WITH THE GERMAN ARMY BEFORE RHEIMS, Dec. 5.--Eating a ham sandwich while
squinting through an artillery telescope at the cathedral and hearing
the man who fired the famous shots tell all about it was the unique
combination I experienced today, and in retrospect the ham sandwich
stands out as the most important feature, for it symbolizes the morale
of the men before Rheims.
The post of observation was in a sometime French fort, now riddled by
French shells, on the crest of a hill affording a fine panoramic view of
the city, and my sightseeing predecessors here had included the Imperial
Chancellor, von Bethmann-Hollweg; Muktar Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador
to Berlin; Major Langhorne, the American Military Attaché, and other
celebrities.
Rheims Cathedral was said to be about four miles away, but through the
powerful magnifying telescope (of the scissors type and so contrived
that only its two eyes peered over the breastworks while the observer
was completely hidden from view) it showed up as clearly as Caruso
through an opera glass. The top of one of the two towers had a decidedly
moth-eaten appearance--it looked as if one of the corners had been shot
away, and the roof was evidently gone, but otherwise the exterior of the
cathedral looked--through the telescope--to be in a good state of
preservation and likely to enjoy a ripe old age. No French observer was
seen on the cathedral towers, and I was informed by First Lieut. Wengler
of the Heavy Artillery that none had been since his admonitory shells
had carried their iron warning to climb down. A staff officer of the
---- Division had introduced him to me as "the friend of the Rheims
Cathedral," explaining that it probably wouldn't be standing today but
for him.
[Illustration: VICE ADMIRAL FREDERICK STURDEE,
Commander of the British Squadron Which Destroyed the German Fleet Off
the Falkland Islands.
(_Photo_ © _American Press Assn._)]
[Illustration: ADMIRAL SIR JOHN FISHER,
First Sea Lord of the Admiralty, Who Holds the Guardianship of the
English Coast.
(_Photo from Underwood & Underwood._)]
"So you are the vandal?" "the friend of the Rheims Cathedral" was asked.
"Yes, I am the 'barbarian,'" he laughed modestly. He wears the Iron
Cross of the first and second class, and, although still only a
Lieutenant, commands two batteries. A most picturesque but paradoxical
"barbarian," with a soft-spoken lisp, mild blue eyes, boyish face in
spite of a tawny-reddish full beard of long standing, and slightly bowed
legs, it required a most rigorous reportorial inquisition as practiced
on millionaires and politicians at home to extract these details from
the modest "friend of the Rheims Cathedral":
"The French observer on the cathedral was first noticed on Sept. 13.
After that the French artillery fire became uncomfortably accurate.
Eighty shells fell here in one day alone--killing only one cow," he
added, with a plaintive note of reminiscence. He pointed to three big
holes in the ground close by and all within a circle of ten yards'
radius, where three French shells had dropped in quick succession, as
further evidence of how well they had got the range.
"The fellow continued 'on the job' quite shamelessly until the 18th," he
went on, "when I aimed two shots at the cathedral, and only two. No more
were needed to dislodge him. One from a 15-centimeter howitzer struck
the top of the 'observation tower,' the other, from a 21-centimeter
mortar, hit the roof and set it on fire. I used both howitzers and
mortars so as to let the French know that we could shoot well with both
kinds. I wanted to dislodge the observer with the least possible damage
to the fine old cathedral, and the result shows that it is possible to
shoot just as accurately with heavy artillery as with field artillery.
The French also had a battery planted about 100 yards from the
cathedral. It isn't there any more," he added laconically.
A few turns of the screw brought a row of trees marking a boulevard into
the field of vision. "There is a French battery there at the present
time," he said.
"How do you know?" For I saw trees but no guns.
"Aeroplanes," "the friend of the Cathedral" explained. Another turn of
the screw brought a church steeple into view.
"The French are now using this church steeple for observation purposes,"
the battery commander said. "The observer is reported to me every
morning. He is getting to be too shameless. I shall take a shot at that
steeple this afternoon in all probability. And then I suppose they will
again call us barbarians. I saw the fellow myself this morning. He sits
in that little arched window there." I saw the window quite distinctly,
and only regret that the culprit had climbed down for the luncheon
intermission, which is religiously kept by both the French and German
artillery.
A tour of the wrecked fort followed and among other interesting sights
the guide pointed out the trail of the famous freak shot that killed the
cow. The shell went first through a glass window, then through the wall
at the back of the room, into a second chamber, where, without
exploding, it had amputated a hind leg of the milch cow whose loss is
still mourned by two batteries of heavy artillery.
Up to now, war as experienced from the vantage ground of a high hill
overlooking Rheims seemed a pleasant picnic, for the German arsenal was
well stocked with plenty of good food, while the Chief of the Division
Staff, with typical German hospitality, had sent along his adjutant
armed with two baskets of Teuton sandwiches, which added to the picnic
illusion and claimed far more attention than the Cathedral of Rheims.
