I WITNESS THE BATTLE OF THE SUSQUEHANNA FROM VINCENT ASTOR’S AEROPLANE
During the next week, in the performance of my newspaper duties, I
visited Washington and Baltimore, both of these cities being now in
imminent danger of attack, the latter from von Hindenburg’s army south of
Philadelphia, the former from the newly landed German expedition that was
encamped on the shores of Chesapeake Bay near Norfolk, Virginia, which
was already occupied by the enemy.
I found a striking contrast between the psychology of Washington and that
of Baltimore. The national capital, abandoned by its government, awaited
in dull despair the arrival of the conquerors with no thought of
resistance, but Baltimore was girding up her loins to fight. Washington,
burned by the British in 1812, had learned her lesson, but Baltimore had
never known the ravages of an invader. Proudest of southern cities, she
now made ready to stand against the Germans. Let New York and Boston and
Philadelphia surrender, if they pleased, Baltimore would not surrender.
On the night of my arrival in the Monumental City, September 15, I found
bonfires blazing and crowds thronging the streets. There was to be a
great mass meeting at the Fifth Regiment Armoury, and I shall never
forget the scene as I stood on Hoffman Street with my friend F. R. Kent,
Editor of the Baltimore _Sun_, and watched the multitude press within the
fortress-like walls. This huge grey building had seen excitement before,
as when Wilson and Bryan triumphed here at the Democratic convention of
1912, but nothing like this.
As far as I could see down Bolton Street and Hoffman Street were dense
crowds cheering frantically as troops of the Maryland National Guard
marched past with crashing bands, the famous “Fighting Fourth” (how the
crowd cheered them!), the “Dandy Fifth,” Baltimore’s particular pride,
then the First Regiment, then the First Separate Company, coloured
infantry and finally the crack cavalry “Troop A” on their black horses,
led by Captain John C. Cockey, of whom it was said that he could make his
big hunter, Belvedere, climb the side of a house.
The immense auditorium, gay with flags and national emblems, was packed
to its capacity of 20,000, and I felt a real thrill when, after a prayer
by Cardinal Gibbons, a thousand school girls, four abreast and all in
white, the little ones first, moved slowly up the three aisles to seats
in front, singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” with the Fifth Regiment
band leading them.
Gathered on the platform were the foremost citizens of Baltimore, the
ablest men in Maryland, including Mayor J. H. Preston, Douglas Thomas,
Frank A. Furst, U. S. Senator John Walter Smith, Hon. J. Charles
Linthicum, ex-Gov. Edwin Warfield, Col. Ral Parr, John W. Frick, John M.
Dennis, Douglas H. Gordon, John E. Hurst, Franklin P. Cator, Capt. I. E.
Emerson, Hon. Wm. Carter Page, Hon. Charles T. Crane, George C. Jenkins,
C. Wilbur Miller, Howell B. Griswold, Jr., George May, Edwin J. Farber,
Maurice H. Grape, Col. Washington Bowie, Jr., and Robert Garrett.
Announcement was made by General Alexander Brown that fifty thousand
volunteers from Baltimore and the vicinity had already joined the colours
and were in mobilisation camps at Halethrope and Pimlico and at the Glen
Burnie rifle range. Also that the Bessemer Steel Company of Baltimore,
the Maryland Steel Company, the great cotton mills and canneries, were
working night and day, turning out shrapnel, shell casings, uniforms,
belts, bandages and other munitions of war, all to be furnished without a
cent of profit. Furthermore, the banks and trust companies of Baltimore
had raised fifty million dollars for immediate needs of the defence with
more to come.
“That’s the kind of indemnity Baltimore offers to the Germans,” cried
General Brown.
Speeches attacking the plan of campaign and the competency of military
leaders were made by Charles J. Bonaparte, Leigh Bonsal and Henry W.
Williams, but their words availed nothing against the prevailing wild
enthusiasm.
“Baltimore has never been taken by an enemy,” shouted ex-Governor
Goldsborough, “and she will not be taken now. Our army is massed and
entrenched along the south bank of the Susquehanna and, mark my words,
the Germans will never pass that line.”
As these patriotic words rang out the thousand white-clad singers rose
and lifted their voices in “The Star Spangled Banner,” dearest of
patriotic hymns in Baltimore because it was a Baltimore man, Francis
Scott Key, who wrote it.
