 
saluted an officer, who smiled in return and showed me his room. 
Really it was quite comfortable. At last we came to a trench where 
every metre soldiers stood looking and waiting. It was the thin blue 
line that guards France's frontier for four hundred kilometres. The 
Germans are not pressing or attacking this particular place at 
present, and so the whole trench is so wonderfully neat and so 
clean and so uniform and almost comfortable, one began to wonder 
whether it was only a side show in some exhibition. We walked very 
quietly along this trench for some two kilometres, and I suddenly 
discovered that in my interest I had allowed but forty-five minutes to 
get home if I was to be in time for duty at seven, so I made a hasty 
retreat and arrived back at barracks just in time.


Monday, the 28th.

Yesterday we heard from "Doc," who wired to say that he would 
arrive at ten o'clock Sunday night. I have just seen him and he 
looked splendidly. I soon retired to my room to read the mail which 
he brought: Letters from you and H------ being the only American 
ones. Last night I was on duty all night at X-----, and it was a great 
strain riding backward and forward in pitch darkness up and down 
the very steep and narrow road. I had to go to Auberge St. Pierre at 
about two o'clock this morning. This road is in full view of the 
Germans and much bombarded, and shrapnel burst close by, which 
reminded me that a lovely moonlight night with trees and hills and 
valleys dimly shaping themselves can be other than romantic.

It was a sad trip for me  a boy about nineteen had been hit in the 
chest and half his side had gone,  "tres presse" they told me,  
and as we lifted him into the car, by a little brick house which was a 
mass of shell holes, he raised his sad, tired eyes to mine and tried a 
brave smile. I went down the hill as carefully as I could and very 
slowly, but when I arrived at the hospital I found I had been driving a 
hearse and not an ambulance. It made me feel very badly  the 
memory of that faint smile which was to prove the last effort of some 
dearly loved youth. All the poor fellows look at us with the same 
expression of appreciation and thanks; and when they are unloaded 
it is a common thing to see a soldier, probably suffering the pain of 
the damned, make an effort to take the hand of the American 
helper. I tell you tears are pretty near sometimes. I send you some 
photos taken by a little camera I bought, as my large one is too big. 
All my love to you and to those who make the memory of America 
so dear to me.



PONT-A-MOUSSON, July 3rd.

I have just written you a short letter, but as "Doc" was not here to 
take it and mail it from Paris, I could write nothing of interest in it, 
therefore follows this long detailed one for him to post for me when 
he comes. Since my last to you he returned to Paris after being here 
two days. He looks very well, indeed, and amuses us by pretending 
he does not see any excitement here.

As a matter of fact, whenever he comes, we do seem to have a lull 
in the fighting  why, I don't know  but one of these days he will 
arrive when something exciting is going on. Up to the day before 
yesterday, one day seemed very much like another  continual 
explosions of shells  "departs et arrives"  collecting wounded, 
etc.; but last Thursday (" Doc " left on Wednesday) we had forty-
eight hours of truly hard time. I was on day service at X----------a little 
village, as I told you, about one and one half kilos away, of one 
street about two hundred metres long and one church. I got up 
there at seven thirty, and, after taking two or three trips with 
wounded to Dieulouard, was returning to lunch at eleven o'clock, 
when an urgent call took me to Auberge St. Pierre  a little poste 
de secour on the top of the hill past Montauville. I also wrote you 
about Auberge St. Pierre in my last letter  to get there you have to 
go on an uphill road within uncomfortable range of both German 
and French fire.

On this trip, as my little car climbed along up the hill, I saw shells 
bursting on both sides of the road, and I do not hesitate to say that 
my feelings were strained as I entered the wood. When I arrived at 
my destination I felt a bit shaken, but the sight of some eight 
wounded made me realize that the sooner I got them down to safety 
the better for us all. So back I went down the little winding road to 
the sound of shells exploding uncomfortably near  that was the 
day's start. Later the Germans fired fifteen thousand shells into the 
Bois-le-Pretre; the noise was terrific  almost the whole of our first 
line of trenches was plowed up and our cars had to run all night. 
About six o'clock I went back to dinner, but no sooner had I arrived 
than a call took three of us back to X----- and I had another trip with 
wounded. I chatted with the "medecin chef"  a fine-looking man  
and he told me he would give me some photos. My car was 
standing outside his little poste de secour, and he asked me a few 
questions about Fords in general, while the wounded were being put 
into my car. 

On the way down, several shells fell all around the road and I was 
glad to get back to the Bureau. Next morning, Friday, we learned at 
breakfast that the Germans had sent over a hundred shells into the 
little village of X------ (one street, only about three hundred metres 
long, remember!) and that there was urgent need for our men there. 
I went up on foot with Schroeder in the afternoon (I was off duty) 
and learned that my friend the medecin chef had been blown to 
pieces by a shell which landed exactly where my car had stood the 
night before. The poor little village looked very sad, for although a 
hundred "210's" would not utterly destroy a village, one of them 
makes a house look stupid after it has been hit. We had been asked 
to go and see the French "155's" firing, and on inquiring whether it 
would be safe to go  a smile and an answer to the effect that 
shells were dropping eight at a time all around the battery sent the 
three of us back to Pont-a-Mousson.


Saturday.

The bombardment going on now is terrific  I have been standing 
about a hundred yards from my little house and looked across the 
valley on Montauville  Bois-le-Pretre  and watched the shells 
exploding by the dozens.


Monday, July 5th.

I was called away suddenly  an emergency  and this is the first 
moment I have had to myself since. I doubt if I shall ever forget the 
last thirty-six hours  they have been so full of work, apprehension, 
and horror.


Tuesday, 5 P.M.

I must write down the events of the last three days, for I suppose 
they have been the most tremendous ones I have experienced. I 
tried to write yesterday, but only got as far as those three lines, and 
any moment I may be called for "an attack" which we expect hourly. 
Let me see  I must go back to Sunday  the Fourth of July. We 
had arranged a grand fete and the Governor, the Colonel, and the 
Major were our guests with three other Captains from various 
regiments. An elaborate meal was prepared and all was decorated 
 a piano, a stage, and many flowers, etc. The feast was to start at 
seven o'clock, and nearly every soldier in all of the regiments round 
here knew it was the American Fete Day. Suddenly at about two 
o'clock commenced a tremendous artillery duel  the whole earth 
seemed to tremble and the noise of rifle fire almost drowned the 
explosions of shells  the Germans had attacked!

For some days most of the French batteries had been leaving here 
for up north where a large army is concentrating, and the Germans 
(who know everything) attacked us at the most unfortunate moment 
 and by so doing won back in that short attack much of the land 
they had lost since December, the winning of which has caused 
France the loss of over forty thousand men! We all rushed to our 
cars to be ready for the call, and about six o'clock every car was 
ordered to X------  poor little village already badly enough 
damaged by the bombardment of a few hours before! We worked 
late and I got to bed at three-thirty, having carried some fifty 
wounded a distance of about ten kilometres  ten trips  two 
hundred kilometres! In all we carried away over three hundred and 
fifty crippled wrecks who three hours before were the pride of their 
nation and families! Monday, of course, was a hard day's work, for I 
was on X------service all night (i.e., two cars stay always in X------all 
night for service). I took four long trips in the afternoon and about 
five o'clock managed to get an hour's sleep, and it was lucky I did. 

X------was quiet when I got up there about seven o'clock, and till 
nine o'clock I chatted to soldiers and then turned into the telephone 
office to sleep on my stretcher (fully dressed) until I should be called. 
At one o'clock I woke up to the sound of what might have been an 
earthquake  the Germans had attacked again and were 
bombarding X------.

We went down into a little "dugout" where we stood listening with 
strained faces for thirty-five minutes to the shouting of soldiers, the 
cracking of rifles, and the terrific reports of French "departs" and 
German "arrives." Literally the whole place trembled, and when a 
shell, probably a "210," arrived in the village it always seemed to us, 
poor rats, that it had exploded in the room above us. No sooner had 
the attack stopped than a phone message came through, "Can an 
ambulance come immediately to Auberge St. Pierre?"  and of 
course I climbed out of the cellar, wound up my car, and drove up 
the hill. The old car (which was in the battle of the Marne) seemed to 
know it was on a pretty dangerous trip and it went like a bird. Any 
unpleasant shocks of bursting shells, etc., I may have received on 
my way up were quickly compensated for by the greeting of the 
Major:  "I wish to thank you and to congratulate you on the 
quickness and efficiency with which you and your comrades 
execute their orders!" I took four more trips and at twelve o'clock 
returned to X   and thought I would get a little rest. 

I was just talking with the phone operator when we saw a flash  
and an explosion in the courtyard! After picking ourselves up from 
the floor where we had thrown ourselves, we hastily returned to the 
dugout. For three quarters of an hour the second attack went on, 
and in this dugout, some three hundred yards from the German 
trenches, the noise was terrific, and I wondered whether I was to be 
a corpse, a German prisoner, or still a "Conducteur Ambulance 
Americaine"! When the attack and bombardment ceased, work 
began, and a general call was sent to our Bureau, and before long, 
as I descended the hill to Pont-a-Mousson with the first carload of 
mutilated, I passed our fellows tooting up the hill full speed. We 
worked until six o'clock carrying down a hundred and eighty or more 
wounded and then the cars returned to headquarters, as I could 
manage the few remaining blesses. 

About seven o'clock  tired out  I made a last trip to Auberge St. 
Pierre, and finding no wounded there, descended to the next poste 
de secour, Clos-Bois, and asked if they had any wounded  "No  
none." "But surely there was a couche on the stretcher there?" 
"Come and see:  he is, we fear, not suitable for your ambulance." 
I went up and lifted the covering from his head and all I saw was a 
headless trunk! ?  "Our dearly loved Lieutenant," said one of the 
soldiers, and his voice was not a steady one  nor were my 
thoughts peaceful as I went home to cafe-au-lait and some sleep. At 
four o'clock on Tuesday I woke up with orders to evacuate the Pont-
a-Mousson Hospital (to Belleville). I turned in about two o'clock next 
afternoon to sleep again, pretty tired.

Wednesday came the counter-attack. I must now tell you what we 
have authentically learned. On Sunday, July 4th, the Germans 
made such a successful attack in Quart-en-Reserveand La Croix-
des-Carmes (positions of the Bois-le-Pretre) with petrol and gas, 
hand grenades, mines, torpedoes, "320's," "210's," and"155's," 
"105's," and "77's" that the French lost much that they had gained in 
the last six months: that they had been taken unawares, and that we 
must have everything ready to leave Pont-a-Mousson at a 
moment's notice! Next came the news that Monday, Tuesday, and 
Wednesday attacks had been so successful for the French that they 
had regained all they had lost on Sunday!

