"Some one's
out of luck," said I to the driver; "whose roll is it?" "The corps
commander's, sir," was his reply. After exhausting my limited vocabulary,
I realized that it was far too late to stop another motor and send this
one back, so I just kept going. Across the bed of one more ravine, the
sand up to the hubs, and we were in the Daur camp. I managed to rank some
one out of a spare tire and started back again. My driver proved unable to
drive at night, at all events at a pace that would put us anywhere before
dawn, so I was forced to take the wheel. By the time I had the convoy
properly located I was rather despondent of the corps commander's temper,
even should I eventually reach him that night, which seemed a remote
chance, for the best any one could do was give me the rough location on a
map. Still, taking my luminous compass, I set out to steer a cross-country
course. I ran into five or six small groups of ambulances filled with
wounded, trying to find their way to Daur, and completely lost. Most had
given up--some were unknowingly headed back for Tekrit. I could do no more
than give them the right direction, which I knew they had no chance of
holding. Of course I could have no headlights, and the ditches were many,
but in some miraculous way, more through good luck than good management, I
did find corps headquarters, and what was better still, the general's
reprimand took the form of bread and ham and a stiff peg of whiskey--the
first food I had had since before daylight.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53