While the great meeting was still in session, a large German airship
appeared over Baltimore’s lower basin and, circling slowly at the height
of half a mile, proceeded to carry out its mission of frightfulness
against the helpless city. More than fifty bombs were dropped that night
with terrific explosions. The noble shaft of the Washington Monument was
shattered. The City Hall was destroyed, also the Custom House, the
Richmond Market, the Walters Art Gallery, one of the buildings of the
Johns Hopkins Hospital, with a score of killed and wounded, and the
cathedral with fifty killed and wounded.
The whole country was stirred to its depths by this outrage. Angry
orators appeared at every street corner, and volunteers stormed the
enlisting offices. Within twenty-four hours the business men of Baltimore
raised another hundred millions for the city’s defence. Baltimore, never
conquered yet, was going to fight harder than ever.
The great question now was how soon the Germans would begin their drive.
We knew that the Virginia expedition under General von Mackensen had
advanced up the peninsula and had taken Richmond, but every day our
aeroplane scouts reported General von Hindenburg’s forces as still
stationary south of Philadelphia. Their strategy seemed to be one of
waiting until the two armies could strike simultaneously against
Washington from the southeast and against Baltimore from the northeast.
On the ninth of October this moment seemed to have arrived, and we
learned that von Hindenburg, with a hundred thousand men, was advancing
towards the Susquehanna in a line that would take him straight to the
Maryland metropolis. A two days’ march beyond the river would give the
enemy sight of the towers of Baltimore, and how the city had the
slightest chance of successful resistance was more than I could
understand.
I come now to the battle of the Susquehanna, which my lucky star allowed
me to witness in spite of positive orders that war correspondents should
not approach the American lines. This happened through the friendship of
Vincent Astor, who once more volunteered his machine and his own services
in the scouting aeroplane corps. I may add that Mr. Astor had offered his
entire fortune, if needed, to equip the nation with the mightiest air
force in the world; and that already four thousand craft of various types
were in process of construction. With some difficulty, Mr. Astor obtained
permission that I accompany him on the express condition that I publish
no word touching military operations until after the battle.
On the morning of October 10th we made our first flight, rising from the
aerodrome in Druid Hill Park and speeding to the northeast, skirting the
shores of Chesapeake Bay. Within half an hour the broad Susquehanna, with
its wrecked bridges, lay before us and to the left, on the heights of
Port Deposit, we made out the American artillery positions with the main
army encamped below. Along the southern bank of the river we saw
thousands of American soldiers deepening and widening trenches that had
been shallowed out by a score of trench digging machines, huge locomotive
ploughs that lumbered along, leaving yellow ditches behind them. There
were miles of these ditches cutting through farms and woods, past
windmills and red barns and rolling wheat fields, stretching away to the
northwest, parallel to the river.
“They’ve done a lot of work here,” said I, impressed by the extent of
these operations.
Astor answered with a smile that puzzled me. “They have done more than
you dream of, more than any one dreams of,” he said.
“You don’t imagine these trenches are going to stop the Germans, do you?”
He nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
“But we had trenches like these at Trenton and you know what happened,” I
objected.
“I know, but--” again that mysterious smile, “those Trenton trenches were
not exactly like these trenches. Hello! They’re signalling to us. They
want to know who we are.”
In reply to orders wig-wagged up to us from headquarters in a white
farmhouse, we flung forth our identification streamers, blue, white and
red arranged in code to form an aerial passport, and received a wave of
approval in reply.
As we swung to the northwest, moving parallel to the river and about four
miles back of it, I studied with my binoculars the trenches that
stretched along beneath us in straight lines and zigzags as far as the
eye could see. I was familiar with such constructions, having studied
them on various fields; here was the firing trench, here the shelter
trench and there the communicating galleries that joined them, but what
were those groups of men working so busily farther down the line? And
those other groups swarming at many points in the wide area? They were
not digging or bracing side-wall timbers. What were they doing?
I had the wheel at this moment and, in my curiosity, I turned the machine
to the east, forgetting Mr. Astor’s admonition that we were not allowed
to pass the rear line of trenches.
“Hold on! This is forbidden!” he cried. “We’ll get in trouble.”
Before I could act upon his warning, there came a puff of white smoke
from one of the batteries and a moment later a shell, bursting about two
hundred yards in front of us, made its message clear.
