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October 18, 1918 New York Herald |
[Don Martin, the Herald’s special
correspondent with the American armies in France, true to his post, was right
where the guns bellowed loudest; right there where he could see for himself the
news in the breaking and making.
It was to the Herald correspondent
that Baldwin told the story of his daredevil gallop, and it was Martin who
gathered the tale of how the monotonous rattle of hidden Hun machine guns had
been taking venomous toll of American lives. Fresh from the front, where he had
penetrated further north than any of the allied officers or enlisted men, Baldwin
was interviewed. Graphic was his description of his ride with his detachment
into the German lines north of the Vesle, opposite Fismes, for the purpose of
learning the location of enemy machine gun nests and batteries. Here is the
story, and for sheer nerve, gallantry and daring it deserves a place on the
lists of all famous rides, including those of Paul Revere and Sheridan. The
charge of the Light Brigade, as told by Tennyson, was not more heroic – Herald
editorial staff.]
-- -- -- -- --
The American and German forces had
grimly settled down to machine gun and artillery duels across the Vesle River.
The enemy had been steadily gathering his forces, and it was partly due to this
that the Yankees were making no efforts to push their lines any considerable
distance north of the river.
“Are you ready, boys?”
cried the lieutenant, turning in his saddle when he and his men reached a spot
where they were to break into a road full in view of the enemy and swept by
German guns.
“We’re ready!”
came the answer.
“Then ride like hell!” cried Baldwin, and clapping spurs to
his mount he swung down into the road and up the thoroughfare, leading the
field like the favorite horse leaping away from the pack at the post. After him
galloped his men, hard riders all, strung out like a whip lash, each man
straining forward his mount. Whip and spur and loose rein it was, every man
bent over his saddle bow, some of them coaxing on their horses; others silent,
grim of face, hoping by some miraculous chance to escape unhit from the horizontal
hail of German machine gun lead.
Shells ripped open the road. One
huge missile shrieked and whined its Hunnish rage before it shattered earth
fifty feet behind the rear horse. The animal reared and plunged, but its rider
clung to the saddle and yanked the reins until his beast was again racing
forward, head outstretched, tail streaming behind.
Whips and spurs, spurs and whips,
and still they galloped on, not a man even scratched by a Hun ball. Shrapnel
burst above them, a machine gun bullet stung a horse like the flick of a
hundred lashes, and one Trooper was nearly thrown when his steed plunged and
shied at the edge of a shell made crater.
Close to the German lines the Yankee
troopers jumped from their panting, steaming horses, pulling them into a small
wood, where the animals were tethered to trees. Then on their bellies the
Americans crawled until two hundred yards from the first line of the Huns. They
were instantly spotted.
“Rat-tat-tat!”
rat-tat-tat!” sang the German machine guns. German bullets moaned and
whined futilely, ricocheting from the few trees about the Americans.
But Baldwin and his companions
stayed until they had learned all they wanted to know, and then, still scorning
the leaden rain, they turned back to their horses. They were there, trembling,
nervous, eager to be off and away from the bullets splintering the trees about
them. Somehow not a horse had been injured.
Then it was a race for life against
death, and race they did. Back over the shell ploughed road they had to ride,
back through all the terror of shell fire.
Spur rowels deep in their horses
flanks, galloped the troopers, leaning forward under cover of the necks of
their mounts. They coursed as if they bore charmed lives, and, reaching
American headquarters, they reported the location of the Germans and their
batteries and machine gun nests, which were instantly shelled by the American
guns.
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