The frequent sight of Generals down to high privates taking hearty
nourishment all along the front in France with the same comfortable
enjoyment as in their own homes was more convincing than all official
bulletins that they are not worrying about the outcome in the West, for
morale and meals are synonyms.
The luncheon interval over, the French batteries woke up and began
sending over shells with Gallic prodigality, the Germans replying
sparingly, and as if in invitation, for my benefit, a French aeroplane
no bigger than a Jersey mosquito appeared and circled over the German
positions trying to locate the cleverly concealed heavy batteries, while
down on the plain back of the hills a German motor aeroplane gun popped
away for dear life trying to connect with the inquisitive visitor.
Little cottonball clouds of white smoke, like daylight fireworks, hung
high in the air, where the French flier had been, also black "smoke
pots" to help the gunners in getting the range, but the Frenchman
managed to dodge all the shrapnel that came his way, and escaped.
By request, "the friend of the cathedral" led the way (a long and
strenuous one) to his 15-centimeter howitzer battery, concealed with
amazing cleverness even against the observation of aviators, and pointed
out the gun that had fired "the shot heard round the world." He would
gladly have fired a sample shot, but the guns of the battery were
already set for the night (although it was only noon!) that is, aimed at
certain portions of the landscape which French troops would have to
cross if they attempted to make a night attack on certain of the German
trenches, so that no time would be lost in aiming the guns--all they had
to do was to fire the moment the telephone bell rang a night alarm.
"Was there any connection between his iron crosses and the Rheims
Cathedral?" he was tactfully asked. There was not, but modest heroes are
a nuisance journalistically, and "the friend of the cathedral" required
a lot of coaxing before he told that he had won both the first and
second class sometime before and elsewhere, the second for galloping his
heavy howitzer battery into action like field artillery and by getting
it to work at close range, "smearing" a desperate French attack; first
class for continuing to direct the fire of his battery from the roof of
a building until it was literally shot from under his feet. "The friend
of the cathedral," is also an experienced aviator and when business is
dull in the howitzer line around Rheims, kills time by aerial
reconnoitring. "Be sure and send me a copy of your paper," he laughed,
when I beat a hasty strategic retreat to the rear to keep the Wilsonian
neutrality from being violated, for after lunch French shells have a
habit of raining alike on the just and the unjust.
The strategic retreat led through a village where in a farmyard was seen
one of the most curious freaks of the war. A French shell had exploded
here, and the terrific air pressure had lifted a farm wagon bodily and
deposited it on the roof of the stable, where it still perches.
Half a mile beyond was something even more curious--a subterranean
village built in the woods by German pioneers, and consisting of many
small block houses of fir logs, sunk three-quarters of the way into the
ground, the rest covered over with mounds of dirt and laid with sod. The
idea, it was explained, was to have a cozy and safe place of retreat
when the French batteries, as occasionally happened, took the village
ahead under fire.
My retreat ended at Château Mumm, well out of the firing zone, where
Gen. Count von Waldersee did the honors in the unavoidable absence of
the owner, said to be related to a well-known brand of champagne. On
inquiry, I learned that the champagne cellars of Château Mumm were quite
empty, but the retreating French were said to have caused the vacuum,
not the Germans. Château Mumm's absentee owner will be glad to learn
that his property is being well cared for, pending his return. I was
interested to note quite recent issues of The London Times, Daily Mail,
and London Daily Telegraph on the drawing room table.
"It's very interesting, you know, to read what our enemies are saying
about us," a staff officer explained.
Two other items of miscellaneous interest were picked up. From a well
informed source I learned that at one stage of the game, the English
"Long Toms" were posted to good advantage back of Rheims out of range of
the German heavy artillery. Although their lyddite shells were alleged
to have been comparatively harmless and did little damage, they were
nevertheless silenced on general principles and by a very simple
expedient. Every time the "Long Toms" were fired, a few answering shells
were sent their way and, of course, falling short, dropped into the
city. This gave rise to stories of "furious bombardment of Rheims," but
also caused the withdrawal of the "Long Toms" to spare the city.
A General whose name is familiar to every reader of THE NEW YORK TIMES
said:
"I could take Rheims with my corps in twenty-four hours."
But there was no present advantage in storming it at this time, and
certain disadvantages, for in addition to certain strategic reasons, it
was explained, the Germans would be saddled with the burden of having to
administer and feed the large city.
The "battle of Rheims" looked to me very much like a put-up job, a game
of trying to silence one another's batteries and nothing more. A heavy
artillery duel is essentially a contest between trained observers trying
to get a line on the whereabouts of the enemy's guns, and looking down
on Rheims from the German hills, even a lay correspondent could sense
the military necessity which would drive the French to make use of the
only high spots in town from which you could see anything for
observation purposes, and the equally grim necessity for the Germans to
dislodge them. I came away with the impression that the world owes a
real debt of gratitude to "the friend of the Rheims Cathedral."