Read Ebook: The White Road of Mystery: The Note-Book of an American Ambulancier by Orcutt Philip Dana

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A BATCH of mail was given out the morning after our return. When we moved, our address seemed to have been lost, for only a few letters, of no interest to any one, managed to find us. We have been too busy to miss them, and when they arrived in a bunch there were no complaints.

It is a wonderful thrill to get a letter from home, to read what those who mean all to one are doing, and to feel their personalities throbbing "between the lines." We bridge for a brief moment the chasm of three thousand miles, and in revery gaze upon those persons, those places, and those things we have known. Our thoughts here are always in the past. We cannot think of the present, and we dare not think of the future, but there is always the past to live in,--the past of events and memories.

The few air raids are rather an anticlimax after the days that have just passed, especially as nothing falls near enough to cause us any annoyance. At Bar-le-Duc the Boche playfully drops a dozen bombs into the German prison camp, much to every one's amusement; a mile from us he destroys a camp of Bulgarian prisoners, and we wonder at his hard-headedness and laugh. But the next night we hear bombs crashing in the distance, and in the morning learn from some men in another section passing through that it was Vadlaincourt, where the Huns flew so near the ground that soldiers in the streets shot at them with rifles. At that height the aeroplanes could not mistake their targets, and they retired only when the hospital was a mass of flaming ruins. There are no smiles at this. Another night the purring motors reveal outlined high against the stars a fleet of Zeppelins, bound we know not where, but, we do know, on a mission of death to the innocent.

In circumnavigating a large team in the centre of the road later that day I rubbed "Napoleon" off against a horse, and after that he snubbed me on every occasion.

It is these laughing, playing, seemingly care-free soldiers who are the spirit of the war. Relieved from the tense struggle of life and death for a brief rest, their joyous nature blossoms forth in reaction from the serious affairs of their day's work.

THERE is nothing that so brings out the best in a man as to fight against terrific odds, to struggle in a losing fight with the knowledge that only by superhuman effort can the odds be equaled or turned. To work for an ideal is a wonderfully inspiring thing, but when the battle necessitates the risking or the sacrificing of home, happiness, and life it brings to the surface in those who persevere characteristics which lie dormant or concealed.

An ideal must be worth while when millions of men gladly risk their all for its attainment, and those men who risk and sacrifice must have returned to them something for what they give. Whatever sort of creature he is on the surface, the fire test, if a man passes it and is not shrivelled in its all-consuming flame, must develop in him certain latent and hitherto buried attributes which are fit to greet the light of day. If he be lacking in worthy human instincts, the flame will destroy him, but if he passes through the test, he emerges a better man--how much better depends on the individual. At least, having once seen the ideal, he has something now for which to live and strive.

THE world, judging from what it saw on the surface, flatly declared that France could never stand up under the strain; but what has happened has proved how little of the real worth of a nation or of a man is ever visible on the surface. There must always come the test, the fire which burns off the mask, the false surface beneath which mankind ever hides, and brings forth what is concealed--good or bad. The bad is swept away and the good survives.

The French are a temperamental people, and consequently are most easily affected by circumstances. In former times the mass of the people were inclined to be demonstrative, insincere, somewhat selfish, and rather egotistical. These characteristics could never pass the tests, and now the true spirit of France, the Phoenix, is rising from the ashes of the past a freed and glorified being, radiant in the joy of accomplishment. From the torture she has endured, an understanding of the feelings and desires of others must be born which will banish the taint of selfishness forever. Those who do things are never egotistical--they have no time to talk, and France has been doing things these past years. Those who rub elbows with the elementals and sacrifice for each other and a cause can never be insincere again. And what harm is there in demonstration? The bad characteristics removed, this becomes merely an effervescence, a bubbling over of a joyous, unrestrained nature--Ponce de Leon's true fountain of perpetual youth.

To illustrate the reverse--I was standing in a town a little ways back, waiting for a car to give me a lift up to the lines, when a kitten rubbed against my leg. I picked it up and started to play with it. Instantly a peasant--not too old to serve--rushed out and snatched the kitten from my arms:

THE English can never be called a temperamental race, but even their stolid worth has needed much shaking up for the best in it to come to the surface. The example they have set since their awakening is one which any nation may well emulate, and it will be a proud people indeed which can ever equal the record they have made in this war for courage and devotion, never surpassed in the history of the world.