Wednesday was a very exciting day for me, and I had my nearest 
escape. We were evacuating Pont-a-Mousson Hospital for Belleville 
(we had not finished this on Tuesday) and I had three couches and 
three assis in my car. A captain was seated next to me, wounded in 
the knee. As I neared Dieulouard I heard sounds of shells 
exploding, and as I reached the outskirts of the town I saw a "210" 
land in the railway station some hundred yards to the right of the 
main road. I asked the Captain if he thought it better to wait till the 
bombardment was over, and he replied, "I must leave this to your 
judgment, as we are in your car"; so I decided that as the shells 
generally fall at regular intervals of three, five, or seven minutes (the 
Germans are so methodical that when you know the time they are 
firing you can know to the second when the next shell will arrive), I 
would go on. This time, however, more than one battery was 
shelling Dieulouard, and as I was passing a house on the road, it 
was hit by a shell. All was black dust and smoke and I had perforce 
to pull up a minute  two people in the house were killed, and 
although my car was covered with brick-dust and debris no one was 
even bruised! I don't want to come any nearer, however.

I carried over forty wounded yesterday a distance of a hundred and 
sixty kilos and at nine o'clock turned in to sleep, to be waked up at 
two o'clock to go to Auberge St. Pierre. Schroeder and I both went, 
as they had some fourteen wounded and it was necessary to have 
two cars. It was a glorious morning, and when I got to the top of the 
hill all was quiet and God's peace seemed to be everywhere. The 
Major was there to receive us, and so interested and appreciative is 
he that any one of us would do anything for him. Just as I was 
starting down with a full load I found I had picked up a nail and a 
puncture was the order of the day. Two fellows ran forward, and 
explaining that they were chauffeurs in peace time, refused to let me 
work on it, and the Major made me sit on a fallen tree by the 
roadside and smoke a cigarette and talk to him. We are, of course, 
mere soldiers, but to be treated so kindly and so thoughtfully makes 
us feel that we must go on forever! 

The Major said, "You have no idea what comfort and reassurance 
your cars and your work give to these French soldiers!" I made one 
more trip to Clos-Bois, where they gave me some coffee and I paid 
my respects to the bodies of three officers just killed in the trenches. 
I had a German wounded couche given me and I probed out the 
fact that there were some six or eight French waiting to be taken. 
"Oh, but he is seriously wounded  take him first!" When I arrived 
at the hospital, I watched the German prepared for operation. He 
had seven bullet wounds in the shoulder, five still remaining, three in 
the leg, and both arms broken! I picked up his overcoat, and I 
noticed that the top button was pierced by a bullet, so I cut it off and 
kept it as a remembrance  a gruesome one, but I shall always 
remember that in France the German went before the less wounded 
Frenchman!

Thursday, 4 p.M.


An attack is now going on and I suppose about seven o'clock there 
will be a general call to X------.

Sunday.


My prophecy about an attack was correct. Now there is a lull again 
and I have some moments to myself to write about the last three 
days. Ever since Sunday, July 4th, there has been an attack and 
counter-attack, and life has been real hell for those poor fellows in 
the first line of trenches. Every imaginable kind of instrument of 
destruction has been hurled on them, mines (the narrow part fits into 
the gun which is a sort of mortar  radius about four hundred 
metres), torpedoes (radius about four hundred metres) "320's," 
"250's," "220's," down to "77's," burning petrol, chlorine  all this 
not in dozens, but in thousands and tons. No one can believe what 
it is like there; it is indescribable, and the Germans are getting the 
same thing too. I suppose the French have lost over twenty-five 
hundred this week in wounded and killed and many prisoners  
and this over a line of seven kilometres! And the Germans? Many 
more! Day and night our Section has gone backward and forward, 
full of wounded and dying, and we are all feeling pretty done up. 
Yesterday they bombarded Pont-a-Mousson and hit a church which 
burnt all day, and killed some people  but there are not many left 
here now and hardly any soldiers.

Last night (as after every attack) we eagerly asked how the fight had 
gone  here we had gained a trench  there we had gained two 
trenches  here we had not won or lost  but always the same 
remark, "But the dead and wounded!" At any rate, the Germans are 
held and our many reinforcements have made the position fairly 
safe.

On Friday I again took down a German wounded  this time a 
German of the Kaiser's or Crown Prince's Bodyguard (the German 
Crown Prince is against us here). He was dying. Picture to yourself 
a fine, truly magnificent man,  over six feet four  wonderful 
strength,  with a hole through both lungs. He could not speak, and 
when I got to the hospital, I asked in German if he wanted anything. 
He just looked at me and then chokingly murmured, "Catholic." I 
asked a soldier to fetch the priest and then two brancardiers 
(stretcher-bearers) and the doctor  the priest and I knelt down as 
he was given extreme unction. That is a little picture I shall never 
forget  all race hatred was forgotten. Romanist and Anglican, we 
were in that hour just all Catholics and a French priest was 
officiating for a dying German  a Boche  the race that has made 
Europe a living hell. I came back about seven o'clock at night to the 
hospital with more wounded and asked if he still lived. "Yes; would I 
care to see him?" I went in and although he breathed his last within 
an hour after, his look showed recognition, and that man died, I am 
sure, with no hatred for France.

I could tell you a multitude of stories  stories so horrible I cannot 
forget, so pathetic that tears are not rarely in my eyes. On Friday 
night, I was on Montauville duty  and a new regiment arrived  
"Bon camarade" to me at once  "How many wounded?" etc.,  
they asked. I could not tell them that they were going to a place 
where between their trench and the German trench were hundreds 
of mangled forms, once their fellow-citizens,  arms, legs, heads, 
scattered disjointedly everywhere; and where all night and all day 
every fiendish implement of murder falls by the hundred  into their 
trenches or on to those ghastly forms,  some half rotted, some 
newly dead, some still warm, some semi-alive, stranded between 
foe and friend,  and hurls them yards into the air to fall again with 
a splash of dust, as a rock falls into a lake. All this is not 
exaggerated. It is the hideous truth, which thousands of men here 
have to witness day and night. Saturday night they came back, 
some of those poor fellows I spoke a cheery word to on Friday  no 
arms  no hands  no feet  one leg  no face  no eye  One 
glorious fellow I took had his hand off, and although it was a long 
trying drive to Dieulouard he never uttered a word. I touched his 
forehead when I arrived and whispered, "Bon courage, mon brave!" 
He looked at me a moment and answered, "Would God he had 
taken my life, my friend."

To-day I went to take three wounded officers to Toul, some thirty 
kilometres away, and before starting I went into the hospital to see if 
I could do anything for any of those butchered by "civilization." I saw 
a friend  the man who had offered me a German bayonet. He 
beckoned me with his eyes and then  "Have they forgotten me? I 
have been here for five hours and both my legs are shattered." It 
was true that every bed was full of wounded waiting to be dressed, 
but I went straight up to the medecin chef and told him that a friend 
was over there with both legs broken and could he be attended to? 
"Ah, we have been looking after the others first, as he must die, but 
I will do what I can." I stood there and watched his two legs put into 
a position that looked human, and then I bade adieux to a newfound 
friend. I think I am glad he will die. I would prefer to die than to be 
crippled for life, and if my turn comes I only hope I may not recover 
to be helpless.

It is no good trying to make you understand what horror really is  
you must see a bit of it as we see it here to be able to semi-realize 
what that place, the Bois-le-Pretre, is like. It was known by the 
Germans when held by them as " Hexen-kessel" (witches' cauldron) 
and as " Wittenwalden " (widows'wood).

I wish you would cut out and keep for me anything mentioned in the 
official reports about the Bois-le-Pretre, Pont-a-Mousson, Quart-en-
Reserve (probably the most mutilated, unthinkable place in the 
world), La Croix-des-Carmes, etc.


Monday.

I have just received the mail with lots of nice letters. It was so jolly 
hearing from you all. I am glad to tell you that this Section is to be 
mentioned by Order of the Army, and it will probably receive the 
Croix-de-Guerre, which our Section Commander will wear, of course 
 we may all get some sort of medal some time as well, perhaps. If 
my letter seems too horrible, just don't send it on to the friends who 
might otherwise care to hear. My only object in writing so fully is that 
I do want you all to realize the futility, the utter damnable wickedness 
and butchery of this war.

P.S. The Governor of the department of Lorraine sent from Nancy 
the following tribute:  "On this day, when you celebrate your 
national independence, at the same hour that France in violent 
combat defends her independence against an enemy whose 
madness for domination threatens the liberty of all nations, and 
whose barbarous methods menace civilization, I address to you the 
expression of the profound friendship of the French for your great 
and generous nation, and take this occasion to offer new assurance 
of the intense gratitude of the population of Lorraine for the 
admirable devotion of all the members of the American Ambulance 
of Pont-a-Mousson."


PONT-A-MOUSSON, July 16th.

It so happened that a wounded officer was going to Paris and he 
posted the letters of July 2d to you for me, and therefore you got 
them two weeks earlier. Now "Doc" has suddenly returned on his 
way to Pagny and I am writing about the last few days. They have 
been full of misery and yet full of pleasure. The 14th of July, the day 
of the fall of the Bastille, was to be a fete day for France as usual, 
but I little thought I should spend such a wonderful day myself. 
Schroeder and I were invited to pay a visit to the batteries above 
one of our postes de secour, and as we were both off duty, about 
three o'clock we went up to B------in one of our service cars and 
thence walked to see our friends. If any one doubts what grateful 
friends and how appreciative the soldiers are for our little help here, 
they should have seen the welcome we were given. We were 
shown the "soixante quinzes," the "220's," the " 155's," and you 
must realize by that how completely we foreigners are trusted; for 
could the Germans but know where these guns are, few of our 
friends would live to see France win the war. Next we were shown 
all over the "abris" (little dugouts about ten to fourteen feet 
underground and covered with three or four layers of good-sized 
trunks x like this). These they retire to when the Boches bombard the 
wood. All along the paths leading from one big gun to another were 
shells, two or three hundred great things about three feet, eight 
inches high. 

We then went and had some beer with our friends, all 
non-commissioned officers, and about four o'clock a corporal came 
to say that the "155's" were going to fire four rounds and would we 
care to go and watch, as the officer invited us? Of course we 
followed our guide to the gun and they all posed while I took a 
photo! Then the officer asked me if I would care to photo the gun 
being fired and I said yes. I stood some ten metres away, and had 
just pressed the button of the camera when I jumped half out of my 
skin at the noise of the explosion. I shall anxiously look for the 
negatives and I hope they will be good. It was now five o'clock and 
we had to return to Pont-a-Mousson. Would we stay to dinner  ? 
the 14th July?  What! Spend France's fete day with France's 
artillery in a wood some two kilos from the Germans  surrounded 
by the guns that were fighting for her liberty? It sounded too good! 
Of course we accepted; so five of us, three French artillerymen and 
Schroeder and I, walked down to get to B------on the road our 
ambulances travel all day long.

We were all in one line across the road when without warning  
bang!  thirty metres away earth was thrown yards into the air. The 
noise was terrific  and then the black dense smoke began almost 
lazily to fade away. We all five stood still  semi-crouching, 
although inwardly knowing that all precautions were then futile,  
that if we were to be killed by the eclats of that explosion we could 
not escape: it was too late. After five or ten seconds we breathed 
again, and I looked at my companions. Three of them had been 
firing heavy shells for eleven months, but their sunburnt faces had 
assumed the most haggard, pale expression I have ever seen. I 
had no looking-glass, but I expect if Schroeder writes his 
experiences to his people he will include my face as being like the 
rest. Had we been twenty yards farther on  or thirty yards farther 
back  finis! 