We turned at once and, after some further manoeuvring, sailed back to
Baltimore.
We dined together that night and I tried to get from Mr. Astor a key to
the mystery that evidently lay behind this situation at the Susquehanna.
At first he was unwilling to speak, but, finally, in view of our
friendship and his confidence in my discretion, he gave me a forecast of
events to come.
“You mustn’t breathe this to a soul,” he said, “and, of course, you
mustn’t write a word of it, but the fact is, dear boy, the wonderful fact
is we’re going to win the battle of the Susquehanna.”
I shook my head. “I’d give all I’ve got in the world to have that true,
Mr. Astor, but von Hindenburg is marching against us with 150,000 men,
first-class fighting men.”
“I know, and we have only 60,000 men, most of them raw recruits. Just the
same, von Hindenburg hasn’t a chance on earth.” He paused and added
quickly: “Except one.”
“One?”
“If the enemy suspected the trap we have set for them, they could avoid
it, but they won’t suspect it. It’s absolutely new.”
“How about their aeroplane scouts? Won’t they see the trap?”
“They can’t see it, at least not enough to understand it. General Wood
turned us back this afternoon as a precaution, but it wasn’t necessary.
You might have circled over those trenches for hours and I don’t believe
you would have known what’s going on there. Besides, the work will be
finished and everything hidden in a couple of days.”
I spurred my imagination, searching for agencies of destruction, and
mentioned hidden mines, powerful electric currents, deadly gases, but
Astor shook his head.
“It’s worse than that, much worse. And it isn’t one of those fantastic
things from Mars that H. G. Wells would put in a novel. This will work.
It’s a practical, businesslike way of destroying an army.”
“What? An entire army?”
“Yes. There’s an area on this side of the Susquehanna about five miles
square that is ready for the Germans--plenty of room for a hundred
thousand of them--and, believe me, not one man in ten will get out of
that area alive.”
I stared incredulously as my friend went on with increasing positiveness:
“I know what I’m saying. I’ll tell you how I know it in a minute. This
thing has never been done before in the whole history of war and it will
never be done again, but it’s going to be done now.”
“Why will it never be done again?”
“Because the conditions will never be right again. Armies will be
suspicious after one has been wiped out, but the first time it’s
possible.”
“How can you be sure von Hindenburg’s army will cross the Susquehanna at
the exact place where you want it to cross?”
“They will cross at the clearly indicated place for crossing, won’t they?
That’s where we have set our trap, five miles wide, on the direct line
between Philadelphia and Baltimore. They can’t cross lower down because
the river swells into Chesapeake Bay, and if they cross higher up they
simply go out of their way. Why should they? They’re not afraid to meet
Leonard Wood’s little army, are they? They’ll come straight across the
river and then--good-night.”
This was as near as I could get to an understanding of the mystery. Astor
would tell me no more, although he knew I would die rather than betray
the secret.
“You might talk in your sleep,” he laughed. “I wish I didn’t know the
thing myself. It’s like going around with a million dollars in your
pocket.” Then he added earnestly: “There are a lot of American cranks and
members of Bryan’s peace party who wouldn’t stand for this if they knew
it.”
“You mean they would tell the Germans?”
“They would tell everybody. They’d call it barbarous, wicked. Perhaps it
is, but--we’re fighting for our lives, aren’t we? For our country?”
“Sure we are,” I agreed.
Later on Mr. Astor told me how he had come into possession of this
extraordinary military knowledge. He was one of the Committee of
Twenty-one.
The next day we flew out again to the battle front, taking care not to
advance over the proscribed area, and we scanned the northern banks of
the Susquehanna for signs of the enemy, but saw none. On the second day
we had the same experience, but on the third day, towards evening, three
Taubes approached swiftly at a great height and hovered over our lines,
taking observations, and an hour later we made out a body of German
cavalry on the distant hills.
“An advance guard of Saxons and Westphalians,” said I, studying their
flashing helmets. “There will be something doing to-morrow.”
There was. The battle of the Susquehanna began at daybreak, October 14th,
1921, with an artillery duel which grew in violence as the batteries on
either side of the river found the ranges. Aeroplanes skirmished for
positions over the opposing armies and dropped revealing smoke columns as
guides to the gunners. Hour after hour the Germans poured a terrific fire
of shells and shrapnel upon the American trenches and I wondered if they
would not destroy or disarrange our trap, but Astor said they would not.
