THE GERMANS ARE HERE
On the morning of October 10, at about 9 o’clock, a messenger called
at our house and, on behalf of a group of citizens, invited me to the
City Hall. I was at a loss to know why my presence was wanted there,
and decided to go at once. The City Hall was no more than one kilometre
distant, and on my way I had to cross the unending procession of
refugees slowly wending their toilsome way in the direction of Holland.
At the City Hall, I was met by a number of representative citizens of
Capellen. They asked me to join them in receiving the German officers,
who were then due to arrive at any moment. I could realize how hatred
was accumulating in the German heart against Great Britain, for was
Britain not the prime cause of their present check–the actual obstacle
of the military promenade which the Germans had for forty years dreamed
of making from the German frontier to Paris? The initial plan of the
German high command had been frustrated, and for this disastrous
failure they would hold that the English were naturally and justly
responsible. I, therefore, suggested to my fellow-citizens that in
my quality as a British subject I was more likely to be a hindrance
than a help to them. They insisted, however–and with some plausibility
perhaps–that the German officers would not know to which nationality
I belonged, and that it was of immediate importance to make as good a
showing as possible in numbers–there were not more than five of us all
told, the others having crossed the frontier into Holland. Under the
circumstances, I accepted their proposal and agreed to stay with them
and meet the incoming Germans.
At 10 o’clock an individual burst into the room in which we were
assembled and made the simple announcement: “Gentlemen, a German
officer is here.”
Before the fall of Antwerp I had a close inspection of a number of
German prisoners of war as they marched in file and under Belgian
escort along the streets of the city, but I had never yet seen either
near, or at a distance, a real Prussian officer, and I must confess
that my curiosity was greatly aroused by the announcement of the
imminent arrival. Ere we had time to advance to meet him, there he
stood in the doorway, dressed in the uniform of a captain of German
artillery and wearing the pointed helmet. He gave us the military
salute, turned to Mr. Spaet and, speaking in German, said that in
civilian life he was a lawyer and practised his profession at Dortmund.
He looked at each and every one of us several times as though searching
our souls to discover what were our inmost feelings and sentiments. He
was manifestly surprised by the fact that Mr. Spaet, a Belgian, could
speak such perfect German, and inquired of him how he had acquired his
knowledge of his own language. Mr. Spaet replied frankly and honestly
and then asked:
“What must we do?”
“Nothing,” replied the German officer. “However, you will not have to
deal with me; I am only a scout. It is with Major X—, who will be here
shortly, that you will have to make arrangements.”
With these words he took his leave, and a few minutes afterwards an
automobile, containing the real negotiator, a Prussian major, who was
accompanied by a very elegant officer, stopped in front of the Town
Hall. This major typified the Prussian officer my imagination had
pictured. Resplendent in uniform and glittering helmet, with blonde
moustache trained a la Kaiser, he stood erect as a letter I, and stiff
as an iron rod.
At the time there was, as in preceding days, a large crowd in the
public square fronting the Town Hall. It was the direct route from
Antwerp to Holland, and there were now accumulated here refugees from
the four corners of the fortified position. Seemingly annoyed by such a
gathering, the Prussian major demanded an explanation, which Mr. Spaet
gave without hesitation.
“Whither are these people going?” he inquired.
“To Holland,” Mr. Spaet told him.
“Why?”
“Because they seek refuge from German fire,” answered Mr. Spaet.
“But since Antwerp has fallen, there is no further danger,” stated the
major. “Tell these people to return to their homes. They will not be
molested.”
Naturally we feared many requisitions would be made upon us.
The major informed us that only horses would be taken. “We must have
horses,” he added.
But it was explained the only horses in Capellen belonged to the
farmers, and these animals were absolutely needed if the crops were to
be garnered.
“Well,” said the major finally, after further explanations, “only one
infantry company will be sent to Capellen, and you must see that the
officers are well treated. As to the soldiers, well, you may billet
them anywhere you like–in the schoolhouse, for example.”
The German officer demanded to know in what condition were the forts
around Capellen. We told him our present impression was that they
had all been destroyed by the garrisons immediately before their
evacuation. He took two of our party with him in his automobile and
made a tour of the forts of Capellen, Erbrand, and Stabrock. He brought
us back to the Town Hall and then departed. I never saw him again.
In the afternoon of Saturday, October 10, a company of infantrymen
arrived in front of the Town Hall. At the word of command, two soldiers
left the ranks and entered the building. A few minutes afterwards the
crowd witnessed the humiliating and supremely painful ceremony of the
lowering of the Belgian flag, which had flown from that flag-staff
for nearly one hundred years, and in its place was hoisted the German
standard. Capellen then was definitely subjected to enemy occupation.
As Capellen is situated at the extreme north of the fortified position
of Antwerp, consequently the German flag floated as the breeze blew
from the frontier of France to the frontier of Holland.
And mourning entered every home.