For example,--in the early days of the war the Madagascans, French colored colonial troops, are given certain trenches to take. They take them with little delay, and are told to consolidate and hold them. This is all very well until supper fails to arrive. The soldiers wait impatiently for a short while, and then, ignoring the commands of their officers, evacuate their trenches, which are immediately occupied by the Germans, and go back for their meal. Supper finished, with no hesitation they return and in a wild charge recapture their trenches and several more.

Other French troops in the Flying Division are the Algerians, who have done wonderful fighting throughout the war, and have suffered heavily. It is the boast of the Foreign Legion, which is classed as Algerian, that since its organization it has never failed to reach its objective, and even in this war it has made good its boast. In one attack the Legion entered thirty-five thousand strong and returned victorious with a remnant of thirty-five hundred men.

The fact that the colonial troops of the Allies, especially those of Great Britain--the Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders--fall practically without exception into the Flying Division because of the initiative, dash, and daring developed in them to such a degree, has given Germany, who has won more victories with poisoned pen than with the sword, an opportunity to stir up hard feeling with her propaganda between the colonies and their mother country.

This propaganda claims that England has sacrificed her Colonials to save her own troops. Nothing could be farther from the truth. While the Colonials are in the Flying Division and the larger part of the English in the Holding Division, because of their famous bulldog tenacity, the English have lost a greater percentage of their men than any one of the colonies. The world has never seen such fighting as the troops of Great Britain have had to stand up under, and full credit is always given the Colonials for their share.

Many of the heads, in all stages of curing, have been found in the knapsacks and equipments of these troops--when they were dead or unconscious. While conscious, the Indian will guard them with his life, feeling that they are legitimate souvenirs.

THERE are three French medals which are given for service in this war, not to mention a number of lesser ones which are seen rarely. The most coveted of these is the Legion of Honour, a medal famous for some centuries both in war and peace. This is divided into several classes. There is the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, a very large medal worn over the right-hand pocket with no ribbon. This has been awarded to a few men of the greatness of Joffre and Petain. Then there is the grade of Commander of the Legion of Honour. This is a smaller cross worn at the neck. There are also the ranks of Officer and Chevalier. Both are small crosses on red ribbons, but the former has a rosette on the ribbon to distinguish it. These are awarded to officers only and are greatly prized.

In addition to these there are the colonial medals and a number of French decorations which have not strictly to do with the war.

TONIGHT I am on guard. I have just taken a walk around the cars. It is the hour before the dawn, and the cold, grey mist hangs over all, robing the jagged ruins and harmonizing the rough outlines into something more human, while accentuating the stare of the vacant window-openings. There is the first crescent of the moon in the sky. Two companies of artillery have just passed along the road. The guns and caissons creak and rumble, and the men, preserving a sleepy silence, bend forward on their horses, their heavy sabres smacking against the horses' sides, and their blue uniforms melting into the mist.

Now all the officers admit that an attack is to ensue shortly, but they do not know when. We tune up our cars and get our baggage ready, as we may be called. The lieutenant receives some orders and warns us to be ready to move on a moment's notice.

It is evening, and we are formed in a circle listening to some story. The lieutenant walks up to us:

"We move at seven in the morning," he says laconically, and steps off.

AT THE FRONT

Mort Homme comes suddenly and bleakly into view about two kilometres on our left,--a hill, not exceedingly high, commanding a great plain, it is imposing only in the memory of the rivers of blood that have flowed down its sides. Once--and looking at it one can scarcely believe it--this was covered with trees and vegetation like many another less famous hill. Now it is reduced to a mere sandpile, pitted with the scars of a million shells. After standing the continuous bombardment of both combatants for over a year, there is left not a stick of vegetation, nor an inch of ground that has not been turned over by shells many times. Crowned by the pink of the sunset, it stands there on the plain a great monument to the glorious death of thousands.

The French lost many thousands of lives in their attempts to capture Mort Homme, and were very bitter, consequently, against its defenders. There was a large tunnel running through the hill, and when three sides had been captured and both ends of the tunnel were held, it was discovered that they had trapped there three thousand Germans. I talked with a man who walked through the tunnel the day after the massacre and he told me that it was literally inches deep in blood.