The strain made me give a little laugh which froze pretty quickly on 
my lips, for I was silenced with a look  "Attends!  listen for the 
next depart"  ten anxious ears listened, but it was just a chance 
German shell and no more arrived. When we returned to go to 
dinner about an hour and a half later, I asked them to help me to 
find the fuse, and there it was still hot. I shall keep it in memory of 
July 14th, 1915. We sat down in that little wooden shelter, about 
sixteen of us, and I cannot tell you what a happy party we were. 
Laughter and song feting the two honored guests, the "Americains." 
The Captain heard we were dining with his non-commissioned 
officers and sent up three bottles of white wine to drink the health of 
the Allies. We had brought some Moselle as a present to our hosts, 
and when the others were finished our bottles were a great surprise. 
They were quickly emptied, a candle was stuck in each and we 
started singing and telling stories. Then, as an act of courtesy, I was 
asked to sing our national hymn. I got up (a bottle of wine was 
fetched to fill our glasses) and did so as loud and as heartily as I 
knew how. It must have been a strange sight for the casually 
passing French soldiers, to see their sixteen compatriots standing 
silently  listening to a man sing a song that they scarcely knew, 
though one which means so much to so many thousands of our 
countrymen. I had but finished, when bang! bang! bang! bang!  
four "75's" fired over our heads  going to kill those who should 
sing another national anthem. The "Marseillaise" followed and I 
have never heard it sung in surroundings more fitting or more 
impressive. 

Then an artillery duel started, and backward and forward above us 
went and whistled the shells. Five of our friends suddenly left us, 
and in three minutes we heard the big "220" firing its death-gift into 
the German trenches. All the time the songs continued, and those 
woods must have echoed and reechoed with the strains of the 
"Marseillaise," etc. Schroeder and I, however, began to get anxious, 
for the noise of the artillery increased and increased, and we knew 
that in about two hours all the ambulances would be needed at X----
--, so we bade our friends good-bye and arrived home to find that 
only half of our cars would be required. We then turned in to bed 
with the conviction that we had really experienced the true feeling of 
France on the anniversary of the great step toward what she 
believed would be for the freedom of the people.

"Doc" had arrived unexpectedly from Paris and your letters were 
very welcome, also one from mother and Mrs. A------.

It was the very night, 14th July, that you were giving your lecture. I 
am sure it was a success.


July 15th.

"Doc" and I spent the day together. It was my duty day in 
Montauville; and although it poured I enjoyed it very much. All we 
did and saw I shall leave to him to tell you about, so, good-night. 
God bless you all.


PONT-A-MOUSSON, July 24, 1915.

When I last wrote you I little thought my next letter would follow such 
a tragedy as occurred on Thursday the 22d. It is now two days ago, 
so in the comparative calm of perspective, I must try to tell you the 
whole story from beginning to end. Thursday morning, Schroeder 
and I went to visit the hospital on the other side of the Moselle, and 
there we were received by the Sister Superior, who personally 
showed us all over the building. The corridors are now used as 
wards, as every room but one in the large old convent has been hit 
by a shell. We got back to lunch about twelve o'clock, and Mignot, 
our indefatigable friend in the position of general servant, upbraided 
us for our unpunctuality, etc. We had hardly finished lunch when a 
shell burst some twenty metres away and we hurriedly took to the 
cellar, while eleven more shells exploded all around our head-
quarters, or "caserne," as we call it. We then went for a round of 
inspection and found that the twelve shells had all fallen on our side 
of the road and were all within forty or fifty metres of us. This made 
us feel pretty sure that the shells were meant for us or for our 
motors. Schroeder and I discussed the matter, and came to the 
conclusion that we did not like the situation very much, and that if 
the Germans sent perhaps six shells, all at once, we should many of 
us get caught. I was very tired, and at about one-thirty went to sleep 
and slept until five-thirty, when I went to dinner at the caserne. The 
evening meal over, an argument started about the merits of a 
periodical called "Le Mot" (do you know it?)  a kind of futurist 
paper. 

After a rapid-fire commentary from one and then another of us 
which continued until about eight-thirty, Schroeder and I decided to 
go to our rooms to bed. We were walking home when I reminded 
him that he had been asked to tell four of our fellows who slept in a 
house near by to be sure that no light could be seen through the 
shutters; so turning back, we rapped on the window and heard 
merry laughter and were greeted with a cheery invitation to join the 
nine who had gathered inside. It seems one of them, who had been 
on duty at Montauville, had managed to get some fresh bread and 
butter and jam, and they were celebrating the event! We had to 
decline their friendly hospitality, however, as we wanted to get some 
sleep. I had just got my boots off when  whish-sh-sh  bang! 
bang! bang! bang!  four huge shells burst a little way down the 
road toward our caserne. Thirty seconds after came two more  
five minutes later six more  and then we heard a screaming 
woman ejaculating hysterically, "C'est les Americains." Schroeder 
and I looked at each other without speaking. We hurriedly dressed 
and started to run to the caserne  women and soldiers shouting to 
us to stay where we were; but rushing on through the fog, smoke, 
and dust, we reached headquarters. There we found the rest of the 
Section in the cellar, and hurriedly going over those present, 
realized that two were absent  Mignot, and the mechanic of the 
French officer attached to us. Out we ran, shouting "Mignot! 
Mignot!" From the dust and smoke there staggered some one we 
did not know, blood flowing from head, legs, and arms  "Au 
secours! Au secours!"  it was the mechanic. Leaving him with the 
Section to be dressed, we rushed madly through the fog-bound 
street crying, "Mignot! Mignot!" Then suddenly  across the road  
a shadow  a dark spot on the ground  two women quite dead, a 
boy dying, a man badly wounded and  farther on  a still, blue 
form. "Quick, old man, listen  his heart!" It was he  Mignot  
and dead. Our loyal and devoted servant who was almost the living 
incarnation of Kipling's Gunga Din. We rushed back to get 
stretchers and a car. Ogilvie got his car and we got our stretchers 
out to take away the blesses. There were a few of us grouped about 
 some seven or eight  and a car  with the wounded just put 
on stretchers, when  "Lookout!" Bang! Bang! Bang!  three more 
shells.

We had already thrown ourselves on the ground, and then, finding 
we were still alive, feverishly loaded the car. "Good God! I've stalled 
it," said the driver  then the cranking  would it never start  try 
again  thank Heaven, it was off! Hardly thirty seconds after, 
whish-sh  bang! bang! two more came. We retired to a cellar for a 
few minutes, as the three dead could stay there while it was so 
terribly dangerous. At last we emerged and were about to lift 
Mignot's body when both arms moved. Was he alive, after all? No! it 
was only the electric wires he was lying on that had stimulated his 
muscles. The car turned the corner with the three dead and we ran 
back to the caserne. There we found the rest of our Section very 
shaken, indeed. A shell had burst just outside of the house where 
the nine were making merry and the violence of the impact had 
hurled all of them to the ground. Two feet nearer and the whole lot 
would have been killed. Schroeder and I decided we had better go 
back to bed, and we insisted that Ogilvie (who lived in the house so 
nearly destroyed) should come with us. We made him a sort of a 
bed on the floor and turned in. As the light went out, a strange 
silence crept over us three, and I am sure that I was not the only 
one who was offering a silent prayer  for the wife and children of 
our devoted friend Mignot, and of gratitude for our miraculous 
escape from death.

I must have dozed off when I was awakened by the whole house 
shaking and six more terrific explosions followed  and then still six 
more! Should we go out again? No; all the rest were certainly in 
cellars and out of danger.

About two o'clock a tremendous attack woke us up, and for an hour 
the whole place shook and reechoed with the sound of artillery, 
hand grenade, and rifle fire. We stayed awake, expecting a call, but 
none came till five o'clock, when we were told that the "medecin 
divisionnaire" had ordered us to leave Pont-a-Mousson immediately. 
We dressed and packed and got around to the caserne to find that 
nearly every one had already left and that all thought Ogilvie dead. 
"Why?" we asked. His house had been completely destroyed,  
even a "280" shell had burst in the cellar itself. Two shells had burst 
in our caserne and all around was wreckage and mess. I got some 
coffee at a little cafe, and being on Montauville duty went up there, a 
sad and depressed being.

That afternoon, about one o'clock, a shell burst right in the middle of 
the street at X------  killing one soldier and badly wounding four 
more. I was not far away. I took them to the hospital at Dieulouard, 
where I found the rest of the Section getting themselves installed in 
their new quarters.

In the evening we went, at eight o'clock, to poor Mignot's funeral. 
Sad and horribly gruesome it was. Imagine a little chapel with four 
coffins in front of a small altar  one of them with many flowers, and 
of oak  Mignot's  the other three just pine wood  the ordinary 
war coffin. The Governor came, and I shall not forget the dim scene 
 the priest who intoned the Latin burial service out of tune, and the 
"choir" consisting of one man who sang badly and as loud as he 
could, and a congregation of silent mourners. Every note, every 
word, as it reechoed through the chapel, seemed like the cry of 
despair of France  a small but pitiful note of the anguish of this 
country. Over at last, the coffins were shuffled out of the little chapel, 
and we were allowed to follow them to the bridge to St. Martin, 
where they were buried in a cemetery constantly upheaved by 
German shells. Horrible ! horrible! horrible!  that is all I can write.

There had not yet been time to find rooms in Dieulouard, and I was 
asked if I minded sleeping in Pont-a-Mousson. ''No, not a bit!" So I 
spent last night there alone, and perhaps for the last time  in our 
little room, Schroeder's and mine, of which I once sent you a photo. 
He was at X------on night duty.

This morning I am sitting in that room at the window writing this  
all's quiet  the sky, cloudless and blue  birds are singing  the 
red roses in the garden blossom in the sun, and the peace of 
Heaven is really on earth around me. Then comes the memory of 
Thursday night; a vision of another world.

"Doc" will probably arrive here today, as we had to wire him at once, 
and so you may get this letter next mail.


PONT-A-MOUSSON, July 26,1915.

Since Friday, things have been topsy-turvy. Our Section leader was 
away "en repos" and Glover, who is in charge in his absence, 
naturally feeling responsible for the safe-keeping of our many 
ambulances in this division of the army, thought best to evacuate 
Pont-a-Mousson. Of course the point of virtue in the idea was to 
avoid the possible loss of some of our men as well as cars  which 
would be a tragedy for the French wounded. But our Section is here 
to give its best service and I can't help feeling that it is better not to 
lower the standard of work and efficiency by retiring to------. Perhaps 
I have rather forcibly expressed this idea, but a number of the men 
here are of the same opinion. I sleep at Pont-a-Mousson as usual, 
and of course Schroeder does too, and now three others also. I 
want to point out that the moral effect of seeing us about this place 
is very great on the soldiers encamped here, and if you could have 
heard their condolences and seen the look of pleasure on their 
faces when Schroeder and I walked down the street last night, you 
would realize that what little extra risk it involves is negligible, 
compared to its beneficial effect. However, when Salisbury returns, 
we may have to leave, for good, dear old Pont-a-Mousson. I 
suppose you saw in the official French report of the 29th that we 
had been shelled  it meant something to you then, I am sure  
but you little realized that it was our little group of ambulances they 
were hammering at.