Our inadequate artillery replied as vigorously as possible and was
supported by the old U. S. battleship _Montgomery_, manned by the
Baltimore naval brigade under Commander Ralph Robinson, which lay two
miles down the river and dropped twelve-inch shells within the enemy’s
lines. Valuable service was also rendered by heavy mobile field artillery
improvised by placing heavy coast defence mortars on strongly reinforced
railroad trucks. None of this, however, prevented the Germans from
forcing through their work of pontoon building, which had been started in
the night. Five lines of pontoons were thrown across the Susquehanna in
two days, and very early on the morning of October 14th, the crossing of
troops began.
All day from our aeroplane, circling at a height of a mile or rising to
two miles in case of danger, we looked down on fierce fighting in the
trenches and saw the Germans drive steadily forward, sweeping ahead in
close formation, mindless of heavy losses and victorious by reason of
overwhelming numbers.
By four o’clock in the afternoon they had dislodged the Americans from
their first lines of entrenchment and forced them to retreat in good
order to reserve lines five miles back of the river. Between these front
lines and the reserve lines there was a stretch of rolling farm land
lined and zigzagged with three-foot ditches used for shelter by our
troops as they fell back.
By six o’clock that evening the German army had occupied this entire area
and by half-past seven, in the glory of a gorgeous crimson sunset, we saw
the invaders capture our last lines of trenches and drive back the
Americans in full retreat, leaving the ground strewn with their own dead
and wounded.
“Now you’ll see something,” cried Astor with tightening lips as he
scanned the battlefield. “It may come at any moment. We’ve got them where
we want them. Thousands and thousands of them! Their whole army!”
He pointed to the pontoon bridges where the last companies of the German
host were crossing. On the heights beyond, their artillery fire was
slackening; and on our side the American fire had ceased. Night was
falling and the Germans were evidently planning to encamp where they
were.
“There are a few thousand over there with the artillery who haven’t
crossed yet,” said I. “The Crown Prince must be there with his generals.”
My friend nodded grimly. “We’ll attend to them later. Ah! Now look! It’s
coming!”
I turned and saw a thick wall of grey and black smoke rolling in dense
billows over a section of the rear trenches, and out of this leaped
tongues of blue fire and red fire. And farther down the lines I saw
similar sections of smoke and flame with open spaces between, but these
spaces closed up swiftly until presently the fire wall was continuous
over the whole extent of the rear trenches.
We could see German soldiers by hundreds rushing back from this peril;
but, as they ran, fires started at dozens of points before them in the
network of ditches and, spreading with incredible rapidity, formed
flaming barriers that shut off the ways of escape. Within a few minutes
the whole area beneath us, miles in length and width, that had been
occupied by the victorious German army, was like a great gridiron of fire
or like a city with streets and avenues and broad diagonals of fire. All
the trenches and ditches suddenly belched forth waves of black smoke with
blue and red flames darting through them, and fiercest of all burned the
fire walls close to the river bank.
“Good God!” I cried, astounded at this vast conflagration. “What is it
that’s burning?”
“Oil,” said Astor. “The whole supply from the Standard Oil pipe lines
diverted here, millions and millions of gallons. It’s driven by big pumps
through mains and pipes and reservoirs, buried deep. It’s spurting from a
hundred outlets. Nothing can put it out. Look! The river is on fire!”
I did look, but I will not tell what I saw nor describe the horrors of
the ensuing hour. By nine o’clock it was all over. The last word in
frightfulness had been spoken and the despoilers of Belgium were the
victims.
I learned later that the pipes which carried these floods of oil carried
also considerable quantities of arseniuretted hydrogen. The blue flames
that Mr. Astor and I noticed came from the fierce burning of this
arseniuretted hydrogen as it hissed from oil vents in the trenches under
the drive of powerful pumps.
Thousands of those that escaped from the fire area and tried to cross
back on the pontoons were caught and destroyed, a-midstream, by fire
floods that roared down the oil-spread Susquehanna. And about 7,000 that
escaped at the sides were made prisoners.
It was announced in subsequent estimates and not denied by the Germans
that 113,000 of the invaders lost their lives here. To all intents and
purposes von Hindenburg’s army had ceased to exist.