There is nothing quite so uncomfortable to hear as the near whistle of a shell. The more one hears the sound the more it affects him. There is something in the sharp whine which seems to create despair and induce subconscious melancholy. There is a feeling of helplessness and powerlessness that is most depressing. The thunder of the guns or the crash of the bursting shells cannot be compared with the sound of this approaching menace. It is as if some demon from the depths of Hades were hurtling towards you, its weird laughter crying out, calling to you and chilling your blood. For the second of its passage a hush falls on the conversation, and the best jokes die in dry throats. But it is only for that second, and instantly laughter rings out again at some jest. Speculations or comments are made on the probable or observed place where it exploded, and all is the same except for that subconscious tenseness which, for the most part unrealized, grips every man while he goes about his work here.

Then they came back, roaring with laughter and tossing the coffin in the air. The hero had expected the coffin and they had fooled him. Now they could use it again.

The usual method of burial on the French front, where there is little time to attend to such matters, is to dig a ditch six feet wide, ten feet deep, and twenty feet long approximately. As each man is killed, time and circumstances permitting, he is divested of his coat and shoes, and his pockets are emptied. He is then thrown into the ditch and covered with a few shovelfuls of dirt. This system is all very well until new divisions relieve those in the trenches, and start digging ditches for their own men. As there are no marks to show the location of the old ones, they sometimes uncover rather unpleasant sights.

PLUNGED suddenly from the commonplaces of peace into the seething cauldron of war, France has had to adjust herself. Every one without exception has lost many who were dear to him and much that he had considered essential. The homes and hopes of thousands have been blasted. Destruction, following in the wake of the invaders, has laid waste much of the land, in many cases irreparably.

THE roads at the front are cared for by a class of unsung heroes, the roadbuilders. Back of the lines German prisoners are often used for this work, but it is a rule of warfare that prisoners must not be worked under fire, and the Allies observe this as the other rules of civilized warfare. The roads are the arteries of the front, and during an attack the enemy does his best to cripple them. If he succeeds, the troops in the trenches, cut off from food, ammunition, and other supplies, are at his mercy. During one attack through which I worked, the Boche, whose hobby is getting ranges down to the inch and applying them as all other things in a definite system, put a 150 every ten yards down the more important roads.

All work in the zone is done by three classes of workers, excluding the necessary military operations carried on by the troops in action. First, there are the German prisoners who do every kind of work out of the zone of fire. Then there are the French prisoners in the army, who have committed some military crime, from sneezing in ranks to shooting a colonel. Instead of serving time in a guardhouse, these are put in the front-line trenches and kept there unarmed to build up the parapet, attend to the drains, stop Boche bullets, and perform other functions. If, for instance, a French soldier sends a letter through the civil instead of the military mails, where the censorship is more strict, he receives a thirty days' sentence. If these prisoners make a suspicious move they are shot by their own men. Second timers are rare, but many serve life sentences.

MANY undeveloped instincts lie dormant in the subconscious mind of man. In this war, where man has turned back the pages of civilization to live and act for a period of time as a glorified cave-dweller, a number of these unknown faculties have been discovered and developed.

Many animals have the power of seeing in the dark, and all species can sense an unknown danger. These senses have been denied to civilized man, but the primitive life at the front has developed them and other instincts in those who live there so that it seems as if man might again become possessed of all his latent powers.

The water in the streams is little better, and a bath in one of them gives more moral than physical satisfaction. One French artilleryman told me with great glee of seeing from his observation post a company of German soldiers marched down to a river for a bath. As soon as they were in the water he signalled the range to his battery, and they put a barrage between the bathers and their clothes.

VERDUN is more than a name now--it is a symbol. France's glorious fight here with her back to the wall has gone down in history as a golden page. The foe thundered at the gates and the gates held,--held for months while the fate of France hung in the balance, and then opening, the hosts of France poured out and drove the foe back mile by mile, bitter miles.

The enemy has been driven back so far by this time that not more than half a dozen vengeful shells a day are directed towards the violated cathedral, its subterranean vaults blown open and exposed, its walls struck, its windows shattered, and its roof fallen. A walk through this city, divided by the peaceful Meuse, would convince one, if nothing had before, that this war is not in vain, and that no force should be spared, no rest taken until the nation which has perpetrated these million crimes be crushed, that it may never strike like this again.

In the Champagne push the year before the French had not had nearly enough artillery support, and it had cost them many lives. It is something one hears spoken of rarely. To avoid a repetition of this disaster they had massed for this attack in one wood six thousand guns varying in calibre from the famous 75's to several batteries of 380's, mounted on a railroad a stone's throw from our sleeping quarters. However, as we had no time for sleep, it made little difference. The 75 is about a three-inch gun, and the 380, a sixteen approximately.