Our whole Section has been cited by Order of the Division, and last 
night the official wording, etc., was sent to us. It is really a very great 
compliment and I am so pleased  I expect Salisbury will get 
decorated as head of the Section. Here is a translation of it:  

"American Ambulance Automobile, Section A.Y., composed of 
volunteers, friends of our country, has been continually conspicuous 
for the enthusiasm, courage, and zeal of all its members, who, 
regardless of danger, have worked without rest to save our 
wounded, whose affection and gratitude they have gained."

Poor Mignot  life at Pont-a-Mousson will be very different without 
him; and our mechanic, who was wounded, is, I now hear, to have 
his left arm amputated. What a real tragedy the 22d was for us!

The more we think about the evening, and as further details come to 
light, the more we marvel that we were not all killed. It is strange, 
too, how those who one felt would behave well  did  and I am 
proud of my friends in the Section.

P.S. We hear that a German captain, a prisoner in Paris, said that if 
any American ambulance man was captured prisoner he would be 
shot! Nice lot of people! aren't they?


July 29, 1915.

I had a very interesting day yesterday; as you will have seen by 
official reports, the Germans presented us again with some twenty 
to thirty big shells on Monday night, and although I was at Pont-a-
Mousson, I was in a good cellar! About three people were killed, but 
one woman was wounded, just down the road, and the doctor and I 
had to run out and bring her in. We were sufficiently excited not to 
think of more shells, and as she could run too  and did so with a 
vengeance  it was not a long "promenade"!

Yesterday, I went with Schroeder to lunch with the battery who had 
entertained us at dinner on the 14th July. They had moved their 
position nearer the Germans. I have rarely enjoyed a day more  
the sun was glorious  the views perfect  and the woods 
enchanting  though shells bursting in the air took the place of 
birds! We had a splendid lunch, and afterwards went out and visited 
the numerous guns and trenches. I took many wonderful photos 
(c'est a dire they ought to be), I saw about five different-sized guns, 
and then we advanced to the trenches. Finally we reached the first 
line, where silence reigned supreme except for the occasional bang 
of a rifle or the intermittent explosion of shells. We went to an 
advanced post (several metres in front of first line), and there 
carefully looking through a hole I saw the German trenches. I then 
expressed a wish to be able to photo them, and I was shown a 
place where I could stand up and quickly get a snap-shot. I 
regretted having made the wish, but I saw they were looking at me, 
and I didn't intend showing a white liver, so up I jumped and took 
two. The bullets did not whistle all around me, as I suppose I ought 
to write, and although I was successful in taking the picture I do not 
intend to try the game again.

In fact, I have now seen all the trench life I want to  and do not 
mean to visit them further. The point is that if I should be killed or 
wounded on a sight-seeing expedition it would not be very 
creditable, and we run quite enough risk when on duty.

Strange to say, I felt far less nervous in the first-line trenches than 
when on service at Pont-a-Mousson or Montauville  in fact I felt 
quite a sense of security in those splendidly built trenches, while in a 
town the shelling is so much more dangerous; and when you have 
to go out into it sitting on that little Ford jostling its way over the 
bumpy road, the sensation is not a very comfortable one. However, 
as I told you before, I am a fatalist now  absolutely.

We made our way slowly home to Pont-a-Mousson and there saw 
shells bursting over a little town in the valley and I got a photo of it. I 
am tired, so good-night.


July 30th.

All your letters from July 4 th to July 15th have just arrived, and also 
a very nice one from Marconi. It was a great joy to me to know of 
your success and of your glorious effort. Things are gradually 
quieting down here, but we have had a dreadful time. However, I 
am glad the work we are doing is so well worth the cost. One has 
little time and less inclination, in the presence of such great tragedy, 
to consider the virtue of one's personal service, but somehow it is 
good to remember that, although one has done work at the front, it 
was without pay, titles, etc.  I acknowledge that I look forward to 
October when I plan to go back for a bit. I shall have had four 
months' service at the front, without a rest, and although I can, I 
hope, keep going another eight or ten weeks, I feel that without 
some respite the winter would finish me, if the Germans omitted to 
do so. I find myself feeling an intense  though futile and 
unphilosophic  resentment at my physical condition: the not being 
able to eat enough to keep always at top speed  and of course 
one can never allow even a shadow, much less a mention of one's 
own problems to appear. The personal equation practically doesn't 
exist here.


August 2d.

Salisbury, who has returned to us, has supported our little group, 
who objected to the evacuation of Pont-a-Mousson. He found us a 
very fine, suitable house (an aesthete would go mad in it  
German, and bad German at that), and we were told that no shell 
had fallen near it for nine months, so we entered with confidence. 
The telephone was established, and after changing the furniture 
about, altering a few details, and (I confess it) bringing in a few 
flowers from the garden, we found ourselves almost magnificently 
installed.

Yesterday, the 1st of August, the French violently bombarded a 
town where a German regiment was en repos, and when I arrived at 
Montauville for day duty at seven-thirty yesterday morning, I was 
told that all the towns around here were expecting a bombardment 
in revenge. Needless to say, it was correct.

About ten o'clock I had a call to go to Auberge St. Pierre for two 
seriously wounded, and when I arrived there, the medecin chef told 
me that if I got them to the hospital quickly, they would have a 
chance of living. So "No. 10" tooted off down the hill  at what the 
plain warrior would term  "a hell of a pace." As I entered 
Montauville I saw no one about, but as I passed a poste de secour, 
a doctor rushed out and told me to take two more if I had room. I 
noticed they filled my car with extraordinary speed, and it was not 
necessary to tell me that Montauville was being bombarded. My 
stretchers filled, I set off again for my destination with the four 
seriously wounded. I decided to take a different road, which was 
quicker, though supposed to be more dangerous, and two big shells 
fell on the road I did not take while I passed. I began to think myself 
lucky.

As I entered Pont-a-Mousson, I saw no one about (a bad sign), and 
on turning to go to Dieulouard where we take the wounded I saw a 
huge shell explode two hundred metres down the road I was to 
drive along. Had the ambulance been empty, or with only slightly 
wounded, I should have waited, of course, but under the 
circumstances my duty was to go on as fast as I could. I noticed 
ahead of me three large motor-trucks and the thought struck me: 
"What if those are hit and contain ammunition." I was ten yards 
away when  bang!  I was half blown out of my seat  - a shell 
had landed on the motor-truck. Hardly believing I was not hit, I 
increased my pace and emerged from the smoke and blackness, 
going at a good clip, safe and sound, but shaken. I deposited my 
wounded and started to return, but was stopped and told that the 
road was not passable as thirty large "210's" had fallen on it and 
trees were all over the place. I forgot to mention the truly gruesome 
part of the tale  when I arrived at Dieulouard, I noticed that 
everybody was pointing at my car. I supposed it was because we 
looked so smoke-grimed; but on arrival at the hospital, several 
people ran out to me with curious expressions, and I then got down 
to discover what was troubling them. One of the poor fellows had 
thrown himself off the stretcher and all of his bandages had slipped 
and a trail of red was flowing from the car and leaving a pool on the 
ground.

I got back to our Bureau about twelve o'clock by a roundabout way, 
and had lunch and went up about twelve-thirty to Montauville again.

While at lunch the shells continued to fall at fairly regular intervals on 
the road. Suddenly those nearest the window threw themselves on 
the floor (an action familiar to us constantly under shell fire), and 
before you could sneeze, the lot of us did likewise, and we heard an 
eclat fly over the house. Laughing, we got up  we were about 
eight hundred metres from where the shells were bursting  and I 
went out into the street to see where the eclat had fallen. There it 
was on the road, weighing about three and a half pounds  it was 
hot to the touch  three and a half pounds thrown eight hundred 
metres. I have kept it as a paper-weight  as a little luncheon 
incident it is entertaining.

Nothing of great interest happened during the afternoon, except that 
I broke my foot-brake and to-morrow must put in a new one. After 
dinner, being off duty, I went to bed about eight o'clock. Schroeder 
left yesterday to go and see his brother who is wounded  he 
returns in about a week. Meanwhile, I am alone and don't like it. At 
one-thirty o'clock this morning I woke up. Something was wrong. 
Bang I Bang! Bang! Bang! Pont-a-Mousson being bombarded, and 
badly  fifteen shells falling in three minutes, I counted, and the 
firing continued for an hour and a half with intervals.

I got dressed  prepared to descend into the cellar if the shells 
came too near my house, and then about six-fifteen the 
bombardment stopped. I left the house to find several fires started 
around the town  they had shelled with incendiary shells as well 
as high explosives. As I got back to our new headquarters, imagine 
my surprise to find a huge shell hole  two yards from the house  
in the drive itself  the house never bombarded for nine months. All 
the fellows, however, were safe, and our breakfast was a jocular 
one, for we could not help seeing the funny side of it all.


August 3d.

Just a few more lines, as one of our Section is returning to America 
and will take these letters over, and you should get them about 
August 18th, with luck. I hope the lecture was a financial success 
besides a personal one! If all those people in America only knew 
what this Section and our work mean to the soldiers here, money 
would not be long in coming. No one can realize what our little group 
does for the mutilated wounded  but if any one doubts it, I wish he 
or she could see the grateful thanks in the eyes of the wounded 
soldier as he is taken from our ambulance and put into a fairly 
comfortable bed, with doctors ready to attend him. Let him see the 
poor soldier, hardly able to move, insist on taking your hand, and let 
him hear that whispered "Merci, mon camarade"  let him talk to 
the soldiers newly returned from the trenches or just about to enter 
there  let him hear that smiling greeting and see those hands 
waving, "Bonjour, camarade"  let him hear what the officers say 
 then, if he has had any doubts he could have them no longer. I 
don't claim that I personally am doing anything, but I do say that this 
Section of twenty-five men has done more to cement the love for 
America with the troops around here than any possible action the 
U.S.A. could take in this war, and I believe that the same fact is true 
of our Service in the north and south fronts. Every one should 
realize this, and I hope that any of my friends to whom you read this 
letter will bear our Field Service in mind if they hear of any one 
wishing to be truly philanthropic. The hospital itself cannot go on 
indefinitely supporting us, as they are very short of funds, and have 
a great undertaking on hand to feed and keep up the Neuilly and 
Juilly Hospitals  "Doc" tells me they must get two million francs to 
keep things going till next spring. Only a small portion of that money, 
of course, could come to our Field Service, so your effort is for a 
great purpose. 

