Sunday, December 15, we marched back to Adenau and thence to Altenahr and down the valley of the Ahr to Dernau, our home for the next month. Though rain and mists were frequent and the winds swept chilly between the high craggy walls of the valley, the discomfort of these elements during the hours at drill and at work on the picket line were alleviated by the compensating hours of warmth and comfort in the billets. These in most cases were ground-floor rooms—often the parlor of the house—furnished with tables, chairs, stoves and electric light. Our beds were the hard floors, sometimes softened by straw ticks.

Passes to Ahrweiler were in demand. In this, the capital of the “Kreis” or province, whose gates and ruined wall remained of medieval centuries, were to be had candy, at very high prices; “kuchen,” of varying excellence; and rings, Iron Crosses and other souvenirs in abundance. But the charms of this place faded before those of Bad Neuenahr, two kilometres farther down the river, which came into prominence later as a divisional leave area. There the big hotels, housing the 150th F. A., the Kurhaus, the Casino, and the baths, along the brawling little river Ahr, spoke of a resort international in fame before the war. These all became conveniences for the American soldiers.

The foraging detail which had produced so good a Thanksgiving dinner, went out again for Christmas. Corporal Unger, Corporal Collier and Sergeant Pond scoured the countryside. Finances had been provided by the house’s interest in games of poker, craps and chuck-a-luck on several evenings at Quiddelbach. Chocolate and soap, however, were better buyers than francs and marks, for these commodities were very nearly priceless to the farmers in the vicinity.

On Christmas Eve the square stone building which had served as the battery guardhouse was thrown open to the battery, decorated with pine boughs and holly, with a spangled, candle-lighted Christmas tree in the center. Every man received chocolate, cakes and tobacco, and a little gift from Captain Waters. Just outside, a huge bonfire threw a red warmth over the whole scene, not the least part of which was a barrel of beer tapped for the occasion. Next day a holiday dinner was served, of roast pork, mashed potatoes, creamed onions, apple sauce, cabbage salad, apple pie, bread, butter and coffee. Of the additional rabbit, chicken and other dinners that were served in the billets that day, this history hath recollection but no menus.

About twenty-five men less ate the same meal New Year’s day, for, on the day before, those afflicted even slightly with scabies had been sent to the hospital at Neuenahr, where some of them spent a prolonged vacation amidst the already recounted enjoyments of the resort town.

When, on January 7, the battery left Dernau, it was with some regret at parting with comfortable quarters. But that regret was forgotten when we arrived at Ringen, a farming town on the upland away from the left bank of the river. For here were not only rooms as comfortable as those at Dernau, but beds as well, a “wirtschaft” to serve as a mess hall, and stables for all the horses. The town held only Batteries E and F, and therefore allowed more elbow-room than did Dernau, where all six batteries of the regiment had been crowded in. Later the rest of the regiment moved up from the valley, after Colonel Reilly returned to the command of the regiment at the beginning of February, and Ringen, first on the main road from Neuenahr and Ahrweiler, assumed more importance than ever, though regimental headquarters was farther on, at Vettelhoven, and the First Battalion headquarters were at Geldsdorf, six kilometres away.

The Sergeants in front of the Battery Office at Ringen, Germany Picket Lines in the Snow at Ringen, Germany
Home at Last—The Leviathan Steaming up the Hudson Ready for the Review by General Pershing. March 16, 1919

Only a week had passed by at Ringen when the battery received the sad report of Captain Waters’ death, in the hospital at Coblenz, whither he had gone from Dernau. He had been a private of Battery E when it went to the Mexican border, and esteemed the privilege of commanding that same battery very highly, containing, as it did, his early associates in the ranks.

Two days later the death of Lieutenant-Colonel Redden struck the men an even harder blow. The men of the Second Battalion gave him their full devotion when he had been their major. When Colonel Reilly had been raised to the command of the 83d infantry brigade, Lieutenant-Colonel Redden had led the 149th Field Artillery through the hardest days of the war, accepting the most arduous tasks and heaviest responsibility. And when the men of the regiment followed him on the long hard march into Germany, they looked forward to the day when he should lead them home. In addition to the capacity to command, he had the quality to inspire admiration, respect and love in his men. They felt, when the news of his death reached them, that they had lost not alone a capable and admired commanding officer, but indeed a highly esteemed and dear friend. The funeral, at Coblenz, Saturday, January 18, was a splendid military tribute, the entire regiment marching behind the caisson that bore his body up the side of the Kartause to the hillside overlooking the Moselle river, where his body was laid near Captain Waters’.

These two deaths postponed to the following week the famous “Stagger Inn” cabaret of Battery E. The performances were held on the nights of January 21 and 22. On the program was a collection of remarkable talent drawn from the battery. Holden, Browere, Monroe and Gahan were remarkably attractive chorus beauties when they donned feminine attire borrowed from German households. Van Hoesen, as a Hawaiian dancer, was unexcelled in his gyrations. Holton’s solo, “Smiles,” delivered with the assistance of the black swallow-tail, glistening shirt front, high hat and cane of the professional monologist, brought a hearty encore. George and Holden received heavy applause as drawing-room dancers. Pat O’Mara’s efforts as a Scotchman got much laughter, but the real variety bloomed in Wallace the second night. O’Brien, O’Mara, Gahan and Monroe rendered “My Little Belgian Rose,” with more pathos than tune. To the black-faced waiters, dressed in the uniforms of Ringen’s ex-soldiers, under the leadership of Oberkellner Unger, resplendent in brass and braid, belonged much credit for the hilarity of the evening. Much could be said of the impromptu—and unconscious—amusement afforded by Lieutenant Bradford’s attempt to lead the orchestra, Captain Bokum’s infatuation with Miss Browere, and the actions of various other Sam Browne-belted personages. But words fail to picture the delirium of the occasion.