A perfect barrage is impenetrable, with the shells falling so near together and with such short intervals of time between that nothing can survive it. The only possibility is the inaccuracy of some one or more guns which will put a number of shells out of the line and leave a break or opening.

Before the attack the officers all have their watches carefully synchronized, as a mistake of one minute may cost many lives. Walking ahead of their men, keeping them the right distance behind the solid wall of flame and steel, they wait until a certain minute when the barrage is lifted a number of yards and then advance to that distance. In the orders, the minute the barrage is to be lifted and the distance are given out beforehand; for to advance the soldiers too quickly would be to put them under fire from their own guns.

L'ENVOI

AN American army is in France. Old Glory is proudly floating above an armed host which has come to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Allies, and do battle to prove that Right makes Might. We read in the papers of the ovations the troops receive, of the reviews, the presentations, the compliments, and the training, and our hearts beat proudly because we too are Americans. We are non-combatants, to be sure, and are members not of the American army but of the French; yet, we are serving in the same cause, and, we hope, doing our bit towards the final victory.

We form small circles and discuss the situation. All the freedom and romance are gone, but many are going to stay. The rest have chosen aviation or artillery, and one or two may return home. The old volunteer Ambulance Service is dead, but the days we have lived with it are golden, and nothing can ever take them away from us, or bring them back again.

THE participation of the United States in this war marks the time of this country's coming of age, and the real beginning of its work as one of the great world powers. Up to the War of the Revolution the thirteen colonies had more than enough on their hands in managing their own affairs. In the throes of that war the country was born, and slowly grew, feeling its increasing power which was never quite secure until the Civil War was at an end. Then, year by year, reaching out over the two continents of America, guiding and helping our weaker brothers in their affairs, gave us a foundation of courage and experience in the adolescent period before we were ready to stand forth staunch in our beliefs and secure in our power to uphold them. That that time has come, and that the Old World, throwing down the gauntlet to the New, has found it unexpectedly ready, is shown by the presence of the Stars and Stripes on the battlefields of France. The mask of our isolation by the ocean, that time-worn excuse, has been rudely torn aside by modern inventions, and the affairs of Europe have become by their intimacy our own. In mingling with them as we were forced to do, one side was bound to transgress sooner or later--Germany did. And when Germany transgressed, America stepped across the bridge from youth to manhood, and picking up the iron gauntlet proceeded to settle the question by force of arms,--the one indisputable argument.

This war is to make Democracy secure only in that it is the continual struggle between the new and the old, a struggle whose issue is certain before the start--civilization moves to the west.

Consequently, the relation of America to the War is that she is coming of age, and is at last ready to take her place among the great nations of the world as a power that can never again be disregarded, a mighty guardian of the Right.

AMERICA has been aptly called the Melting Pot. Since 1620, when the Pilgrims established their permanent colony at Plymouth, people from the Old World have been flocking to this country and becoming "Americans." Every country of the globe has sent its representatives--each a different metal to be merged with the others until the American should be as distinct a type as the Englishman or Frenchman. At first there was natural discord--each was a different metal in the melting pot, but as there was no heat, no fire, they could not amalgamate. Then came the first blast of national fire--the Revolution, and in that, the first great struggle for Liberty, was moulded from the composite alloys--the American. The American as he came from the mould of the Revolution was the foundation on which the country rests, and although the descendants of those Americans are too few in number now to be more than a flux for the steady stream of metal as it pours from the pot, they can at least preserve the standard that their forebears passed down to them as the Golden Heritage, and be examples to these new and untried metals.

In the War of 1812 and in the Civil War the new metals were amalgamated and tempered with the old, but since 1864 there has been no fire hot enough to mould together the millions who have sought the United States as a home. There has been no sword over our heads. There has been no great impending disaster, no danger to the country as a whole of great loss of life or property, and our Liberty and our Honor have not been at stake as they are today.

So it is now in this fierce blast from Hell's furnace, the Great War, that the National fire is rekindled and each metal is slowly sinking its own individuality into the common form carefully stirred by the hand of the Almighty, and in the white heat, as the pure metal is tempered until it rings true and measures to the old standard, the slag is cast aside. Thus is America the Melting Pot.

The shortage of necessities has also been a damper on the city. In Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, a man was carrying a bag of coal. A few paces behind him a well-dressed woman was walking home. The man dropped a piece of coal from his sack and the woman eagerly picked it up and placed it in her gold bag.

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