"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.
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