DON HALE OVER THERE

By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

Author of

"DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE" "THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES," ETC.

Illustrated by H. A. BODINE

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1918

COPYRIGHT 1918 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

Introduction

"Don Hale in the War Zone" recounts the many adventures of Don on a dangerous trip across the ocean, as well as in war-torn France, while seeking his father, an aviator in the service of the Allies. His chum, George Glenn, too, was an active participant in numerous exciting events.

The present volume, the second of the series, tells about the thrilling experiences that fell to the lot of Don, who, in common with numbers of other young Americans, volunteered his services as an ambulance driver in that great organization, the Red Cross, which has done so much for the cause of humanity during the world war.

Don views the operations at close range, and, naturally, amid such perilous surroundings, often finds himself in extremely serious situations.

His life in the war zone, however, is not all danger, and besides his work with the Red Cross he and some of his friends have an interesting experience in connection with a mystery which hovers over the ancient Château de Morancourt.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

CHAPTER I

THE NEW ARRIVAL

"Yes, sir, it's been rather quiet along this sector for a week or two past, Chase, but believe an old veteran in the ambulance service when he says that it isn't going to remain so very long. An attack by one side or the other is bound to happen; and then—whizz!—bang! You'll hear more shells popping than you ever could have dreamed existed in the world. This is no children's party—eh, fellows?"

A volley of assents came from nine hearty voices.

The "old veteran," who had spoken with a great deal of earnestness, fixed his gaze quite searchingly, even sternly, upon Chase, a big, husky chap sitting close by, who had made no answer.

"Say, mon ami, what made you join the Red Cross, anyway?" he asked.

Chase, disregarding his question, rose to his feet, stretched himself and yawned. He wore the air of one who is entirely out of harmony with his surroundings. Whereas all the rest, in spite of the hazardous nature of their calling, appeared to be full of life and spirits, he looked sullen and discontented.

"I declare, these nights are about the limit!" he exclaimed, in a growling tone—"nothing to do but loaf around and——"

"One kicker in a crowd is one too many," remarked the "old veteran," or, rather, Dunstan Farrington, with a laugh which softened the bluntness of his observation.

"Too bad he didn't remain in the states," added Hugh Wendell.

The observations of the two had only the effect of causing Chase to shrug his shoulders and lapse into a silence which no one seemed inclined to disturb.

On the table in the middle of a large, bare room occupied by the boys stood an oil lamp which cast a yellowish glimmer over the surroundings and threw upon the walls and floor huge, grotesquely-shaped shadows. In the far corners the feeble light could not cope successfully with the darkness, and there somber gloom and mystery lurked.

To a casual observer the gathering might have appeared to be a social affair—a mere coming together of young chaps who had no very serious object in view; in reality, however, it was something far different—they belonged to a unit of Red Cross ambulance drivers, stationed for the time being in an abandoned hotel at a little shell-torn village not far from the now famous city of Verdun. The eleven were within a zone of death and destruction—a zone where peril was never absent for a single hour.

From the roadway outside came a ceaseless rumble. Motor lorries, huge supply trucks, ammunition wagons, in fact practically every kind of vehicle belonging to the transportation service of an army in the field was making its way under cover of darkness toward the front. And in the opposite direction a continuous line of "empties" flowed steadily past.

The constant growling and grumbling of the French batteries, from their masked positions in the hills to the east and northeast, were growing louder. The German artillery, too, located to the north and northwest, kept booming away.

After a while Dunstan Farrington brought out a sketch book, and with swift, sure strokes began to record some impressions he had received during the day. Dunstan was not a collegian, but a former student of the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris. During the early part of the great war, like numerous other young men, he had felt the call to action and had volunteered under the Red Cross.

More than once while under fire the boyish-looking young chap had performed some valiant deed in conveying the wounded soldiers from the battle-field, and had incidentally narrowly escaped death or serious injury. Dunstan, with several other equally brave Americans, also ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross, which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.

During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.

The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette, a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers behind the lines.

During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris—an inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.

The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and peaceful indeed it looked—just the sort of a place where one might expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.

A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.

The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual commanders were two college men from the United States—Hugh Wendell, Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks supplied the meals, and the section also included several French mechanics, though of course all the drivers were fully competent to overhaul and repair their cars.

From four to ten men and a number of ambulances were always on duty near the dressing stations, a few thousand yards from the front-line trenches—a dangerous post indeed, where the men were very often obliged to make a precipitous rush for their dugouts in order to escape the rain of devastating shells.

Yes, there was plenty of action, plenty of thrill and excitement in the life.

Chase, who had arrived but a short time before, during a lull in the fighting on that part of the western front, had as yet seen no dangerous service. The young chap was not very popular—persons of a sullen or taciturn disposition seldom are—and though he must have realized this he made no effort to turn the tide in his favor.

Bodkins, the musical member of the unit, had just brought forth his banjo, ready to indulge in his favorite pastime, when a noise at the door stopped him.

"Hello! Somebody's coming in," he exclaimed, looking up.

At that moment the door opened, and a dim, very vague form was seen standing at the threshold about to enter.

"Hello, fellows! Bon soir, Messieurs!" cried a cheery, youthful voice.

Whereupon every one in the room except Chase gave utterance to a hearty shout of welcome, Dunstan Farrington's voice rising high above the others.