I must tell you what happened to the wounded 
before our little cars came here  we carried over eighteen 
hundred last week and more than seventy-five hundred during July. 
They were picked up in the trenches (Bois-le-Pretre, etc.) when they 
could be got at  sometimes, if lucky, an hour after, and sometimes 
five or six hours  or never. The brancardiers (chiefly artists before 
the war!) do this work  a terrible job, and very, very dangerous, as 
the wounded are often between the German and French trenches 
and they have to creep out at night and drag them in. Well, these 
wounded are carried on brancards (stretchers) down the hill from 
the trenches  probably a journey of some thirty minutes to the 
"refuge des blesses" (still in the wood), and there a primitive 
dressing, to stop bleeding, is put on. Then they are jostled on  on 
 on  till they arrive at one of the postes de secour, where our 
light little cars can go  these are at Auberge St. Pierre, Clos-Bois, 
and Montauville. Here in former days they were re-dressed, and if 
there were room, stayed in the little shelter, or if not, they had to lie 
outside till a horse-wagon came to fetch them. Sometimes they 
would have to wait many hours before their turn came, and even the 
most urgent cases would not get away and arrive at the hospital for 
a long time. Hundreds of soldiers died thus. Now, with our little cars, 
an urgent case is at the hospital ready for operation in twenty 
minutes at the most and generally about ten to fifteen  no matter 
what time of the day or night.

That is why these soldiers around here are so grateful. I have seen 
cars go up to Auberge St. Pierre to fetch an urgent case when the 
driver knew the road was being shelled, and the soldiers who see 
our cars tooting up the hill, wonder  and say, "Volontaires?"

I have got a call and so must stop  for before I could get back the 
friend who is to take this letter would doubtless have had to leave.


1 1/2 hrs. later.

I still have a few minutes, so I will continue. As you know, I almost 
never reread what I write, but I have run over this letter, and 
although every word I say is accurate and unexaggerated, I don't 
want you to imagine that the French Red Cross is not efficient  but 
they cannot afford cars everywhere with drivers, etc.; that is why our 
Section here is so useful. The horror of the whole war is growing on 
me day by day, and sometimes when I have got into my bed or am 
trying to get a few hours' sleep on a stretcher (every other night I am 
on duty and so cannot undress), the horrors of blood  broken 
arms, mutilated trunks, and ripped-open faces, etc.  haunt me, 
and I feel I can hardly go through another day of it. But all that is 
soon forgotten when a call comes, and you see those bandaged 
soldiers waiting to be taken to a hospital. I almost love my old car  
it was in the battle of the Marne  and I often find myself talking to it 
as I pick my way in pitch darkness  past carriage guns or 
reinforcements. If one does not quickly become an expert driver, 
one would have no car to drive, for it is almost impossible to see five 
yards ahead, and it is at night that the roads are full of horse-carts 
and soldiers.


August 6, 1915.

I was delighted to see "Doc" to-day. He arrived yesterday evening 
from Paris, but I was on M------duty, so we did not meet until this 
morning. We had a long talk and I told him the story of the fatal 22d; 
the recital of it only seems to have reimpressed me with the horror 
of that night.

We are now quite comfortably settled in our new quarters, a house 
never shelled until just after our occupation of it, when we received 
a "77" a few feet from our windows. I do not know why it has been 
spared unless the Boches were anxious not to destroy a creation so 
obviously their own. Architecturally it is incredible  a veritable 
pastry cook's chef d'oeuvre. Some of the colors within are so vivid 
that hours of darkness cannot drive them out of vision. There is no 
piano, but musical surprises abound. Everything you touch or move 
promptly plays a tune, even a stein plays "Deutschland uber alles" 
 or something. Still the garden full of fruit and vegetables will make 
up for the rest. Over the brook which runs through it is a little rustic 
bridge  all imitation wood made of cast iron! Just beneath the 
latter I was electrified to discover a very open-mouthed and 
particularly yellow crockery frog quite eighteen inches long! A stone 
statue of a dancing boy in front of the house was too much for us all. 
We ransacked the attic and found some articles of clothing 
belonging to our absent hostess, and have so dressed it that, with a 
tin can in its hand, it now looks like an inadequately clad lady 
speeding to her bathhouse with a pail of fresh water.

Last night "Mac" and I were on night duty at M------, and when we 
arrived at the telephone bureau  where we lie on stretchers fully 
dressed in our blankets waiting for a call (the rats would keep you 
awake if there were no work to do)  we were told that they 
expected a bad bombardment of the village. "Mac" and I tossed up 
for the first call, and I lost. "Auberge Saint-Pierre, I bet," laughed 
"Mac." That is our worst trip  but it was to be something even 
more unpleasant than usual. About eleven o'clock the Boches 
started shelling the little one-street village with " 105 " shrapnel. In 
the midst of it a brancardier came running in to ask for an 
ambulance  three couches, "tres presse." Of course, I had to grin 
and bear it, but it is a horrid feeling to have to go out into a little 
street where shells are falling regularly  start your motor  turn  
back  and run a few yards down the street to a poste de secours 
where a shell has just landed and another is due any moment.

"Are your wounded ready?" I asked, as calmly as I could. "Oui, 
monsieur." So out I went  and was welcomed by two shells  one 
on my right and the other just down the street. I cranked up No. 10, 
the brancardier jumped up by my side, and we drove to our 
destination. I decided to leave the ambulance on the left side of the 
road (the side nearer the trenches and therefore more protected by 
houses from shell-fire), as I thought it safer on learning that it would 
be fifteen minutes before the wounded were ready; and luckily for 
me, for a shell soon landed on the other side of the road where I 
usually leave the ambulance. My wounded men were now ready; it 
appeared that one of the shrapnel shells had entered a window and 
exploded inside a room where seven soldiers, resting after a hard 
day's work in the trenches, were sleeping  with the appalling result 
of four dead and three terribly wounded. As I felt my way to the 
hospital along that pitch-black road, I could not help wondering why 
those poor fellows were chosen for the sacrifice instead of us others 
in the telephone bureau  sixty yards down the street.

However, here I am writing to you, safe and sound, on the little table 
by my bedside, with a half-burnt candle stuck in a Muratti cigarette 
box. Outside the night is silent  my window is open and in the 
draught the wax has trickled down on to the box and then to the 
table  unheeded  for my thoughts have sped far. To Gloucester 
days, and winter evenings spent in the old brown-panelled, raftered 
room, with its pewter lustrous in the candlelight; and the big, cheerful 
fire that played with our shadows on the wall, while we talked or read 
 and were content. Well  that peace has gone for a while, but 
these days will likewise pass, and we are young. It has been good to 
be here in the presence of high courage and to have learned a little 
in our youth of the values of life and death.


PONT-A-MOUSSON, August 15, 1915.

Yesterday was a red-letter day for me  I was made so happy that 
I feared something bad must happen to counteract it. The American 
mail arrived!  twelve letters  from H. S., J. H., C. B., C. S. S., S--
----; E. T., etc.  and my uncle and mother. I wonder whether you 
people out there in the sunshine of peace can realize what a ray of 
joy and encouragement the letters you are writing to us here bring. I 
got this packet about four o'clock and being on X   duty took 
them up there to read. I sat in my car with the sun streaming down 
over us in that little village semi-blue with soldiers, and started first to 
contemplate the writing and the dates on the envelopes. A battery of 
"75's" were firing on my left, and we heard the shells whistling 
overhead and after a few seconds the boom of the explosion on my 
right. Even the shells seemed to be singing with pleasure and 
excitement. Then I was brought back to actualities by the voice of a 
young French soldier  of about twenty-one  who stood beside 
me:  "You just have letters?" "Yes  not even opened yet." "All 
those! You are to be married, perhaps?"

"No, my friend."

"Surely it is your mother, then, who has written so often."

Only this one is from her," I answered. And then a strange silence 
fell  I did not feel like speaking, for glancing up, I realized that he 
was still looking at that one letter in my hand. After a few moments, 
fumbling in his uniform, he pulled out a packet of earth-stained 
letters. These were from my mother  but I can no longer look for 
them  she died last month."

Perhaps it was that little incident that made me appreciate so 
tremendously these messages from home, but when I got into bed 
last night and lit a candle by my side to re-read them all,  and 
when my mother's turn came,  I found the link with that boy and 
realized how much he has lost and how he must treasure and find 
comfort in that little batch of memories in his pocket. They too were 
probably full of anxiety for his welfare, full of encouragement and 
confidence in his doing his duty as a true French woman's son. And 
then my imagination wandered to another side:  The letters from 
the front  the letters of assurance  of counsel not to worry  
and next, perhaps, the citation  for gallantry  the pride and 
happiness of those at home.  Finally that most dreaded letter  
or the brief announcement in the list of those "Mort au Champ 
d'Honneur."

Are we really living in the twentieth century after 1900 years of 
teaching of supposed civilization and Christianity?

The day before yesterday, after having made several trips with 
wounded, I had a pressing call to Auberge St. Pierre. There the 
Germans were bombarding as usual, and it was unpleasant. A shell 
had landed near a kitchen, killing several and seriously wounding 
one soldier. He had a hole as big as your fist right through his back. 
"There is a chance if you can get him to the operating-room quickly," 
I was told  it was eighteen kilometres to the best surgeon; so off 
dear old "No. 10" and I started on our rush for life. Toot! toot! toot!  
and even the soldiers, realizing that I had a man's life in my care, 
made a clear way in the road ahead  and through village after 
village, without moving the throttle, we sped on and on. Bump, 
bump, bump,  what did it matter if I had to shake him about a little, 
 he was unconscious, and every second counted. "I hope I won't 
have a puncture," I found myself muttering from time to time. 

Finally, I turned to the left  then another corner,  and blowing my 
horn I drew up at the tent. In a second two brancardiers had the car 
unloaded  the surgeon in white was washing his hands  and 
thirty minutes from the time my charge was given into my care, he 
was lying on the operating-table. "He may live," said the surgeon. 
That was my reward! That is why I am happy, even here,  only for 
this reason,  one sometimes saves lives and never intentionally 
kills.

The other day I went up to the top of Mousson  i.e., the hill the 
other side of the bridge. It is under another army division, and so we 
have to get special permission from the Colonel, but as our Section 
is treated so wonderfully there is no difficulty in procuring it. We first 
stopped at the graveyard and tried to find poor Mignot's grave, but 
in that mess of dbris,  overturned sepulchres  upheaved 
tombstones  burst-open coffins  sun-bleached bones  and 
the hundred new-made graves,  we could not find it. We would 
have continued our search, but an officer told us not to stay any 
longer, as we were in easy view of the Germans and they might 
bombard at any moment. We started to go to the summit. Up the hill 
we climbed and the little mountain-side was all pitted with shell 
holes,  some of them most discomfortingly new. At last we 
reached the top and began to look about. A few minutes after, 
having asked a soldier some question, we found ourselves 
surrounded, and rather roughly asked for our pass. We showed it 
with the Colonel's signature, and then followed a hearty laugh  
when they had to confess they thought our foreign accent was 
Boche! We asked in what direction Metz was, and there just over 
the hill, to the right of a little tree we stood facing, it lay, and, like 
some glorious dominating giant, stood out the cathedral  built by 
the French for the worship of God and teaching of Christianity, and 
now so kept by the Germans!  the race which has set loose the 
scourge. If I could only be in the procession that marches in triumph 
to Metz!

