CHAPTER XIV THE DEATH OF A COMRADE

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On a certain Friday afternoon at M—— the day had been ominously quiet. Several of the boys had gone out for a little stroll and lunch before retiring, and a few were hanging around the cars. The sun was sinking low in the west and appeared to be loath to drop out of sight. An orderly from the hospital came rushing over out of breath and told us to come quickly. Two boys went with me immediately and as we entered a darkened room we saw our old friend, Gaston, apparently "passing out." Some of us had been pretty well acquainted with him. We went in noiselessly but as soon as we stepped over the threshold he opened his eyes a little wider and smiled faintly. He looked so peaceful that we hated to disturb him. Speaking in a kind of hoarse whisper he said, "I sent for you. I am glad you came. You boys have been good to me and I wanted to thank you. I am lonesome, and I want my mother, too. Pneumonia has set in, but I'll be better—in—a—couple—of—days. How—is—the—battle—go——?" Here his eyes closed and he seemed to sleep. Yes, I can truthfully say he did find sleep. The sleep which knows no waking. But the room was so quiet and he looked so calm and happy as he lay there that it did not seem like death. It only seemed as if some white angel had come down and touched his tired, feeble body and transfigured him. Poor fellow, he had been gassed at the battle of Ypres, and we had met him at the hospital. Several times we had had good visits with him and neither he nor we surmised that his time was so near at hand. He had not appeared to be in pain and he always said he did not suffer. And he was so hopeful to the end.

His life story had been a sad one. Married when very young he had been a farmer on one of those little places so common and yet so unique in France. Things had not gone well with him and his farm had almost been forfeited. He had a family of children but his little twin boy and girl had been killed in a runaway and the shock had prostrated his wife. She had been an invalid ever since. Years had gone by and then when the Germans came, a shell had struck his home killing his wife in her bed and injuring his other boy. A few hours later the Germans entered the place, driving him out of his home, taking his farm. He had barely time to escape being captured, which would have meant service for Germany instead of for France. His heart had been saddened but he was glad to get away and go into the French Army and he had gone back to fight the Germans. He had gone through several battles without being injured but the gas caught him at Ypres. He lived sadly but died peacefully, and we were requested to be present at the last little service over what was earthly of him. They put him in a plain casket covered with a French flag and the procession started down toward the little church.

At this time the Germans were bombing the district quite regularly. On reaching the graveyard we could see dozens of tombstones demolished, and one grave had thrown its occupant to the surface of the earth and it lay there a crumbling, rotting corpse—yet smiling, or at least so it seemed as the pearly white teeth were exposed to full view—smiling in derision, beyond the power of the German and his Kultur. Here Gaston was laid to rest.

But war furnishes strange contradictions. It is a continuous panorama of lights and shadows; of beauties and hideous monstrosities. It furnishes some of the truest and bravest acts that history records and it produces some of the foulest deeds of crime. Experiences are so varied. Some evenings, while loafing about the headquarters sitting at little tables writing letters or talking peacefully there was nothing whatever to remind us of battle. Beautiful parks were in front of us, fountains and flowers, and all was quiet and serene. Then a call would come and within an hour or two we would be enveloped in the harsh stern facts of war.

After witnessing the death of our comrade and seeing the shattered cemetery and the decaying corpse sticking out of the grave, all in one day, I felt a bit weird myself. A man's nervous constitution isn't made of iron and even after seeing many morbid spectacles, unless he has become hopelessly hardened, he will still be affected by tragic experiences and brutal scenes. I didn't rest any too well that night after those creepy sensations and the next day my nerves were rather shaky. The grim spectacle which was now to greet my eyes did not tend to quiet me either.

I was sent on quite a long trip to bring in two wounded men of the Colonials, one French, the other British. These two men, Turko and Senegalese, proverbially speaking, were as black as the ace of spades. Neither of them was very dangerously wounded and both were talking cheerfully. One had a leg broken and the other had been caught in the shoulder. As we slid out the stretcher of the first man and placed it on the ground, his knapsack fell off and to my astonishment out rolled the head of a German soldier! The African spoke of it with great satisfaction, turning it over in his hands and boasting of his good fortune, as, I suppose the primitive American Indian boasted of the scalp dangling from his belt. The other fellow, not to be outdone, ran his hand into the cavernous depths of his pocket and brought forth a human eye. It was a ghastly looking object. It seemed to me to be penetrating the soul of the Colonial, but he just laughed and enjoyed very much my discomfiture.

One evening as I was about to "hit the hay," two wounded men came in on foot from the front. They were so weak they could drag themselves along no farther. I was requested to take them to a hospital which was some distance from the place. I got my car ready and saw that everything was right. The night was dark as pitch. The men were put on a brancard, or stretcher, and placed in the ambulance. We were making our way toward our destination when we came to a piece of road running through a cut in the hilly country. The road was rather narrow, just allowing enough room for two vehicles to pass. On either side was a great bank fifteen or more feet high. Right in the main part of the cut was a mudhole perhaps a hundred feet or more in length. When we came to this place we were suspicious of it and stopped for a few moments to consider before making the plunge. As we did so a line of motor lorries and soldiers came down from the other direction. I was afraid it was too daring an enterprise but two or three of the trucks got safely through and my fears began to be allayed. A truck now came loaded high with ammunition cases and just behind it two men on horses. Into the mudhole plowed the ammunition truck, and the riders followed close behind. The mud was getting deeper and deeper and the wheels began to clog. An awful tattoo sounded as the driver threw in the low speed and tried to pull ahead. The boys on horseback turned out to go around the truck, which was evidently sticking. As they did so its rear wheel struck a rock and broke short off, upsetting the entire load. In falling down, the shell cases frightened the horses. One of them reared and fell, throwing the rider right under the overturning truck. He was fatally crushed. The soldiers coming up extricated the poor fellow from the wreckage and brought him to our ambulance. I quickly saw that he was "done in." He could talk a little, and he said that it was foolish to attempt to ride around the truck in the narrow space, especially where the mud was so deep.

We doubled back part way on our journey and made a detour. But the mangled man died before we reached our destination. We delivered the other wounded and made the return trip with little difficulty. Later on many soldiers came in on foot over that piece of road but they said that the other trucks had all turned back and gone around another way. They did not dare to brave that awful mudhole. These soldiers were dirty, worn and battle-weary for they had walked from the trenches for miles through the mud, and they plainly showed it too. There was not a spot as big as your hand on them that was not dyed with that cream-colored mud and their faces were speckled with it so that they looked almost as if they had had the smallpox. As one of them turned to leave me, he uttered the words, "Some mud."


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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