Читать книгу "Back from Hell" - Samuel Cranston Benson - Страница 7

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The section which had been at Dunkirk and in Flanders had some interesting experiences. The larger part of the time the boys were put up in stables and slept on straw or in the ambulances. They had gone out in the early spring and were detailed to work around Dunkirk carrying the blessés from the freight depot to the several hospitals as the French authorities directed. Working in mud under air raids and long range bombardments was not unusual to them.

The history of the northwest front is a history of men in mud. From Dunkirk to Verdun and much farther, this ugly nightmare tears the soul. The world has heard of the mud in Flanders, long ere this, and I believe this war has done more to advertise the real estate of that country than anything else could do. I suppose the people of the Western Hemisphere never knew there was so much mud in the world. I know I never did. And Flanders is not the only place that has it either. That entire front is blessed with it extending two hundred miles long and almost two feet deep. If I had unlimited time I would figure up just how much mud there was. We think we have mud in America, Missouri boasts of most of it, and has thus become proverbial. I once read of an old colonel who was riding along on his horse one day in Missouri during the Civil War when he saw an old hat lying in the mud on the side of the road. Strange to say, the hat kept revolving, first one way and then the other. The colonel's curiosity finally got the better of him and he dismounted and went over to where the hat was lying. Giving it a kick he discovered a private's head under it smiling up at him graciously. "Well, my man," said the colonel, "you'll pardon me, but can I do anything to help you? You seem to be in a pretty bad way." "Oh, yes," answered the private, "but as for myself, I'll make out all right, for I can breathe. It's not myself I'm worrying about, but the horse that's under me sure is in a bad way."

I thought of this story a thousand times while over there, and I think I told it at least half that number of times. The mud in the spring is so thick that it oppresses one. It gets on your mind as well as on your body. A person who only has an occasional trip may laugh at it, but when one drives through it day and night, and night and day for weeks the humor of it all wears off. It becomes a mighty serious affair. In many places it is thick and sticky like bread dough and piles up on your wheels or feet making it almost impossible to move. The clay, or gumbo, in America cannot compare with it. It is whitish gray in color and even when it is not heavy it is exceedingly disagreeable. It splashes on your clothes and flies in your eyes. It gets into your ears, your nose, and your hair, and not infrequently into your mouth if you talk or laugh too much. It has a resemblance to gray paint and partakes very much of its nature. Once it gets on your clothes it is impossible to get it off and it even sticks to and stains your flesh so that it requires hard scrubbing with soap and hot water to remove it. Yet when it splashes you in this manner it is pleasant—compared to the discouraging effect when it is heavy!

One day when I was going to a shop with an empty car for some repairs, I met my old antagonist, French mud. It was the genuine article this time too, the kind that gets a hold and doesn't let go. I was turning out of the road to allow a camion to go by but in my eagerness to avoid it I swerved an inch too far. Little by little I felt the back end of my car sliding off the road so I threw in low speed and opened the gas. The front wheels stayed on the higher ground but the rear wheels seemed to be trying to catch up with them and finally did so, but when they did, they pulled the whole car off into the gutter which was not steep but oh, so muddy. I labored and struggled with the gas and the low speed. I groaned and swore, I stalled my engine and got out to crank it, and when I did I couldn't get in again. I used up ten minutes in getting my feet out of that mud and getting them cleaned up. I tried it again but it was no use, the car would not come, for it was stuck. That was the only explanation there was, it was stuck in French mud. Not having any chains I tried to put sticks and boards under the wheels and I succeeded but they went so far under that I could not see what became of them. I finally began pulling a farmer's rail fence to pieces in my attempt to pry out the wheels and get a foundation to start from, but at last I had to walk more than a mile till I found two men at a farmhouse who came down with a heavy team to pull me out. When they arrived at the place where the car was stuck, lo, the fence which I had dismantled belonged to one of the men. He looked at me with a peculiar expression. I thought he was angry and was going to scold me and demand payment for damage to his property. In a couple of seconds, however, we both burst out into a hearty laugh for he appreciated the situation as well as I. With a large log chain looped around the front axle of the car the great horses put their necks into the collar and hauled it out. The men would not accept a cent of pay, one of them saying, "Not a sou, it's for France."