I must tell you just one more incident. The other evening I was 
walking down the street when an excited shout made me stop and I 
saw running toward me an old friend  one I knew when I was in 
London  now dressed in the blue of France. "What on earth are 
you doing here?" I asked. "Tell me how in the name of all that's 
possible, did you get out to the front," he replied, and then we set to 
and talked. He is a French artist who lived in London and entered 
the French army, as the English would not have him. He, knowing I 
had not passed the "military medical," could not get over the fact 
that I had arrived here notwithstanding. He dragged me to a group 
of his friends and we all had a happy half-hour. Then the usual 
handshake and au revoir. 

As I turned away, he followed me:  "I go to Quart-en-Reserve 
tonight for some days  probably I shall not return whole. If I am a 
bit knocked out you will know, and if I am killed, my people will know. 
It would be hard for my wife wondering whether I was seriously hurt 
or not  she is about to have a child. Supposing I am wounded, will 
you post this letter  it only says that I am getting on well  am but 
slightly wounded and that she is not to worry." I add no comment to 
the story, but I do wish you could realize what trench life means to 
the infantry when they know they have to go to a hell like the Quart-
en-Reserve. I know what I feel like when I have to drive along a 
road being bombarded by the Germans  but that is only for five or 
six minutes  but think of five or six days with scarcely an hour's 
rest out of the twenty-four. No wonder we have to carry madmen to 
the hospital sometimes.


August 19th.

Poor old "No. 10" has been ill, so I have had her engine down and 
cleaned it. Now she is running finely.

There is an American stationed here who enlisted in the French 
army  poor boy, he is only twenty. We asked him to dinner.

"Why did you enlist?"

"Well, I guess I wanted to see some action."

"Are you satisfied?"

"Satisfied? Well, I came here to see life and movement  all I see 
in my ditch are worms, spiders, marmites, and torpilles!"

"So you have changed your mind?"

"No  guess my mind is the same as when I enlisted  I wanted to 
see war  I still do. I haven't seen war  I have seen murder and 
cultivated, systematic butchery."

There has been a lot of "permission" for the soldiers here and they 
are now returning after their eight days  the first eight days in 
twelve months, the first time they have seen their wives and 
mothers for a year, and in many cases they have their first look at 
their own children born in their absence. One soldier I asked 
whether his wife was pleased to see him:  "Ah," he said, "you 
should have seen her cry when I left." "But when you arrived?" I 
asked. "She was pleased! Ah, mon Dieu, you should have seen her 
cry when I arrived."


August 20th.

To-day has been a villainous one. The French bombarded the 
German stores, and set fire to some large storage-place  we think 
petrol and stores (perhaps the petrol they spray lighted into our 
trenches), and from twelve o'clock till now the whole sky has been 
black with smoke. Of course the Germans made "reprisals " and 
every little town around was bombarded. One shell which burst 
where nine persons were sitting dining killed them all.

The telephone bell rings  two cars wanted at once for L------.


August 23d.

About 10.45 this morning a German aeroplane came over the town 
 not two hundred and fifty metres high. We could see the pilot and 
observer and the four Maltese crosses on the planes. It was one of 
the bravest acts I have seen. She was too low for the artillery to 
open up fire, so the soldiers fired at her with their rifles, and although 
it seemed as if she must have been hit, the pilot turned around and 
flew safely back to the German lines. This little incident leaves us 
with a very uneasy feeling, as we think no German would have 
taken such risk unless the mission had been very important.

He must have seen everything he wanted to  our cars are fairly 
conspicuous with their crosses on the top of the canvas. He 
dropped signals as he flew over our house  and we are wondering 
just what is to follow  and when!


August 30th.

The Germans, not satisfied with the reprisals they took on the 22d 
for the burning by the French of store and factory at Pagny, again 
opened up on certain buildings of a neighboring town on August 22. 
They sent over 150 shells between two o'clock and seven. All large 
marmites  210's, 280's, and I believe some larger. The damage 
done is considerable, but after such a bombardment it was 
marvelous that anything remained. Over thirty-three shells fell in the 
road!

It happened to be my day of repos and I was asked if I would care 
to go to Nancy for the day, so at seven o'clock in the morning I 
appeared in full parade uniform, so to speak; and except that I had 
n't the heart to shave off my temporary mustache, I am sure I must 
have cut quite a figure!

Off we went to Nancy and spent an interesting day looking all over 
that wonderful town. Salisbury as you know has got the croix-de-
guerre, and we all felt very proud parading the street with him, and 
his significant ribbon. While the two men with me went to have a 
hair-cut, which I happened to feel no impulse to do, I stayed outside 
in the car.

I noticed four Moroccans walking down the street, and casually 
thought how picturesque their red fezes looked against their blue 
uniform, when to my horror they stopped by my car and started 
saluting and bowing and talking so ostentatiously that it took exactly 
thirty seconds for a large crowd of Nancy inhabitants to collect. The 
mere fact of being in town for the first time in twelve weeks was 
quite strange, but to find myself surrounded by a quantity of civilians 
and the center of attraction was, to say the least, most 
embarrassing. It was a hot day, and I felt the perspiration pouring 
down my back, as I looked to right and left for a way of escape. But 
my trial was not over. Horrors! My hand was taken and all four 
soldiers solemnly bowed over it and kissed it. I did not know what to 
do  being anxious not to offend them, nor to add to the 
amusement of the on-looking civilians. I thanked them in the name 
of America, for the honor they were paying her! and brought down 
on my unsuspecting hand a renewal of the embrace. Suddenly  
joy! what was that? An Irish voice! "Sure, young man, it's an 
uncomfortable soul ye are this minute." And an old fellow emerged 
from the multitude bristling with the hope of a brawl. However, he 
calmly joined forces with me  and we presently left the crowd with 
as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. From 
him I heard all about the war, and as much, if not more, about 
Ireland, as we sat in a public house across the street. So ended an 
awkward encounter. 

Well, we left Nancy about five-thirty (I had bought cakes and various 
luxuries for the boys), and when we arrived just outside R------, 
about six-thirty, we saw to our surprise the effects of the 
bombardment on buildings and the road. Uncertain whether to take 
a chance or not, we drove nearer and were still hesitating when a 
shell burst a hundred yards down the road, and decided us! Not 
being on duty we had no reason to go to Pont--Mousson, so 
turning around we went to dinner at Toul. After a good meal we 
started home and arriving at my room at eleven-thirty I was relieved 
to hear that no one had been injured. Several big clats, however, 
had fallen in our garden and two of our cars had very narrow 
escapes.

A strange thing to me was the sense of dissatisfaction  of 
subconscious restlessness  I felt while in Nancy. It was the first 
time for twelve weeks I had been in a civilized town, where 
everything was going on as usual. It all seemed so artificial, so futile 
and aimless. As our car tooted home, I turned around and 
exclaimed:  "Oh, Lord! how glad I am to get back again to our 
dear old peaceful bit of country!"  rather Irish but quite sincere.

The other day I had two hours off duty and McConnell and I went for 
a walk along the Moselle. We saw several soldiers bathing and 
decided it would be a good idea to do likewise. It was a gloriously 
hot day, so the fact that we had no towels was unimportant. I 
confess I became "anglais" to the extent of insisting on walking 
along the bank until we got away from every one and could bathe 
alone. At last we found a quiet corner and started to undress  but 
we had been noticed! "C'est les Amricains"  and before we could 
realize it, some soldiers were hurriedly preparing to swim in the 
Moselle with us, so our bath became a real party. I only tell this little 
incident to show again how ready the soldiers always are to join and 
talk to members of our little Section.


September 4th.

A sad thing happened the other day to a friend of mine, a poilu who 
has been helping me to get specimens of perfect, empty German 
shells (those which have "arrived," but not exploded). The fellow 
was an expert at dismounting them,  a very dangerous task,  
and when he had entirely emptied them, used to bring them to me. I 
had many a long talk with him, and he got quite fond of American 
tobacco (poilus don't usually care for "eenglish" tobacco). He used 
to like to tell me about his girl, and how happy they were together 
before the war  and how the day peace was declared, he was 
going to marry her. Lately I had noticed he looked depressed, and 
one day I found out the reason. I was in his little cellar sitting on a 
block of wood, talking of America, and he of France, when the 
postman came to the door. He looked at my friend  who had 
become alert  and shaking his head, said, "Pas encore"  and 
murmuring "Salut" to me continued his walk with his precious 
"letters from home." My friend became very white  and presently 
confessed to me that he had had no letters for six weeks. Forty-two 
days  that seems a terribly long time out here, you know. A few 
days after, I saw him again and asked if he had heard from his girl. 
He said "no," very sullenly, but later, over a glass of beer, he 
mentioned that his father had written to say his girl had been 
misbehaving herself. The poor fellow seemed stunned with the 
news. After vainly trying to cheer him up, I went back to dinner. The 
next morning I did not see him, being on Montauville duty, but the 
following morning I was at headquarters when an urgent call came 
for an ambulance. My car happened to be just going, so I took the 
trip. "Where was the house? " I asked. "Just over there where the 
man is waving." It was the house of my friend. Need I end the story? 

A broken man, who had worked valiantly for twelve months under 
hellish conditions to defend his country  had shot himself. We 
lifted him on to a stretcher  then, feeling pretty badly, and with the 
doctor's urgent warning against loss of time ringing in my ears, we, 
"No. 10" and I, sped away to B------. They took him out of my car  
read the little pink fiche which is attached to every wounded soldier 
and filled in by the doctor, who has dressed him in the first "poste de 
secour "  and then exchanged glances. I knew those glances not 
only meant that life was nearly extinct, but that it did not much 
matter whether he recovered or not  as he would get six years' 
imprisonment if he got well, for attempted suicide, and that 
sentence, in war-time, means constant first-line trench work. I 
followed him into the operating-room, where he opened his eyes, 
and I think he recognized me  his lips moved  but I don't know.

The other night came a hurried call to Clois Bois for a poor fellow 
who had kept his grenade too long and was very badly shattered. 
"Just a chance if you get him to the Hospital quickly," said the 
doctor. How many times I have felt quite elated at this injunction, 
and literally flown to the Belleville Hospital; but in this instance I had 
that horrible sense of hopelessness. It was dark and quite 
impossible to make Belleville under an hour and a quarter. The poor 
fellow died before I could get there.

To-day, I took all the carbon out of the car and put in a new 
commutator. A quiet and lonely day. I feel homesick.

The German offensive which I thought might take place yesterday 
did not. The French got news of the fact and of the hour that they 
proposed to attack, and five minutes beforehand the "75's" opened 
up and catching many of the Germans already in their first line of 
trenches so demoralized them as to wholly disrupt their intention. 
We had only about ten wounded, but goodness knows how many 
they lost.


September 6th.