"Hello yourself, Don Hale!" he shouted. "Back from your ten days' furlough, eh? You're a sight for sore eyes! Well, well, we're mighty glad to see you!"

CHAPTER II

A MYSTERY

"Say, what kind of a time did you have in Paris, boy?" exclaimed Gideon Watts. "Give us the latest news from civilization. What's in that bundle? Newspapers, by Jove! Hooray!"

It seemed as if every one in the room were intent upon shaking the newcomer's hand at the same identical moment.

"Had a perfectly dandy trip," returned the smiling Don Hale. "Maybe I didn't enjoy every minute of it, too. What do you think?—I actually saw an air raid on Paris. But the anti-aircraft guns soon sent the Kaiser's bomb-droppers flying to the cover of the nearest clouds. Hello!—a new member?"

"Ah, Monsieur, nous avons oublié quelquechose. Pardon our lack of politeness," laughed Bodkins—"also, I might say, my use of French. Honestly, fellows, it's like second nature to me now to let it roll off the tip of my tongue, and——"

"I've seen some Frenchmen almost roll over with mirth when they heard it," broke in Watts, cruelly.

"Jealousy!—there's another mean fling thee has to thy credit," sighed Bodkins. "Really, somebody ought to take a correspondence school course in manners. But here's what I intended to say: Mr. Chase Manning and Mr. Don Hale—let me introduce you to each other."

The newest member of the section and the youngest driver thereupon shook hands.

Then, after each had spoken the pleasant words appropriate to such an occasion, Chase drawled, slowly:

"'Pon my word, Mr. Hale, I never expected to see a youngster like you holding down such a responsible position! Why in the world did you come to France?"

Don gave a merry, infectious laugh, though he flushed a trifle at the reference to his boyish appearance; for he, in common with many lads of his age, liked to be considered as approaching man's estate.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Manning," he said.

"Call me Chase, if you please."

"Very well, sir, I will."

Don drew up a stool, stayed a hurricane of questions which the ambulanciers shot toward him from every quarter of the room with a cheery, "All right, fellows—just a minute," and, desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the taciturn young man, began his explanations.

In terse sentences he related how he and his chum, George Glenn, had left Chicago with the intention of joining Mr. Hale, who belonged to the aviation corps, in Paris. On reaching New York, however, they found that a letter and remittance which the two expected had not arrived. Don took passage on a munition ship and had a thrilling adventure at sea. Afterward he met George Glenn and they journeyed to the war zone together. A series of surprising incidents followed, and did not end until they encountered Mr. Hale in a little French village.

"By George! 'Pon my word!—quite a story," commented Chase at its conclusion. His face actually lighted up with a smile. "And then, not satisfied with all that excitement, you had to join the Red Cross in order to get a bit more, eh?"

"No; it wasn't for the sake of the thrills, though they come pretty often in the day's work," laughed Don.

"What's become of your friend?"

"George? Why, he's preparing to enter the aviation service."

"Then he's sure to rise above you very quickly," drawled Chase.

"Ha, ha!" giggled Bodkins. "Did you hear that, boys? Chase Manning's first joke. Remember the day and date."

Don joined in the general laugh which followed, then remarked:

"And now, Chase——"

"Nothing doing, son. My history wouldn't interest even a cat," broke in Chase, quickly. His voice and manner underwent a sudden change; once again he appeared the same surly, discontented chap as before. "You may have this much information, however: I'm from that 'somewhere in America' known as Maine."

By this time many of the ambulanciers were eagerly examining the Paris newspapers—the first they had seen for some time—while others fairly peppered the aviator's son with questions concerning his trip. A journey to the French capital, after the hard grind of work and the dangers to which they were daily exposed, really marked an epoch in the lives of the drivers, and the next best thing to enjoying the pleasure themselves, according to the majority, was to listen to an account of the experiences of some one who had.

And, very naturally, Don Hale, bubbling over with buoyant spirits, had much to say.

While engaged in conversation they heard the sound of an explosion, startlingly loud, rising above the clatter of passing traffic and dull booming of artillery.

"Hello! There's a shell that landed almost near enough to say, 'How do you do?'" cried the chef.

Chase hastily sprang from his seat, with his mouth half open.

"Great Scott!" he blurted out, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "I never heard one of these confounded things burst so close to the old shack before."

"I know of a certain village which the Boches didn't present with a single shell for months and months," put in Dunstan, dryly, "and just when everybody began to consider it a lovely and peaceful place—a haven of refuge in time of danger—the German batteries, early one morning, suddenly started working overtime. No, Messieurs, it probably will never be rebuilt."

"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."

A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.

Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.

Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:

"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."

Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.

Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:

"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."

Dunstan replied:

"A grouch of the first class, Don."

Again: "Don't judge too soon."

"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"

And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.

"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."

"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."

Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.

Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.

At length John Weymouth raised his hand.

"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"

"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."

"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."

The latter shook his head.

"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."

"Dunstan, then?"

"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."

"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——"

"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."

"What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student.

"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.

Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.

"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself——"

"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."

"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.

"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"

Bang! Bang!

Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.

Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.

"Confound it!" he muttered.

"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."

"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château—one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which——"

"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."

"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."

"And what was that?" queried Wendell.

"The collection of paintings and objects of art."

"There it comes, boys!—the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"

His words were couched in a tone of accusation.

"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."

"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here—up toward the front!"

"That's the very place, my son."

"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"