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The Ride of BALDWIN of Albany, part 1


Don Martin developed a following through his vivid war stories. Here is an example, which the New York Herald featured on the front page of its Magazine section in the Sunday edition of October 13, 1918, shortly after Don Martin's death on October 7 in Paris of Spanish influenza.
“RAT-TAT-TAT!   RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!” sang the German machine guns. The Yankee soldier who had been peering over the top of the American trench across the Vesle River tumbled back into the arms of his comrades. Just above the brim of his helmet was a tiny hole.
“Rat-tat tat! Rat-tat-tat!” chuckled the Hun machine guns. 
The company commander swore; the soldiers muttered curses against those carefully hidden machine gun nests. Some of them gathered in the doorway of the dugout into which had been carried the soldier’s body. They were brushed aside by a physician, who took one look at the khaki clad young figure stretched on a rude table. He hardly examined the form. What was the use? In the centre of the white forehead of that upturned young face was a blot of scarlet. 
One of the soldier lads, looking down into the dugout from its doorway, was weeping. He was quite a young soldier, that American, and war was very new to him. The dead man had been his closest friend. Other soldiers, although more calloused to death, respected his tears. Some of them had been in the trenches for months. Another man’s head drilled by a machine gun bullet? Well, this was war. What could one expect? 
One of them mounted his helmet on his bayonet and cautiously stuck it above the trench top.
“Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat!” chanted the German machine gun. 
“Darn” said the soldier.
“Makes the third helmet they’ve bored this morning,” nodded another Yankee, leaning on his rifle. “Two of the helmets had heads in ‘em. Those boches have the range, the aim, and we can’t seem to locate the nests. Say, what did you want to spoil your new tin hat for? You knew they’d get it.”
“When’s the artillery going to get busy?” asked he of the ill-fated helmet.
“When they get the location of those Hum batteries and machine guns,” answered the other. 
“And when’ll that be?”
“When the cavalry or sharpshooters find out.” 
Down in the dugout the company commander was growling an order to his orderly at the telephone.
“Send it in code,” he said, “the Huns may have tapped our wires. Say that half a dozen machine gun nests have us tied up in the trenches here. Tell them that unless the location of the Hun batteries is given our artillery, we’re going to lose more men.”
Half an hour later a runner dashed up to a cavalry captain surrounded by his troop, far back of the American lines. As he read the captain straightened in his saddle. Then his eyes flashed as they swept his detachment. 
“Companeee, Atten-shun!” he commanded. “Men,” he continued, “a bunch of machine gun nests, north of the Yankee lines across the river, is worrying our boys a lot. Our artillery lacks the location of the Hun batteries. Volunteers wanted to spy out those nests.” 
Lieutenant W. R. Baldwin, whose home is at No. 291 Lark street, Albany, N. Y., spurred his mount forward. Behind him came half a dozen troopers. Young men they were, men who a few months past looked eagerly upon life as a glorious thing, well worth the living. Now they were volunteering for the performance of the deadliest of missions. They felt that some of them would never come back, but what of that? Volunteers were wanted, and was it not the duty of Americans to volunteer when came the call?
Lieutenant Baldwin was placed in command of the little detachment of men willing to ride with death to aid the American infantry. He dismounted, tightened his saddle girth and saw to his pistol and carbine. He saw that his men carefully imitated him, too, and then he swung into his saddle. His captain was watching, pride in his eyes. Baldwin and his men saluted and there burst a cheer from the troopers left behind. Then away cantered the volunteers, spurs and bridles jingling, saddles creaking, the morning sunlight flashing, glinting from rifles and sabers.
To be continued tomorrow.

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