I forgot to mention a very important event in the history of the 
Section. After the Blenod attack Walter and I went to see the 
damage done. We found the havoc was pretty bad. We were talking 
to some men who had actually been in a room where a shell 
exploded and had not even been wounded, when a soldier joined 
us and speaking in good English, asked if we would like to have 
some English papers. Although we felt pretty sure they wouldn't 
contain very recent news, we had to show an eager appreciation 
and asked him if he would go and fetch them. We followed him to 
his lodging. He presently emerged with a large parcel of quite old 
papers and began chatting with us. London was mentioned and we 
soon discovered that he had been chef for some friends of mine 
and had after leaving them become chef to Lord Fisher. I think I told 
you that our chef was an undertaker before the war, and his cooking 
was such that we wonder he did not achieve a lot of patrons in our 
Section. When we got back to the Bureau we decided to ask the 
Governor of Pont--Mousson to allow us to have Cosson  for that 
was his name  as our chef, and of course our request was 
immediately acceded to; so now we are having food de luxe, and 
the singe (as they call the American tinned meat we have to eat 
every other meal) was quite delicious as a curry last night!


September 8th.

I hope I have not missed to-day's mail. I may have done so, as I 
hear our letters are kept for some time before being forwarded. In 
case I have, it will be September 27th or so before you get this, and 
I shall perhaps have started home on leave; though as the time 
approaches for me to go, I doubt more and more whether I can 
actually break away! The only possibility of real contentment now for 
any one who cares for France or England is to stay until their just 
cause is victorious  or (as in many a case, alas!) until the call to 
eternal peace. Every soldier is dreading the winter here and secretly 
fosters the almost hopeless wish and belief that there will be no 
winter campaign. However, as day passes day, and all preparations 
for one go forward to completion, the French, with their wonderful 
pluck and determination, will resign themselves to the inevitable. 
The other day a poilu who was standing as usual with eight or nine 
others around my car at X------, suddenly expressed this 
compensating thought: "Well, it may be hard for us French this side 
of Europe, but what a time the Boches will have in Russia!"  and 
the idea quite cheered up the little party.

Yesterday I had a sudden call to fetch three badly wounded. One of 
them was in great pain from a wound in the back, and the slightest 
jostle or bump I knew would cause him great agony. The doctor, 
pointing to one of the other two, said, "You must get him to the 
operating-room as quickly as you can." "But," I answered, "I dare 
not go fast, this poor chap is in such condition." The doctor 
shrugged his shoulders  but the man who was suffering had 
heard  "Go as fast as you can, my friend, it won't kill me!" I did so 
 and the bumps were bad. The poor fellow could not help uttering 
cries from time to time. Before I arrived at Belleville, the cries had 
ceased, as the great pain had made him unconscious. The badly 
wounded man was dead. "C'est la guerre," said the doctor to whom 
I told the story  and I left him washing his hands for the operation.

I have just heard an amusing fragment. A German prisoner lately 
taken, was seated in the telephone office at Montauville, waiting to 
be transported. He had stamped on his uniform buttons an iron 
cross, and the French were asking him why he wore it. He explained 
that it was the right of a Section who had earned the iron cross to do 
so. The Frenchmen started chaffing him. He could understand and 
speak French, and a jocular remark not particularly complimentary 
to the Kaiser was cut short by the prisoner, who, nervously looking 
round the room, said in an awed whisper, "Oh! if the Kaiser should 
hear of your talking this way  mein Gott!"

The other day I paid a visit to the hospital at L------, and found all the 
wounded (only very serious cases stay here) quite happy and 
buoyant, and the men who had been evacuated in my car never 
failed to remind me  and thank me. One young fellow about my 
own age had had his left leg amputated. I sat by his bed and 
chatted with him, and he told me of his wife  a year and a half 
married  and of his child whom he had not yet seen. He was so 
very eager that somehow the pity of it made me turn aside for a 
second, and look out the window. Quick of perception, out went his 
hand to mine  "Oh, she will understand, camarade," he said, 
smiling; "she will love me just the same  she is a Frenchwoman."

How can one help caring for France and French people  they 
have such keen appreciation of the value of sympathy and 
gratitude. Here in the midst of torturing death, they at least are 
cheerful, and, having put aside the barrier of selfishness are wholly 
simple and direct in their human relations. The fact that on every 
side there is daily evidence of this attitude  in spite of so bitter and 
costly a struggle  is high proof of the fineness of their civilization.


September 14th.

To-day the Section and our Section leader were decorated. The 
ceremony took place in the garden and the "Croix de Guerre" was 
pinned on Salisbury's breast. The double kiss, given with dignity, 
and a few words of congratulation to our Section by the mdecin 
divisionnaire ended the notable event. So we now have hanging 
over our mantelpiece this coveted insignia.

The Section is not going to move from here. The General says it is 
one of the most active parts on the line, and lately, although the 
wounded have not been so very numerous, the trench 
bombardments have been so heavy that I anticipate more action.

Did I tell you of the marvellous escape George Roeder and Walter 
Lovell had yesterday? A shell dropped eight or ten yards away from 
them in the road and did not explode. I wonder they didn't die of 
surprise! I don't know what our Section would have done without 
those two. But everything happens to George and he still has a 
whole skin, thank God!

No letter from America has come to me for over two weeks, which is 
not very stimulating. Out here, mole hills are mountains, and 
mountains  impassable, and although it is of no real importance 
whether one gets a letter or not, or whether the letter one may get is 
cold or warm, yet these small and seemingly insignificant things are 
sometimes enough to send away sleep. I suppose the truth is, I 
really need a rest and change. It has seemed to me lately that 
modern warfare means even more of a nervous expenditure than a 
physical one.

The nights are getting cold, dark and damp. The leaves are falling, 
underbrush turning  the icy hand of winter stretches out nearer 
and nearer  and the trials of the poilus are doubling every day.

Yesterday I talked with a priest. He and most of his calling voluntarily 
accepted at the beginning of the war the fearful task of burying the 
dead. It sounds very simple, doesn't it? Do you realize what it 
means? It means handling terrible objects covered with blood-
soaked clothing, that once had the shape of human beings. It 
means taking from these forms all articles of apparel that might 
prove serviceable and searching through these red-stained clothes 
for any letters or identification. Some of these shapes are hardly of 
human outline, very stiff and cold. Some are mere fragments, no 
longer of any recognizable form. That is a little of what burying the 
dead means. I spare you more detail. And this is the work the 
priests of Peace are doing in France. Wonderful, you think? No, it is 
French temperament, French courage.

The musician is now brancardier. The artist, the poet, the 
paterfamilias of age past military obligation  all digging trenches  
or any work they can lay their hands upon. That is why France lives 
and has lived through all her agony. How often have we heard said 
"Poor France! She will never stand this great calamity ! " She will 
stand a hundred such calamities and always come to the top again!


Sunday.

And for a Sunday, quite quiet. Of course we had our usual 
bombardment, but only shrapnel. About 4.30, they started to arrive 
and a call for two cars followed. I had to go to M------and on the way 
up there, at the X------ I saw a horrible sight, two dead, three 
wounded  and a horse. A shrapnel shell, badly timed, had fallen 
exactly in the middle of the road and made a great mess. Schroeder 
and Willis were there, so I continued up to M------, where I got seven 
wounded.

The American mail has arrived! Letters from you, Joe, and S------. A 
feast! 


Monday.

Serious bombardment of three villages. Schroeder and I were at 
Dieulouard, so for the first time missed it. It was a pleasant miss for 
us. Those who pretend they like to be in bombardments are either 
humbugs or have never been in a real one. Having experienced 
them more or less for four months, I dislike the sensation now as 
much as on my first day.

It is an interesting fact that while the villages about here are under 
constant bombardment many of the oldest civilians cannot be 
induced to leave their homes, preferring to risk death in their cellars. 
The other day a very old woman at Montauville had an amazing 
escape. A "150" high-explosive shell fell into the bedroom of a 
cottage where she was sleeping. The small room was entirely 
shattered, but its occupant was not even injured! When I saw her 
soon after she was in an intense state of resentment over the 
destruction of her personal belongings, but her own escape did not 
seem to appeal to her.

I heard a story yesterday which I have every reason to believe is 
true. I give it to you as I got it:

Early one morning a soldier appeared in a boyau (communication 
trench) near here in the uniform of a genie (French engineer) and 
started chatting with some passing poilus. He told them he was 
inspecting the lines and they showed him round their trenches. On 
his tour, so to speak, he met some artillerymen, who asked him to 
lunch with their battery. He accepted, and after lunch wandered 
about the wood with his new-found friends, who showed him the 
position of many guns. As night came on, explaining he had to 
return to duty, he left his friends and went to the trenches. It was 
now dark and on getting to the first line, he told the sentry that he 
had orders to go out and inspect the barbed wire between the lines. 
As that was in accordance with the duties of a genie, the sentry let 
him go. The man never returned, and as, on inquiry, the company to 
which he said he belonged did not know him, there is little doubt he 
was a German spy.

Another story I heard from a friend of mine in the trenches near 
Soissons, and it is typical of the hopeless brutality we have to 
expect.

When the trenches are very close to each other, a little advance 
post is dug so that one can hear what is being said by the enemy in 
their trenches. Generally, however, the distance between the lines is 
too great for this, and at night a soldier is sent out to crawl to within 
hearing distance of the enemy. One night a poilu so engaged got 
wounded and when daylight came he was seen to be struggling to 
crawl back to his friends. Two soldiers promptly started out to help 
him, but on reaching him the Germans shot and wounded them, so 
that the three men were now crying to their comrades to come and 
save them.

Realizing that it was death to any one who left the trench in daylight, 
the captain forbade more of his men to venture out before dark. As 
soon as darkness fell, two other soldiers crept forth, but no sooner 
had they reached the three wounded than an illuminating rocket 
disclosed their positions to the enemy, and left five men lying 
wounded between the lines. As the captain could not afford to lose 
his men in this futile way, he detailed two sentries to shoot any one 
attempting to leave. The five men lay there shouting to their friends 
 calling them by their names  reminding them of their friendship 
 and asking if they were going to allow their comrades to die thus 
without help. So that when two brancardiers came into the trench 
they found the occupants in a terrible state of anguish and nerve 
tension. Not being under the command of the captain, and being 
Red Cross, they promptly left the trench to save the five wounded 
Frenchmen  Seven men are still there between friend and foe,  
but at peace now, God willing.


September 23d.

On Tuesday, Ben and Willis and I went to Nomeny, a town some 
fifteen kilometres away, the other side of the Moselle. It was a long 
walk.

After stopping to put a wreath on Mignot's grave, we started about 
one o'clock on our journey. It was a very hot day! We arrived at a 
little village which at first sight looked deserted. We soon saw the 
reason. In the middle of the road was a large hole, a little farther on 
a pool of blood  presently two dead horses  a successful shell.

