Harrisburg telegraph. [volume] (Harrisburg, Pa.) 1879-1948, 1917-07-25
TELLS OF WORK
BY AMBULANCES
Living, Wounded, Dying Are
Packed in Tiny Cellar
Near Firing Line
My Dear Sir:

Tonight l am sitting in small
underground cellar OF one of the
public buildings of the town, acting
as a sort of timekeeper or starter
for the cars going up to our most
dangerous post and handling the re-
serve cars for wounded in the town
itself. 1 wish I could describe the
scene as it is before my eyes-for
the whole world is passing here
French, Americans, living. wounded
and dying.
A long heavily arched corridor,
with stone steps leading down to it,
two compartments off to one side
lined with wine bins, where our re-
serve men and a few French bran
cardiers (stretcher bearers) are ly-
ing on their stained stretchers. some
snoring; beyond, door that gives
into small operating room, and to
the left another door that leads to
a little sick ward, the most pathetic
little room I have ever seen-with
four beds of different sizes and kinds
on one side and six on the other,
taken evidently from the ruined
houses nearby-and one tired in
firmier (hospital attendant), to tend
and soothe the wounded and dying.
Screams For Mother
In the bed nearest the door, a
French priest, shot through the
lungs-with pneumonia setting in
his black beard pointed straight up,
and whispering for water. Next to
him, a little German lad, hardly
nineteen, and small, with about six
hours to live, calling, sometimes
screaming, for his mother, and then
for water. Next to him, a French
captain of infantry with his arm off
at the shoulder and his head wound
ed, weak, dying, but smiling: and
next to him a tirailleur in delirium
calling on his colonel to charge the
Germans. The infrmier is going
from one to the other, soothing and
waiting on each in turn. He asks me
what the German is saying, and 1 tell
him he is calling for his mother.
"Ah, this is sad war" he says, as
he goes over to hold the poor lads
hand.
a brancardier comes in with a
telephone message - "a blesse
(wounded mani, at Belleville-very
serious" This is a reserve car call,
so one slides out and is gone like a
ghost down the ruined street, ma
king all the speed its driver can-no
easy matter-with no lights. In
twenty minutes he is back. The
brancardiers go out-they come in
again bearing the wounded man on
a stretcher and place it on the floor
beside the little stove. One of them,
who is a priest, leans over him and
asks his name and town-then, in
answer to what his wife's name is,
he murmerS-"Alice;" while on the
other side another brancardier is
the clothes from his body
and l shiver with the pity of it at
the sight I saw.
The surgeon comes out of his little
operating room. Weary with the
nights tragic work-after so many,
many other tragic nights, he douses
his head in bucket of water. Then
he turned to the wounded man. He
looked long at him, gently felt his
nose and lifted up his closed eyelid.
Then, at his nod, the stretcher is
again lifted and the wounded man
carried into the operating room, and
soon after into the little room of
sorrows.
In answer to my eager question
the surgeon shook his head. Not
chance.
A brancardier and I gathered the
soldiers belongings from his clothes
to be sent to his wife, but even we
had to stop for a few minutes after
we saw the photograph of his wife
and their two little children.
An hour later, as our nights work
was Stacking down and several cars
had driven up and been unloaded,
the infirmier came in from the little
room and said something to the
brancardiers. Two of them got a
stretcher and in moment the
blesse from Belleville" came past us
with a sheet over him. They laid him
down at the other end of the room
and another brancardier commenced
rolling and tying him in burlap for
burial. AS you look he changed to a
log. Then out to the dead
wagon with it.
Soon after 1 went into the little
ward again to see how the others
were coming through the night, and
was glad to see them all quieted
down; even the little German seem
ed less in pain though his breathing
still shook the heavy little bed he
lay on.
Through a chink I saw that day
was beginning to break, and as no.
ticed it 1 heard the chiefs car COM
ing in from the Sap" and knew the
nights work was over.
PHILIP o. MILLS.