Passing through Aton the road goes on straight  ever straight  
kilometre on kilometre. We passed the village and famous battlefield 
of Ste. Genevive on our right. Here, on September 8, 1914, two 
"75" guns, a few mitrailleuses and a handful of five hundred 
determined French soldiers hurled down an attacking force of 
12,000 Germans. Again and again the upright massed line 
advanced up the hill, to be leveled like bowling pins. After some 
hours of fighting, the brave little band of Frenchmen on the top of 
the hill found that they had no more ammunition, so with fixed 
bayonets they threw the last advancing Germans down the hill. The 
latter retired to Pont--Mousson with some four thousand of their 
dead left on the hillside. These they disposed of by throwing into the 
Moselle. The French lost only fourteen men.

Apropos of this I am reminded of a possible cause for the illness of 
many of our boys last June. Half the Section are teetotalers, and the 
other half drink "Pinard," the vin du pays, which comes from the midi 
and which is supplied to every French soldier. The water we were 
suspicious of, so Ned asked Mignot to ascertain where the chef got 
it. Mignot promised to watch and see whether it really was taken 
from the spring a little distance from the house, as we had been 
assured was the case. Imagine our feelings when he announced at 
breakfast the next morning that the water we had been drinking and 
which had been used for cooking was drawn from the Moselle!

To continue: A little beyond we came to the battlefield of Nomeny of 
August 20, 1914. Along the roadside, dotted all over the field, are 
little white wooden crosses, bearing the same inscriptions:

"Ici est mort un soldat franais No...... tomb au Champ d'Honneur, 
20 aot, 1914."

and here a more elaborate cross, a dead commandant, and there a 
cross marked, "Ici est mort un soldat allemand." We walked on, a 
silent trio. I was thinking of a year ago, of the wives and families of 
these heroes already almost forgotten.

Now we came to a little village surrounded with trees. On our left, 
some kilometres away, we saw the "75's" bursting above the 
Germans. Sitting down with some soldiers who were taking shelter, 
we watched for an hour these "75's" bursting, foot by foot, along the 
enemy's trenches. Again we started on our way and passed a hole 
cut in the road where a German shell had burst not long since.

At last we saw Nomeny  a town of some thirteen hundred 
inhabitants, placed on the side of a hill and running down to the river 
Seille, where it ends as abruptly as it starts. Just a charming little 
town, harmonizing with the surrounding country as only French 
villages can. We made out the tower of the ninth-century church 
and the walls of an old ruined castle. The sun blazed on the scene 
and we stood there looking with true pleasure on this delightful 
evidence of French genius in combining architecture and scenery. 
The road curved to the right for some two kilometres. Here Nomeny 
is hidden from sight. A turn to the left and there again it stands with 
its old castle. But what an illusion distance had played upon our 
sight. Ruined castle! Why, the castle walls are the only things that 
are not ruined. There stands Nomeny's skeleton. Not a roof, not a 
particle of wood remains! Just the bare walls of the houses.

We arrived at the outskirts of the town and presenting ourselves at 
the commandant's bureau, a lieutenant offered to show us over the 
town. I cannot describe it. No words could adequately convey the 
sickening sense of desolation and desecration. Here are the facts. 
The Fourth and Eighth Bavarian regiments, on August 20, decided 
to loot the town. Camions coming from Metz took away everything 
of value. Every house was burned, house by house, men, women 
and children being shot as they tried to escape. Those who were in 
the basements of the houses were shot there, or burning petrol 
poured into the cellars. When the French arrived (our guide was one 
of the first arrivals), they had to bury sixty murdered civilians.

Our long tramp home was uneventful, though very tiring  except 
when we came to the little village where we had rested and lunched 
with the "75's" bursting some kilometres away. Here we found two 
trees across the road, and on making inquiries learned that the 
Germans had seen the General's staff car going along the road (did 
I explain that the whole length of this road is in full view of the 
enemy?) and seeing the car enter the wood and not emerging on 
the other side, bombarded the wood, and were successful in 
wounding the General's chauffeur.

Yesterday we went to Fey-en-Haye, and we saw quite another thing. 
This little village, a bit larger than Montauville, is as completely 
destroyed as Nomeny. It is true that the church was dynamited by 
the Germans, but here we have a legitimate excuse. The village 
was of strategical importance and the absolute destruction was 
done after the evacuation of the civilians. The ruins look as different 
from those of Nomeny as could be imagined. No skeleton remains; 
it simply has been destroyed by shell fire, hundreds and hundreds of 
shells, both French and German. The whole place looks as if some 
great eruption had occurred and leveled it to the ground. Whether it 
was necessary or not, I don't know, but here one gets the feeling of 
war and shell, while at Nomeny it is  different.


September 29th.

Last Monday, we heard the news of the English and French victory 
in the Champagne. The shelling of the French trenches in the Bois-
le-Prtre had been awful all day, but when the good news spread it 
sent courage to all the depressed, so that within a short time, the 
woods rang with cheers and shouts of " la bayonette!"

To-day, lots of nice letters came from America. The last two days 
have been full of excitement and we have been given an additional 
secteur to evacuate; consequently our Section has been temporarily 
divided in two. "Mac" and I remain in Pont--Mousson. An attack is 
expected daily and with it will come the usual heavy bombardment 
of Pont--Mousson and the main roads. At present the rain has 
stopped everything and the French and English successes will, I 
suppose, be checked, as the heavy rain will make advances almost 
impossible.


September 30th.

News came this morning that 40,000 prisoners had been taken by 
the Allies and that three army corps had passed through the lines at 
Champagne. It all seems too good to be true, the first great good 
news the brave French have had for twelve months. Rain, rain, rain, 
all day long; therefore, I do not expect we shall have immediate 
trouble here. The winter has come  the cold weather is very bad 
and a night call is an unpleasant business.

The other evening when returning with an empty car, I asked a 
sentry whom I knew at Dieulouard (from which point onward we are 
allowed no light) if there was much traffic ahead. "Oh, no," he 
answered, "not much  it is mostly past now." So with a "good-
night" I started ahead  and six feet farther on I ran straight into a 
horse!


October 10th.

To-day I saw one of the most exciting episodes I have seen since I 
came out here. Several German aviatics and French planes had 
been flying over the trenches and so many shots were fired by both 
German and French guns that there were at least a hundred white 
puffs of smoke against the sky. About a half an hour after, three or 
four shells were thrown into the town and I went up to the top floor of 
our house to watch them explode. A German aeroplane could be 
seen on our lines reconnoitering, when suddenly another plane, a 
Nieuport, came tearing down upon it. 

We gave a shout, "A Frenchman! A fight! Vive la France!" The 
Frenchman was now above the German, the German in full retreat. 
Lower and lower dropped the Frenchman, always overtaking the 
German. Bang! bang! bang! went the mitrailleuses. The German 
swerved  the Frenchman was level  now he was underneath! 
Bang! bang! bang! A yell went up from us all. The German was hit. 
His plane swerved, right side, left side, dipped, curved, dipped, nose 
to the ground, a puff of smoke  something had exploded in the 
machine; it was now dropping straight to the earth  and finally was 
lost to sight in the woods of Puvenelle. We yelled, we shrieked, we 
cheered,  the Frenchman had won! A dull roar came from the 
woods of Bois-le-Prtre, thousands of French voices cheering the 
success of their comrade.

You may imagine the excitement at dinner when George Roeder 
and Willis, who had not been with us, marched into the room 
triumphant, with bits of the German aeroplane.


October I8th.

Yesterday was a serious day for us and I had a bit of an escape. 
You will have seen, I expect, that we were badly bombarded and 
that incendiary shells were thrown into the town. It was a Sunday  
it is always a Sunday. "Gott mit uns," I suppose !

Well, about ten o'clock I started off to pay a visit to a "wireless" 
friend with whom I had been learning to read. An aeroplane flew 
overhead and I pronounced it to be a Frenchman. I was in the 
middle of the road when I heard the whistle of a shell a long way off, 
but, strange to say, over my head. It came nearer and nearer, 
louder and louder. Have you ever actually experienced that inability 
to move which sometimes comes in a dream? I did then, for the first 
(and I hope for the only) time in my life. Louder and louder shrieked 
the shell and I just stood in the middle of the street paralyzed. I 
could not move. At last  bang! And then I ran, ran like a bolted 
rabbit. Of course, it was ludicrously late, but luckily for me the 
aeroplane bomb, for such it was, dropped twenty metres from me, 
on the other side of a stone wall. I need scarcely say I was ragged 
for my inability to distinguish a Frenchman from a German, but it is 
not so easy as one would imagine.

After lunch, Ben and I went to pay a visit to some of our friends in 
the trenches and afterwards walked through the first line for some 
time.

About three o'clock, we heard a heavy bombardment, the shells 
passing over our heads in the direction of the town. We walked to 
the edge of the hill and sitting down watched the poor little place 
being shelled for two hours. The explosions of the German shells 
and the shrieking of the French ones as they flew overhead to 
silence the German batteries was most impressive.

At last, one shell came very near the house where Ben and I lived 
and was followed shortly after by a second, even nearer. Ben 
jumped up exclaiming, "Come on. I can't watch that any more; it is 
too close to our house and I have a new winter uniform there."

We returned to our friends' dugouts about six and had an excellent 
supper in the open with stars and trees as a background and a 
gramophone to provide music, 600 metres from the Germans.

The other day, we took another walk through the woods further back 
from those I have been talking about, where the Germans were last 
September. Shell-holes everywhere, and old trenches marked the 
battle lines. Violets had already appeared and I picked a few and 
put them in my fatigue-cap. Passing along a little wood-path, we 
came upon the inevitable harvest,  two wooden crosses, side by 
side  but different! One cross was more carefully hewn, and nailed 
to it by a bullet was a little piece of red cloth, the color of the trousers 
the French infantry wore at the beginning of the war, and which is 
said to have cost France several hundred thousand men. The other 
cross was just two sticks, and hanging on it was a piece of gray-
blue,  a German. So here, side by side, a long, long way from 
town or village, in the silence of the wood, lie two nameless soldiers. 
Foes? I wonder.

So the days pass  Now, with the evening, comes, as often, a 
grateful time of stillness. I like to watch from my window the 
shadows lengthen as the sun leaves to them their part. A little later, 
when they have wholly obscured all detail, man will perhaps furtively 
begin some move to make the night unlovely  but for the moment 
there is rest.

An owl has just hooted  a musty old clock has just struck six  a 
convoy wagon rumbling along the road raises a cloud of golden dust 
 then silence again.

Lately I have discovered a beautiful garden full of fruit and flowers 
where an old man still stays as caretaker. Schroeder and I go there 
often and eat the fruit which is spoiling on the trees.

Sometimes  when the day's work is done  and there is a quiet 
hour here, it is good to think of other gardens far away where the 
salt air comes in from the sea  or often the fog, on these still 
summer evenings. I can understand now the lure of peace  and 
so I am doubly grateful that those of you for whom I care most have 
chosen to work  rather than to forget the struggle here. When I 
come back to you some day, we shall feel a greater peace and 
sympathy for knowing that with the same eagerness, if in different 
ways, we have tried to serve and to save those men whose heroism 
makes our best effort seem a very small thing.

The End

